Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘It’s not about the gun,’ said Corke. ‘It’s about throwing innocent men, women and children into the sea. That’s murder, Andy. Cold-blooded murder, gun or no gun.’

‘They’re scum!’ shouted Pepper. ‘I’m not going to prison for scum. The navy are on the way – they’ll pick them up.’ He grabbed the Iranian by his coat collar. ‘You! Over the side!’

‘Even if they can swim the cold’ll kill them in five minutes,’ protested Corke.

Pepper waved the gun in his face. ‘Do you want to join them? Because I’m easy either way.’

‘I’m not going to let you kill them,’ said Corke, taking a step towards him.

Pepper’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Corke stared at him. ‘You’d better be good with that thing,’ he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves hitting the side of the boat. ‘Hard enough on a range, but hitting a target on a moving ship takes some doing. Doubt you’ll do it with one shot. What’s the clip hold? Thirteen? Thirteen shots, thirty-four people. Plus me, of course. The numbers don’t work, Chilli.’

The captain grinned and reached into his pea coat with his left hand. He pulled out a loaded clip.

Corke’s face tightened.

‘Not so confident now, are we?’ said Pepper. ‘Now, you’ve got two choices. Back on the bridge and keep us heading west, or you take your chances over the side with them. With or without a bullet.’

Corke looked at Mosley, who was staring white-faced at the gun.

‘Andy?’

He said nothing.

Pepper snarled and took step towards Corke. One of the men was pleading in a language that sounded like Russian. Pepper ignored him and kept the gun aimed at Corke. He knew the man was about to fire and that there was nothing he could do to stop him. He had no weapon, nothing to fight with, nothing to throw as a distraction, and the heavy clothing and boots he was wearing meant there was no way he could reach Pepper before he pulled the trigger.

His stomach heaved as the deck slammed upwards. He staggered back against the bridge door. Pepper almost lost his balance but stayed on his feet and kept the gun on him. The bow pointed almost straight up into the night sky and, for a second, Corke was weightless before it crashed into the sea. He fell to the deck and rolled over, slipped as he tried to get to his feet and hit the deck again.

The boat tipped to starboard and Corke slammed into the guardrail. He grabbed for it and hauled himself up.

‘Get back to the bridge!’ screamed Pepper. ‘The sea’s too rough for the autopilot!’ He fired the gun and a bullet cracked through the air. ‘The next one is in your head!’

‘Do as he says!’ howled Mosley. ‘He means it!’

The ship rolled to port and Corke gripped the rail, fighting to stay upright. Pepper laughed. ‘Call yourself a sailor,’ he sneered.

One of the male passengers yelled and Corke turned in time to see the little girl fall over the guardrail. Her mother shrieked and lunged for her but it was too late. The child was gone.

Corke rushed across the deck as the bow rose again. Pepper fired at him but the boat lurched and the shot went wide. Corke hit him with his shoulder, knocking him off-balance, then kicked out at his left leg, catching him behind the knee. As Pepper went down, Corke slashed him across the throat with the edge of his hand. Pepper pitched face down on to the deck.

The two women were screaming, eyes wide with horror. Corke reached them and looked over the side. He saw a flash of white. The child’s face. Two white blurs. Her hands. He swore. Then he ripped off his pea coat and jumped over the side, arms flailing.

He hit the water, which engulfed him, so cold it numbed him immediately. He kicked for the surface, feeling his boots fill with water. He kicked harder, but his jeans were sticking to his legs, dragging him down. He took in a mouthful of water, then broke through to the surface and spat fiercely. He saw the child several metres away, kicked hard and swam towards her.

A wave crashed over him and his mouth filled with water again. He spat and gasped for breath. His pullover was hindering his movements so he trod water and pulled it off. The weight of his wet trousers was pulling him down. Despite the cold his leg muscles were burning. He let go of the pullover and swam on towards the little girl. Every stroke was an effort and his chest felt as if a clamp was squeezing the life from him.

He trod water again, trying to see where she was, then glanced over his shoulder at the trawler. Mosley was pointing at him, a woman at his side – the child’s mother, maybe. Corke saw Pepper pull Mosley back, then lost sight of the boat in the swell.

He carried on swimming. The child was thrashing around in the water and as he drew closer he heard her scream. It was cut short as she disappeared beneath a wave. Corke took a deep breath as a wave carried him up, then dropped him. His right hand slapped into something – the child. He grabbed her collar and pulled her to him. ‘It’s all right!’ he shouted. ‘I’ve got you!’

She was in shock. Her mouth was moving soundlessly, eyes blank and lifeless. Corke turned her so that her back was to him, then pushed his arm round her waist and kicked to keep himself upright in the heaving water. He could feel the strength draining from his legs and took a quick look over his shoulder. Through the swell he saw the trawler. Fifty metres away, maybe more. In a swimming-pool, he’d make it with ease, but in the freezing water, weighed down with wet clothing, he knew it might as well have been fifty miles. The current was carrying him away from the boat. And even if it hadn’t been, it was all he could do to keep the child above water. There was no way he could swim for them both.

Water crashed over them and Corke pushed the child up, trying to keep her in the air.

It was hopeless. With every kick he felt weaker and he knew he was dying of hypothermia. The freezing water was sucking the life out of him, second by second. He held the child with his left arm and thrashed around with the right. His head went under and he coughed, spluttering. He didn’t want to die, but he was so tired that he couldn’t fight the water any longer. He held the child tighter. She was crying now, great sobs that racked her body. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Corke. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He couldn’t feel his legs now, couldn’t tell if they were moving or not. He was impossibly cold, and more tired than he’d ever been before. He was breathing fast and shallow, and he knew that was bad because the stale air would stay deep in his lungs. His head went under and he closed his eyes. He knew that all he had to do was take in a lungful of water and it would be over. Drowning wasn’t so bad. There was no panic, just tiredness and a gradual acceptance that he would die. It was the little girl he felt sorry for, with her whole life ahead of her. He’d been married, had a child, travelled the world. He’d lived a full life, and death was a natural part of it. But she hadn’t even begun to live. It was so damned unfair. Corke roared and kicked with all the strength he had left. He didn’t want the child to die but there was nothing he could do to save her. In his heart of hearts he’d known that from the moment he’d followed her into the water, but he’d had to try. And now he would die with her.

He leaned back in the water, holding her to his chest. Water washed over his face, stinging his eyes and filling his ears.

Suddenly a light shone on his face, so bright that it was blinding. He closed his eyes. His whole body was numb and he had no energy to swim. His body went limp in the water. At least he had tried. He felt totally relaxed, at peace with what was happening to him.