Clive Cussler - Black Wind

“Nice shooting,” Gutierrez grumbled. “Now, let's move.”

As the commando crept forward, Dirk followed close behind, nearly losing his footing and slipping to the deck at one point. Glancing down, he noticed the deck was covered in a pool of blood from the gunman Gutierrez had shot from the dock. The dead man's body lay facedown next to a teak bar, a bent cigarette still clenched between his lips.

Roaring away from the brightly lit dock, the yacht was now enshrouded in total darkness as it sped across the cove at top speed. Nearly all of the boat's lights had been extinguished, save for a few dim interior floor lights The two men felt their way along to the main rear cabin that housed the dining salon and skirted around to the starboard-deck passageway. Gutierrez suddenly raised a hand and stopped, taking a step back toward the salon.

“There's next to no cover along the side passageways. It would be better if we split up. Take the port passage and try to move forward. I'll work up the starboard side here,” Gutierrez directed, knowing another gunman was likely waiting around the corner. “We better work fast, before we end up sailing to the wrong side of the DMZ.”

Dirk nodded. “See you on the bridge,” he whispered, then darted across the stern deck. With his senses tuned high, he edged around the portside corner and stepped onto the teak passageway leading forward. Distant gunfire from the shore rattled over the yacht's pulsating engines, but Dirk was focused on the sounds aboard the boat. Padding silently, he crept forward until the passageway ended at a stairwell. The bridge was almost in reach now, just up a level and another thirty feet. As he peered up the stairs, the loud bark of automatic gunfire suddenly cracked through the air. His heart skipped a beat, but then he realized it was on the other side of the yacht.

Gutierrez had been waiting for the burst. Slinking forward on the starboard side, he kept low to the ground in anticipation of an unseen gunman. Reaching the opposite stairwell, he climbed it like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet for a sudden barrage. He didn't have to go far to find it. The SEAL had barely set foot on the landing when a spray of gunfire whistled over his head. Hiding off the bridge wing, a black-clad gunman fired with an AK-74.

Gutierrez barely escaped the initial fusillade. The gunman's burst was thrown high when the yacht suddenly slowed and swerved into the narrow cove inlet. Diving back for the stairwell, Gutierrez slid down the first few steps before twisting around and aiming his MP5K. The SEAL waited calmly for several seconds until the gunman's muzzle flashed again. The incoming burst chewed up the deck just inches from his head, peppering his face with teakwood splinters. Calmly adjusting his aim, Gutierrez let off a solid burst from the Heckler &

lack Wind Koch into the darkness. A brief muffled cry rang out, then another flash of fire spewed from the concealed shooter's gun. Only this time, the spray of yellow fire arced skyward, then ceased altogether as the mortally wounded gunman fell dead to the deck.

On the other side of the yacht, Dirk heard the gunfire fall silent and wondered whether Gutierrez had survived the firefight. Moving up the port stairwell, he climbed two steps then froze at the sound of a faint click behind him. Tilting his head back, he detected that the sound came from a side cabin door at the base of the stairs. Descending silently, Dirk crept back down the stairs until he stood in front of the doorway. Gripping the SIG Sauer firmly in his right hand, he reached for the brass door handle with his left hand and gentry turned it to its stops. Holding the latch open for a second, he took a deep breath, then shoved the door open and lunged in.

He had expected the door to fly fully open, but, instead, it abruptly stopped from the mass of a human being. Slightly thrown off balance by the sudden jar, Dirk found himself bouncing off a muscular guard standing with a surprised look inside the doorway. Facing just inches away, Dirk noted a deep L-shaped scar on the man's chin and a bent angular nose that had once been broken. In his hands he held an AK-74 rifle, which he was attempting to reload. The rifle's barrel was pointed at the floor as the man fumbled with the clip, but he immediately swung the stock up toward Dirk's right side. Lurching back a step in order to bring the SIG Sauer to bear, Dirk was struck by the rifle before he could aim and his shot fired harmlessly into the wall. But rather than stiffly absorbing the blow, Dirk rolled to his right as the rifle struck, at the same time swinging his left arm around. As he pivoted with the force, he balled his left fist and threw a sharp uppercut which landed fimly on the jaw of the man's face. The blow sent the gunman staggering backward, where he tripped and fell over a basket of laundered clothes.

For the first time, Dirk noticed that the cabin was a small laundry room. A tiny washing machine and dryer sat against the far wall while an open ironing board stood next to the doorway. Regaining his balance, he quickly leveled the SIG Sauer at the guard's chest and squeezed the trigger.

There was no loud bark from the muzzle nor a kick to his wrist. Instead, just a metallic click as the gun's firing pin beat down on an empty chamber. Dirk grimaced as he realized that he had emptied the pistol's thirteen-round magazine. Smiling in the face of the empty handgun, Kang's guard rolled to his knees. In his right hand, he still held the full ammo clip, which he expertly jammed into the stock of the assault rifle. Dirk knew there was no way he could reload the SIG Sauer in time, but his body was already reacting with an alternate plan. Barely seen out of the corner of his eye, the shiny object that his hand was already reaching for was a last-gamble defense.

The chrome iron sitting atop the ironing board was not hot, nor even plugged in. But it made for a sharp and nasty projectile. With a toss that would have made John Elway proud, Dirk grabbed the iron and fired it at the gunman like a bullet. The gunman, intent on training his loaded rifle at Dirk, didn't even bother to duck. The flat side of the iron struck his head like an anvil, smacking his skull with an audible crack. The assault rifle fell to the floor first, followed by the gunman, his eyes rolled far back in his head.

Beneath his feet, Dirk felt the boat's motors suddenly rumble louder again. The yacht had cleared the inlet and was accelerating into the Han River. It would easily outrun the special forces support vessel stationed off the inlet. If it was to be stopped, he and Gutierrez would have to act quick. But how many more gunmen were aboard? And, more important, where was Gutierrez?

utierrez kneeled at the top of the starboard stairwell peering down the passage, searching for shadows. The black silhouette of the gunman he had dropped lay motionless on the deck beside the bridge. He could detect no movement around the area, and no one was firing at him, at least for the moment. No sense in waiting for reinforcements to appear, he decided. Vaulting from the stairwell, he dashed across the open passageway to the bridge wing and leaped over the dead gunman, then burst through the open bridge door.

He half-expected a horde of armed guards waiting to greet him with a cluster of hot muzzles pointing his way, but it was not the case. Just three men stood on the expansive bridge, their eyes turned to him with contempt. A burly, salt-faced man who was obviously the captain stood at the helm, guiding the yacht toward the center of the Han River. Near the port wing door stood a surly guard fingering an assault rifle, who glared at the SEAL with anticipation. And at the rear of the bridge, sitting in a raised leather captain's chair with a look of disdain on his face, was none other than Kang himself. The mogul, whom Gutierrez recognized from a briefing photo, was dressed in a burgundy silk robe, having slept on his yacht in preparation for a last-minute getaway.