minutes.
“I know that look on your face, Fargo,” Remi said. “You want to go inside, don’t you?”
“Only if it’s safe. Trust me, Remi, I got my adrenaline fix last night. I’m not going to take any stupid chances.”
“Okay.”
Sam slid down the bank into the water, then stroked over to where the periscope rose from the water. He grabbed ahold of it, gave it a tug and several shakes. It seemed solid. Remi tossed him two ends of rope, both of which he secured around the periscope. Remi took the other ends, secured each of them to a ratchet block, then each of those to nearby trees. Sam climbed back out and together they cranked the ratchets until the lines were taut. Sam gave each one a tug.
“It’s not going anywhere. Okay, I’m going to have a quick look around. Three minutes, no more.”
“Do you want me to—”
“Shhh,” Sam whispered, a finger to his lips.
He turned his head, listening. Five seconds passed and then faintly, in the distance, came the sound of a boat engine.
“Coming this way,” he said.
“Just fishermen.”
“Probably.” But after last night . . .
One thing that had been nagging at Sam was the proximity of their submarine to where Ted had said he’d found the punt shard. It was unlikely the two were connected, but not so unlikely that Ted’s assailant might choose to search this area of the Pocomoke.
He crouched beside one of the duffel bags, rummaged around, and came up with a pair of binoculars. With Remi on his heels, he ran back along the bank to where they’d tied off the skiff. They dropped to their knees in the high grass and Sam aimed the binoculars upriver.
A few seconds later a powerboat appeared around the bend of the river. It contained four men. One at the wheel, one on the bow, and two sitting on the afterdeck. Sam zoomed in on the driver’s face.
Scarface. “It’s him,” he muttered.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Remi replied.
“I wish I was.”
CHAPTER 8
T he skiff!” Sam rasped softly. “Come on!”
He slid belly first down the bank and into the water. A quarter mile upstream Scarface had turned the powerboat into the mouth of another inlet, which the man in the bow was scanning through a pair of binoculars. Sam heard Scarface’s voice echo over the water, followed by another voice saying, “Nyet.”
Great, more Russian heavies.
Sam stroked over to where he’d secured the skiff’s painter line, quickly undid the knot, then swam back and grabbed the bow cleat. He glanced over his shoulder. Scarface was bringing the powerboat about and turning their way.
“Sam . . .”
“I see them.”
He wrapped the painter around one fist then accepted Remi’s help up the bank. “Pull,” he whispered. “Pull hard!”
Together they heaved on the painter. The skiff’s bow bumped against the bank, then began inching up the slope.
The powerboat was three hundred yards away. The men’s attention seemed focused on the opposite shore, but Sam knew that could change at any second. One stray glance and they were finished.
“Pull, Remi.”
Again they heaved back on the painter. Sam spread his legs and dug his heels into the soil, pulling until the tendons in his neck bulged. The skiff’s nose appeared over the lip of the bank, but now free of the water and subject to gravity the electric motor began fighting them. The skiff slipped backward a foot.
“One more good pull,” Sam said. “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”
The skiff arced up and over the lip and slid onto level ground. In lockstep Sam and Remi backpedaled, dragging the skiff deeper into the grass.
“Down, Sam.”
Remi dropped to her belly, followed a split second later by Sam. They went still, tried to slow their breathing.
“Think we made it?” Remi whispered.
“We’ll know shortly. If things go bad, I want you to run as fast as you can. Head for the forest and don’t look back.”
“No, Sam—”
“Shhh.”
The powerboat’s engine was growing
“I know that look on your face, Fargo,” Remi said. “You want to go inside, don’t you?”
“Only if it’s safe. Trust me, Remi, I got my adrenaline fix last night. I’m not going to take any stupid chances.”
“Okay.”
Sam slid down the bank into the water, then stroked over to where the periscope rose from the water. He grabbed ahold of it, gave it a tug and several shakes. It seemed solid. Remi tossed him two ends of rope, both of which he secured around the periscope. Remi took the other ends, secured each of them to a ratchet block, then each of those to nearby trees. Sam climbed back out and together they cranked the ratchets until the lines were taut. Sam gave each one a tug.
“It’s not going anywhere. Okay, I’m going to have a quick look around. Three minutes, no more.”
“Do you want me to—”
“Shhh,” Sam whispered, a finger to his lips.
He turned his head, listening. Five seconds passed and then faintly, in the distance, came the sound of a boat engine.
“Coming this way,” he said.
“Just fishermen.”
“Probably.” But after last night . . .
One thing that had been nagging at Sam was the proximity of their submarine to where Ted had said he’d found the punt shard. It was unlikely the two were connected, but not so unlikely that Ted’s assailant might choose to search this area of the Pocomoke.
He crouched beside one of the duffel bags, rummaged around, and came up with a pair of binoculars. With Remi on his heels, he ran back along the bank to where they’d tied off the skiff. They dropped to their knees in the high grass and Sam aimed the binoculars upriver.
A few seconds later a powerboat appeared around the bend of the river. It contained four men. One at the wheel, one on the bow, and two sitting on the afterdeck. Sam zoomed in on the driver’s face.
Scarface. “It’s him,” he muttered.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Remi replied.
“I wish I was.”
CHAPTER 8
T he skiff!” Sam rasped softly. “Come on!”
He slid belly first down the bank and into the water. A quarter mile upstream Scarface had turned the powerboat into the mouth of another inlet, which the man in the bow was scanning through a pair of binoculars. Sam heard Scarface’s voice echo over the water, followed by another voice saying, “Nyet.”
Great, more Russian heavies.
Sam stroked over to where he’d secured the skiff’s painter line, quickly undid the knot, then swam back and grabbed the bow cleat. He glanced over his shoulder. Scarface was bringing the powerboat about and turning their way.
“Sam . . .”
“I see them.”
He wrapped the painter around one fist then accepted Remi’s help up the bank. “Pull,” he whispered. “Pull hard!”
Together they heaved on the painter. The skiff’s bow bumped against the bank, then began inching up the slope.
The powerboat was three hundred yards away. The men’s attention seemed focused on the opposite shore, but Sam knew that could change at any second. One stray glance and they were finished.
“Pull, Remi.”
Again they heaved back on the painter. Sam spread his legs and dug his heels into the soil, pulling until the tendons in his neck bulged. The skiff’s nose appeared over the lip of the bank, but now free of the water and subject to gravity the electric motor began fighting them. The skiff slipped backward a foot.
“One more good pull,” Sam said. “On three. One . . . two . . . three!”
The skiff arced up and over the lip and slid onto level ground. In lockstep Sam and Remi backpedaled, dragging the skiff deeper into the grass.
“Down, Sam.”
Remi dropped to her belly, followed a split second later by Sam. They went still, tried to slow their breathing.
“Think we made it?” Remi whispered.
“We’ll know shortly. If things go bad, I want you to run as fast as you can. Head for the forest and don’t look back.”
“No, Sam—”
“Shhh.”
The powerboat’s engine was growing
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