Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

“He’s—hiding.”

“Hiding where?”

She pointed down. “In the locker under the bed.”

“Get him out.”

She stood frozen for a moment, and then I could see her get an idea. I hoped Carl couldn’t see it, too. “All right,” she said, and got carefully off the bunk onto the deck.

The lockers were under the bunk. You had to lift the cushions off to get them open. That’s what Nancy did. She lifted one of the six-foot cushions, turned toward me and, her face hidden from Carl by the cushion, she mouthed, “Now, Billy!” and shoved the cushion towards the doorway.

“Get that out of the way!” Carl shouted. The thing filled the doorway. I slid in behind it and pushed.

The cushion flopped forward onto Carl’s assault rifle. In the half-second the barrel was aimed down I was on him.

He snarled and yanked up on the barrel. I moved inside, past the end of the gun, and chopped hard at the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t a clean hit or he’d have dropped. He froze for a moment, dazed, and I rammed the heel of my left hand up under his chin and chopped hard at his Adam’s apple with my right.

Carl gave a dry gurgle and dropped the rifle, clutched at this throat, and fell to his knees. I had hit him too hard and crushed his throat. He was dying. I hadn’t wanted to kill him, but when someone is pointing an assault rifle at you, your options are limited and so is your compassion.

“Billy?” Nancy whispered from the cabin.

“It’s okay. Stay there.”

Of course she didn’t stay. She stuck her head out at once and saw Carl, flopping and drumming his heels on the deck. It made my skin crawl. Nancy hardly blinked.

“Oh,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” My hands were vibrating hard enough to stir cake batter. But my head was clear, probably from the adrenaline rush of combat. And maybe from the nausea of killing somebody. Anyway there wasn’t enough time to feel bad right now. “I need a knife.”

“Why? He’s dying.”

I moved through the cabin, searching. “The anchor line.”

“Can’t you just untie it?”

“The line will end in a length of chain. The chain will be bolted to the boat. I need to cut it. Find a knife.”

I cautiously stuck my head up through the companionway and looked for the inflatable dinghy.

It was about a hundred feet away, straight off the bow. Doyle was looking over the side and one man sat beside him. As I watched, the third man surfaced beside them, wearing mask and snorkel.

They were setting the hook solidly by swimming down and ramming it hard into the sandy bottom. That was the safest thing to do in a bad storm. It also gave me an extra minute.

I looked behind. The Windshadow bobbed behind the sailboat on a short rode. A plan was forming.

“Billy?” Nancy called softly from below. I ducked under. “I found this in one of the bags,” she said, holding up a knife that Crocodile Dundee would have liked.

I took it. “Hand me the rifle, too,” I said.

Nancy stepped over Carl, who was all done kicking. There was a stench in the cabin. Carl was all done living, too. His bowels had opened in a very appropriate last gesture of defiance.

It didn’t seem to faze Nancy. She picked up the rifle and handed it to me.

“All right,” I said. “Come up here. And stay low.”

In a moment we were crouched together at the wheel. I pointed to the controls. “This starts the engine. Push the black lever forward, the boat goes forward. Back is reverse, middle is neutral. It’s in neutral now. The red one is power. Push forward to go faster.”

“I think I can handle that,” she said.