Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

He squeezed the kid’s neck in the V of his arm, pressing his left hand to his right wrist to double the pressure. The kid passed out a few seconds later, but Brady held on until a couple of minutes passed and the kid stopped twitching.

He could think about this later. But not now. There was no time to do it now.

CHAPTER 93

BRADY DRAGGED BRIAN’S body off to the side of the landing and turned his mind to the Sun Deck layout, where more shit was waiting for him and there was less than a fifty-fifty chance that he’d survive the next ten minutes.

He’d been up to the Sun Deck a couple of times.

Before it had turned into a shooting platform.

There was teakwood decking fore and aft, lined out with lounge chairs. At the middle of the deck was an eight-foot-wide running track, rectangular in shape, a hundred yards long by fifty wide and hollow at the center so that the sun could shine through to the Pool Deck below.

A railing ran around the inside perimeter of the track, making it a perfect catwalk and doubling with a first-class gun rest for sighting the captives directly below. Like prison guards looking down from the walls over inmates in a prison yard.

And now footsteps clanged against metal as the ship’s officers climbed toward him on the inside stairs. When they reached him, Brady, said, “I’m going out there first. After that, you all know what to do, regardless.”

The captain said, “Good luck to you, Mr. Brady.”

“And to you, sir. Everyone.”

Brady’s assault rifle hung from the strap over his right shoulder, and he had a loaded pistol on his hip. He said a quick prayer and pulled the knitted mask down over his face. Then he turned the wheel that opened the lock and pushed open the door to the Sun Deck. He closed it behind him.

Squinting through the mask, Brady tried to see everything at once.

The rising sun was streaking the horizon with pink bands, backlighting mountains in the distance and glinting on the railings at the bow.

There were three men on the track, two on the far, short side of the rectangle, the third guy standing by himself on a long side, fifty feet away.

Brady called out to that one, “Bro. Got a second?”

Without waiting for an answer, he set out along the composite rubber track toward the guard.

“I hope you brought me the beef taco,” the man said. “I already had the chicken. Beef is better if there’s any left.”

Brady had considered using the knife, but he wasn’t that good or that fast. So he pulled the gun.

“I don’t know anything about the chow,” Brady said.

Continuing to walk toward the guard, he said, “There’s been a slight change in the rotation.”

The man was only a few feet away.

He said, “Don’t tell me I’ve got to go another watch. I’m dead on my feet, already.”

The guard sensed something wrong in Brady’s posture or demeanor, or maybe he was close enough to see the gun.

He backed up, saying, “Let me see your hands, man,” while shouldering his rifle.

Brady aimed, squeezed the trigger, and fired twice, hitting the guard in the throat and chest.

Immediately shouts came from the men on the far side of the track.

Brady dropped his handgun, gripped the automatic rifle, and fired across the open track. The bullets made the gun’s signature pop-br-br-br-br-br report, hitting the gunmen who were running toward him like cartoon commandos in a video game.

The men flailed and then dropped.

Brady heard the tinny voice of a radio in the shirt pocket of the man lying near his feet.