Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

He went along to the salon and Algaro followed him. “Do you need me any more tonight, Señor?”

“I don’t think so, Algaro, you can go to bed.”

Algaro withdrew, Santiago put the briefcase on the desk, then he took off his jacket and went and poured a cognac. He returned to the desk, sat down and leaned back, sipping his cognac and just looking at the briefcase. Finally, as he knew he would, he opened it and started to go through the documents again.

Dillon focused the night sight. He picked out Solona in the shadows by a lifeboat in the prow. Guerra, in the stern, had made no attempt to hide, sat on one of the chairs under the awning smoking a cigarette, his rifle on the table.

Dillon handed Carney the night sight. “All yours. I’m on my way.”

He dropped back over the side of the inflatable, descended to ten feet and approached the ship. He surfaced at the stern of the launch, which was tied up at the bottom of the steel stairway. Suddenly, Solona appeared up above on the platform. Dillon eased under the water, aware of footsteps descending. Solona paused halfway down and lit a cigarette, the match flaring in cupped hands. Dillon surfaced gently at the stern of the launch, took the Walther from inside his jacket and extended his arm.

“Over here,” he whispered in Spanish.

Solona glanced up, the match still flaring, and the silenced Walther coughed as Dillon shot him between the eyes. Solona fell back and to one side, slid over the rail and dropped ten feet into the water.

It didn’t make too much of a splash, but Guerra noticed it and got to his feet. “Hey, Solona, is that you?”

“Yes,” Dillon called softly in Spanish. “No problem.”

He could hear Guerra walking along the deck above, went under and swam to the anchor. He opened his jacket, unzipped his diving suit and forced the Walther inside. Then he slipped out of the jacket and tank, clipped them to the anchor line and hauled himself up the chain, sliding in through the port.

Algaro, lying on his bunk, was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts because of the oppressive heat. For that reason, he had the porthole open and heard Guerra calling to Solona; he also heard Dillon’s reply. He frowned, went to the porthole and listened.

Guerra called softly again, “Where are you, Solona?”

Algaro picked up the revolver on his bedside locker and went out.

Guerra called again, “Where are you, Solona?” and moved to the forward deck, the M16 ready.

“Over here, amigo ,” Dillon said and as Guerra turned, shot him twice in the heart, driving him back against the bulkhead.

Dillon went forward cautiously, leaned over to check that he was dead. There was no sound behind, for Algaro was bare-footed, but Dillon was suddenly aware of the barrel of the revolver against his neck.

“Now then, you bastard, I’ve got you.” Algaro reached over and took the Walther. “So, a real professional’s weapon? I like that. In fact I like it so much I’m going to keep it.” He tossed the revolver over the rail into the sea. “Now turn round. I’m going to give you two in the belly so you take a long time.”

Bob Carney, watching events through the night sight, had seen Algaro’s approach, had never been so frustrated in his life at his inability to do something about it, was never totally certain what happened afterwards because everything moved so fast.

Dillon turned, his left arm sweeping Algaro’s right to the side, the Walther discharging into the deck. Dillon closed with him. “If you’re going to do it, do it, don’t talk about it.” They struggled for a moment, feeling each other’s strength. “Why don’t you call for help?”

“Because I’ll kill you myself with my own hands,” Algaro told him through clenched teeth. “For my own pleasure.”

“You’re good at beating up girls, aren’t you?” Dillon said. “How are you with a man?”

Algaro twisted round, exerting all his strength, and pushed Dillon back against the rail at the prow. It was his last mistake, for Dillon let himself go straight over, taking Algaro with him, and the sea was Dillon’s territory, not his.

Algaro dropped the Walther as they went under the water and started to struggle and Dillon held on, pulling him down, aware of the anchor chain against his back. He grabbed for it with one hand and got a forearm across Algaro’s throat. At first he struggled very hard indeed, feet kicking, but quickly weakened. Finally, he was still. Dillon, his own lungs nearly bursting, reached one-handed and unbuckled his weight belt. He passed it around Algaro’s neck and fastened the buckle again, binding him to the anchor chain.

He surfaced, taking in great lungfuls of air. It occurred to him then that Carney would be watching events through the night sight and he turned and raised an arm, then hauled himself back up the anchor chain.

He kept to the shadows, moving along the deck until he came to the main salon. He glanced in a porthole and saw Santiago sitting at the desk, the briefcase open, reading. Dillon crouched down, thinking about it, then made his decision. He took what was left of the Semtex from his dive bag, inserted the two thirty-minute detonator fuses, went and dropped it down one of the engine room air vents, then returned and peered through the porthole again.

Santiago was sitting at the desk, but now he replaced the documents in his briefcase, closed it, yawned and got up and went into the bedroom. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He moved into the companionway, opened the salon door and darted across to the desk, and as he picked up the briefcase, Santiago came back into the room.

The cry that erupted from his mouth was like a howl of anguish. “No!” he cried and Dillon turned and ran for the door. Santiago got the desk drawer open, grabbed a Smith amp; Wesson and fired blindly.

Dillon was already into the companionway and making for the deck. By now, the ship was aroused and Serra appeared from his cabin at the rear of the bridge, a gun in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Stop him!” Santiago cried. “It’s Dillon.”

Dillon didn’t hesitate, but kept to the shadows, running to the stern and jumped over the rail. He went under as deep as he could, but the case made things awkward. He surfaced, aware that they were firing at him, and struck out for the darkness as fast as possible. In the end, it was Carney who saved him, roaring out of the night and tossing him a line.

“Hang on and let’s get the hell out of here,” he called, boosted speed and took them away into the friendly dark.

Serra said, “Guerra’s dead, his body is still here, but no sign of Solona and Algaro.”

“Never mind that,” Santiago told him. “Dillon and Carney didn’t come all the way in that inflatable from St. John. Carney’s Sport Fisherman must be nearby.”

“True,” Serra said, “and they’ll up anchor and start back straightaway.”

“And the moment they move, you’ll see them on your radar, right? I mean, there’s no other boat moving out to sea from Samson Cay tonight.”

“True, Señor.”

“Then get the anchor up.”

Serra pressed the bridge button for the electric hoist. The motor started to whine. Santiago said, “What now?”

The three remaining members of the crew, Pinto, Noval and Mugica, were down on the forward deck and Serra leaned over the bridge rail. “The anchor line is jamming. Check it.”

Mugica leaned over the prow, then turned. “It’s Algaro. He’s tied to the chain.”

Santiago and Serra went down the ladder and hurried to the prow and looked over. Algaro hung there from the anchor chain, the weight belt around his throat. “Mother of God!” Santiago said. “Pull him up, damn you!” He turned to Serra. “Now let’s get moving.”