the deck.
“You get it now? That’s why they were waiting in front of us. One skiff on each side—they let us go right between them. They strung that rope around the ship’s nose. Drozdov is zigzagging, but all he’s doing is flinging them around. We’re not gonna shake these guys.”
“We are towing them.” The Serb bared his teeth. “Sranje,” he cursed, then lifted his chin to LB to say, Go a head, speak.
“They’re not trying to climb up. They’re not shooting. Those two pirate skiffs are keeping our attention on them, that’s all. There’s another boat.“
Bojan curled his upper lip, an angry, sour face. He thrust LB the flashlight, burdened enough with the Zastava. “Sergeant, come.” Bojan rammed a finger toward the port corridor. “The stern.”
Bojan took off barreling through the narrow companionway, twisting his shoulders to fit. LB reached instinctively for the M4 that was not strapped across his shoulder.
The two bolted single file. The unlit passage tilted more with Drozdov’s useless evasion, making both men balance against the rail as they ran. Bojan jangled with weapons, LB’s jump boots clomped.
Somali pirates. LB had always considered them the same way Bojan described them, as ignorant and rash, not much more than simpleton villagers with guns. He had to rethink that now. From the look of things, these guys were clever. And no question, they had balls. But what were they after—why so much trouble and violence? What was inside this damned ship?
LB had no time to mull this over, darting behind Bojan down the hard corridor. The big Serb, already winded from chasing LB to the bow, couldn’t keep the pace for long. He reached the ladder below the forward crane before slowing to a jogging walk.
“I’ll meet you there.”
With that, LB dodged around Bojan, who did not move to stop him. He ran the rest of the way to the stern, rounding the last steel corner to the fantail. He bent over the rail, catching his breath. The wake behind the Valnea was intense, choppy, ghostly. One black-painted skiff crowded with dark men joggled on the foam.
Bojan skidded to a stop beside him. He looked, then spat over the rail at the pirates.
“So. No brig for you, Sergeant.”
Two thin men wearing loose white tunics and Kalashnikovs across their backs worked their way up a pair of rope ladders strung from grapnels. The hooks had been flung over the rail of the mooring deck below, fifteen feet closer to the water. The Somalis were only a few rungs from boarding the freighter.
Bojan braced the stock of the Zastava under his armpit.
“You have knife?”
LB was already on the move. He sprang for the down staircase, hopping for a moment to grab the four-inch blade out of the sheath around his calf. Behind him, Bojan ran uphill to the center of the rail, directly above the rope ladders. He halted and fired a burst. LB couldn’t gauge the result, already lunging the first steps down to the mooring deck to slash away the ropes. This close, the Serb had to hit somebody. The answering blast of bullets halted LB on the stairs. Bojan stood as if in the center of fireworks, sparks and ricochets in the steel all around him. He jerked, raked by many rounds. Bojan staggered from the rail, then stepped up to fire another volley. More bullets answered from below, another corona of sparks lit him up. Bojan stumbled backward, the Zastava too high when he pulled the trigger again. He fired uselessly over the gulf, then collapsed against the wall.
LB reversed, vaulting back to Bojan. The slumped Serb held up a shaking hand to stop him. LB ignored it. He skidded to his knees at the guard’s side.
Blood dribbled from the corners of the big man’s mouth. Pale skin and wet wounds peeked through a half-dozen rips in his sweater. He breathed with a grating noise, the holes in his chest burbling. One squeeze of his hand in LB’s came strong and pained.
“Uh-oh,” Bojan wheezed.
“We gotta get you out of here.”
“Too late. Here.” Bojan unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt. He handed it quavering to LB. “Warn Drozdov.”
LB stuffed the radio in his vest, then lifted the Zastava’s strap from around Bojan’s shoulders to loop it over his own. He raced through his options. He could trade shots with the pirates scrambling on board, probably take a few rounds himself, and die next to Bojan. He could run for the other two guards or wait to see