Chapter 3 - THE COLD HARBOR RUN
Blood on the BilgeThe back door of the kitchen didn't lead to the driveway; it opened onto a narrow, covered walkway that descended directly to the shingle beach where her skiff was moored.
Salvatore burst through the kitchen door a second later, his suit jacket torn at the shoulder, a thin line of blood dripping from his cheek. He looked at Faye, then down at the shotgun in her hands. A flicker of something resembling respect crossed his face.
"They've blocked the road," Salvatore said, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. "We can't get the vehicles out. They brought a heavy team."
"Then we go by water," Faye said, her voice deadpan. "They don't have boats out there in this surf. Not unless they brought a submarine."
"Can that skiff handle this water?" Salvatore asked, looking through the broken kitchen window at the churning, white-crested waves of the cove.
"It handled it yesterday with a two-hundred-pound mob boss bleeding in the bottom," Faye said, pushing past him. "Move. Now."
They sprinted—or in Faye’s case, limped heavily—down the wooden stairs. The rain was coming down harder now, a freezing sheet that blurred the horizon. Behind them, the gunfire from the driveway was growing more sporadic, punctuated by the heavy, thudding explosions of grenades. Salvatore’s men were dying up there, holding the line just long enough for their asset to escape.
They reached the skiff. The aluminum boat tossed violently against the rocks, held only by a fraying nylon rope.
"Get in!" Faye yelled over the roar of the surf.
Salvatore scrambled over the bow, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the wet aluminum. He turned and offered her a hand, but she ignored it, shoving the heavy boat off the rocks with her good leg before throwing herself over the gunwale.
She grabbed the pull-cord of the outboard motor.
Pull. The engine coughed, a wet, miserable sound. Pull. Nothing. "Come on, you piece of junk," she hissed, her knuckles turning white.
From the top of the wooden stairs, a figure emerged. He wasn't wearing a suit. He wore a heavy, tactical parka and a balaclava covering his face. In his hands was a Kalashnikov rifle. He raised the weapon, aiming directly down at the boat.
Pull.
The outboard roared to life, spewing a cloud of blue smoke. Faye slammed the throttle forward just as the Russian opened fire.
Bullets chewed into the water around them, throwing up geysers of cold brine. One round struck the aluminum transom with a deafening ping, sending a vibration through the tiller that went straight into Faye’s teeth. The boat surged forward, its nose lifting high into the air as it hit the first major wave.
The skiff went airborne for a terrifying second before slamming down into the trough of the next wave. Salvatore was thrown into the bilge, his immaculate suit now covered in the same mixture of salt water and jet fuel that had stained Faye’s clothes the day before.
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Faye didn't look back. She kept her eyes locked on the open ocean, navigating the treacherous, jagged teeth of the reef by memory alone.
They were out of the driveway, but they were out in the open, and the Pacific was hungry.
