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Zoya opened fire in the direction of the men at the rock wall while Court rose and took two steps across the little deck, then put his foot up on the gunwale and sprang up and over. He flew above the black water and landed on the deck of the next vessel. Zoya kept up the steady fire at the four shooters, who were now separating even farther behind the wall.
As soon as he rose into a crouch on the next boat, Court pulled his weapon and aimed in on the man closest to him. He fired a half-dozen rounds in rapid succession; the first few hit the wall, but at least one seemed to find the upper torso or head of the man, because he fell back away from the wall and did not reappear.
As Court kept up the fire, Zoya’s backpack crashed down next to him, and then she came leaping over, landing on the wet deck and slipping onto her back.
Court finished his twelve-round magazine, then knelt low to reload just as Zoya came up behind him and began firing over his head.
•••
This assassination was turning into a shit show, and Lancer knew who was to blame. He had been first out of the vehicle, and he’d almost immediately spied a man standing on the pier near a boat, an odd enough sight in thirty-mile-per-hour wind gusts, but he knew he needed to get closer to look for Zakharova. He’d only taken a couple of steps away from the Tahoe, however, when Chico climbed out from behind the wheel, his weapon in plain view.
The man on the pier jumped into the boat behind the helm, a loud splash followed, and suddenly both Chico and Bernadino opened fire at the source of the noise.
Lancer knew his prudent course of action was getting to cover, because if the Russian and her friend were armed, they’d be shooting back in moments, and he didn’t want to be standing out on a lighted street when the exchange of bullets began in earnest.
He’d made it to the wall, where he drew his heavy pistol just as the return rounds began snapping over his head.
Lancer held his fire as the three Guatemalans arrived at the wall and passed behind him; they then separated behind the cover, giving the enemy a more complex puzzle to solve.
Lancer had yet to see Zakharova, but after a moment he realized someone had jumped onto the next boat, this one tied at the adjacent pier.
He realized they were trying to move laterally, possibly to find a boat they could use to speed out of the area.
He ran in a crouch towards Chico now, but when he was still five yards away from the man firing his MP5 over the wall, the Guatemalan tumbled back and away, dropping his weapon in the process.
Lancer continued running in a low crouch, bypassing the injured Chico without so much as a glance—the idiot had earned that gunshot, he reasoned—and then he ran on towards Bernadino. Here he crouched just as the man began reloading his HK.
The American leaned into the Guatemalan’s ear to be heard over Alfredo’s shooting. “You two stay here and keep their heads down, I’ll flank from the east. When you see me get on a boat, cease fire, go back to the vehicle, and get the hell out of here before the cops come. Don’t you fucking shoot at me, or I’ll kill your fucking families.”
Bernadino slammed the bolt closed on his weapon and then looked his way. “You’re getting on a boat?”
The American did not respond; he just rose again and resumed running low along the wall. As he did so he tore off his poncho and his shirt and drew his stiletto, while behind him Bernadino began firing again.
ELEVEN
Court leapt across five feet of water and landed on the rocking deck of yet another vessel, this one a small fishing trawler nearly a foot higher than the one he’d just hurdled from. Zoya, her pack, and Court’s pack were already aboard, and he scrambled up behind the little wheelhouse, then fired around the left side at muzzle flashes forty yards away.
This wasn’t working from a tactical standpoint. They couldn’t continue bounding from deck to deck. The men on the road had superior numbers, superior firepower, and the high ground. Court had no doubt the enemy would eventually pick Zoya and him off unless they changed tactics quickly.
He knew they could jump into the water, but then they’d lose their heavy packs with all their possessions, and the currents in the lake would push them straight to shore, as they no doubt had already done to the young boat captain he’d tossed in forty-five seconds earlier.
No, he needed to untie one of these vessels, hot-wire the engine, and get the fuck out of here.
Looking to his right at the next boat over, he saw it was exactly what he needed. A forty-foot touring boat with a covered deck and windows at the front, it had an open deck with bench seating at the rear and, most importantly, a pair of powerful but older-model Yamaha outboard motors that Court knew he’d be able to start up, even without a key.
Court shouted to Zoya as she fired. “We’re taking that one! I’m going to boost it. I’ll need about a minute and you’ll have to cover me.”
They made yet another leap, Court first while Zoya remained on the fishing boat firing the pistol at a pair of targets intermittently popping their heads and arms over the impenetrable rock wall. She wasn’t getting hits, but she was keeping the shooters from sending accurate fire her way.
Court called her over and began firing himself. She changed magazines, slung her backpack five feet to the deck of the tourist boat, then jumped, landing just behind the covered portion of the deck on a wooden bench. Quickly she dropped to her knees to make herself a smaller target, then raised her pistol back towards the town. As she did this she shouted, “Last mag!”
Court slid Zoya his weapon, which she stopped with her knee, and then she hefted it and forced it into the back pocket of her jeans, barrel down. “Full mag,” he said. He pulled another magazine from his pocket and slid it to her. “That’s my last.”
She snatched it up and shoved it into her other back pocket, moved forward under the deck roof now, then began slowly firing through the front window of the boat.
Court reached into his pack and pulled out a multitool and a tiny flashlight, both of which he crammed into his jeans pockets. He then crawled up toward Zoya but stopped before he got to her, focusing his attention instead on the helm console. Here he needed just seconds to remove a plate next to the marine switch panel with a screwdriver on his multitool, and he felt his way along a series of wires. Popping two out, he twisted them together, and the control panel instantly lit up.
The battery meter came alive, showing a full charge.
