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Suddenly, the man’s grip relaxed a bit; Court tried again to pull the pistol out of his clutches, but the man instead ripped it out of Court’s hands, then spun to aim it at another target, just behind Court on the boat.
This could only mean Zoya was standing behind him, and she was about to be shot dead.
Before Court could even react to throw himself in front of the weapon, a pair of gunshots barked from the lakeshore; the man on the boat with Court stumbled back a little and, using the same motion, he turned away, leaping over the side, splashing into the black water, and disappearing below the choppy waves.
Court turned around to see Zoya standing there at the entrance to the covered deck, a pistol in her hands aimed at where the bearded man had just been standing.
The launch continued moving quickly in reverse, now nearly fifty yards from shore, but Court made no attempt to take control of the craft.
Instead, he just kept staring at Zoya.
Stunned, he said, “You…you told me you were out of ammo.”
“I am. I was trying to distract him.”
Another gunshot from the shore sent them both to their knees for cover.
Court looked and saw two Guatemalan police officers at the water’s edge, sixty yards away now. They both held Uzi submachine guns, and they aimed them at the boat.
Court and Zoya ducked down farther just as the cops fired again.
Zoya said, “Why are they shooting at us?”
“Let’s not stick around to ask.”
He crawled to the helm, spun the wheel to the left, pulled out of the reverse, and shoved the transmission forward. Once they began moving he applied full power again, and soon the single Yamaha outboard behind him began racing them away from the area.
They stayed low, the police stopped shooting, and within half a minute they were out of range. Court hugged the coastline with the wooden boat, but this took all his attention because the lake felt like a roiling sea.
After two minutes the lights of the city disappeared behind them.
He knew the police wouldn’t be able to fly a helicopter in this weather, even if they had one standing by near sleepy Panajachel, but he imagined they’d be climbing into boats that moved a lot faster than his little tourist craft with one working engine, so his plan was to beach at the first opportunity.
Zoya came up behind him as he looked at the coastline to his left, hunting for a place to go ashore.
She put her hand on his back, saying nothing.
“You okay?” he asked after a moment.
“Fine. You?”
“Yeah. That was Lancer,” Court said flatly.
Zoya seemed surprised. “Are you sure? It was pretty dark.”
“When I knew him he didn’t have the beard, so I couldn’t really make out his face. But the dude’s got a very distinct choice in firearms. A big ten-millimeter suppressed hand cannon. Some custom-made piece, subsonic ammo. As soon as he drew his gun I knew it was him.” He shrugged. “Plus the fact that he had some kind of Nazi tattoo on his chest. That’s also part of his brand. A big gun and membership in a club of dickheads.”
Zoya said, “Did he recognize you?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. We didn’t know each other well.”
“You think he’s dead?”
Court shook his head. “Not a chance. He jumped over the side, he didn’t fall in. They might have grazed him. No more than that.”
Zoya took a moment, then spoke, her voice full of emotion. “Listen, Court, you have to believe me. This wasn’t Slava Genrich. You see that. Right?”
Court was already thinking about who was responsible, and he agreed with Zoya. “Genrich said Lancer was after the engineer, right?”
