louvers of the stairs while the pirate tried to light another in the breeze.
The Somali could not get his cigarette going. He moved away from the open wind that snuffed his matches to the cover of the superstructure. With his back only five feet from LB’s hiding place, the pirate managed to light his smoke. With a deep drag, he took a seat on the stairs.
LB tightened his grip on the knife. The pirate’s blouse hung loosely around him; he was thin and young, redolent of the odor of days without a bath. He enjoyed his cigarette as a luxury, a poor man’s savor. LB concentrated on his own balance, the pirate’s rib cage under the blowing tunic, and a heartsick prayer for him to go away.
Someone had put LB in this position—Wally and the team, too. Somebody very high up had decided that politics and schemes were bigger than the PJ oath. LB was going to have to kill, probably a lot, before he got off this ship. He made himself a promise to square that up with someone, first chance he got.
The Somali tipped back his head to finish the cigarette. When he’d drawn it down to his fingertips, he tossed the glowing nub under the steps.
The butt bounced off LB’s shoulder, showered sparks, and landed out in the open.
LB came out of his crouch.
The pirate looked down.
LB surged forward. He shot his left arm between the open stairs, wrapping the pirate’s waist to lock him in place. His right hand drove the knife into the Somali’s back, aiming for a lung. The pirate’s legs and arms heaved, he shrieked in shock. LB hauled him down harder, pulled out the knife, and rammed it again to the hilt between the pirate’s ribs. In wounded panic the Somali found the last of his strength, jammed his feet and hands under him to push off the steps. The sudden move lifted LB hard into the stairs, slamming his face and chest against the metal edges. The pirate flailed to get away.
LB’s grip slipped around the pirate’s waist. The man pivoted, straining away from the reaching arm and blade. He twisted fast, wringing his torso from LB’s grip. Still at close range with his knees on the stairs, not yet mortally wounded, he reached with shaking hands toward his dangling Kalashnikov.
With no other choice left, LB flung himself against the stairs, extending his arm as far as he could. His fingertips found the fabric of the pirate’s blouse. LB grabbed, yanked the Somali off balance, chest down into the steps, and plunged the knife. The pirate lay on the Kalashnikov, unable to bring it to bear. His last gasp came in LB’s face.
The man had screamed, only once but enough to alert any other pirates in earshot. LB drew out the knife. He skittered from under the steps, swinging the Zastava into his hands. He shoved his back against the superstructure to check all directions. Nothing pricked his senses. The headwind must have blown the pirate’s shout backward. The stern, right over the propeller and wake, would be the noisiest spot on deck. Maybe the guards there hadn’t heard their mate’s killing.
LB approached the corpse splayed on the stairs. The man’s heart had spilled over LB’s hands. Wiping blood on his pants legs, he stood over the pirate, whose blood oozed onto the stairs, dripping where LB had hidden.
He rolled the Somali over. The dead man’s features had relaxed from their last spasm on the point of LB’s knife. The mouth and eyes had shut, slack and final.
He whispered, “Can’t leave you here, pal. Sorry.”
LB hefted the corpse across his shoulders. Keeping to the shadows between the stairs and port rail, he checked for any trace of other pirates. The way was clear. He dumped the body overboard, throwing away the Kalashnikov too. LB didn’t watch the corpse and rifle tumble but stooped to hustle into the passage. He found a cranny there. No one came his way. The pirate’s thin body had landed unseen in the froth three stories below; the splash it made didn’t rise above the sounds of the freighter under way. Except for his blood, dark in a dark corner, he was gone.
LB crept to find three more Somalis at the stern rail. That made three targets on port, three on the stern, four on the bow; he supposed another four down the starboard rail. He checked his watch. The recon had taken forty minutes. He returned