to catch them.
Phoebe is in the forward observation blister on the boat. Her blonde hair is tied back in a pony tail so the wind can't play with it. She ignores the spray of water coming up from the sea as the boat churns across the ocean. Her rifle, a Sako TRG-42, is set up on a plinth, and she's completely focused on what she sees through the rifle's optics.
When the man on the radio begins shrieking incoherently, Talus tells the boy to turn it off.
Kyuuketsuki. Vampire.
Our cover is blown.
SIX
All it takes is several rounds from Phoebe's Sako TRG-42 and the Cherry Blossom begins to drift; no longer is it a question of whether we will catch her, but when. It's not clear how Nigel got to the other boat, but he didn't take our Zodiac, which is fine with me. I get the prop turning before it hits the water, and it skips across the ocean like a flat pebble. As soon as I am close enough to jump aboard the tender, I kill the small engine on the Zodiac. My leap carries me over the railing and I land on the deck just below the bridge house. I hear a distant pop—Phoebe providing me cover—and a small circle of glass falls out of the bridge's side window, like an extra star in Orion's belt.
There's no movement following this last shot, and so I dart up the stairs to the bridge. There are several bodies, all of whom have been hit by Phoebe's sniping. She's using .338 Lapau Magnum rounds, heavier and more devastating at distance than the standard .308 Winchester round—one of her few concessions to modern technology—and the bullet tends to make a mess of people. The one guy who is still alive took one in the shoulder (unlike the other two who took rounds to the head and are spattered rather dramatically across the small bridge), and he's rolling around on the floor, making a lot of noise about the exit wound that has demolished most of his right shoulder blade.
I resist the urge to drag my finger through the bloody mess.
A thirsty man, lost in a desert, will drink anything that is more fluid than sand and call it water.
There should be more men on this boat, and I'm a little concerned to find it so deserted. I don't like this setup; it smacks too much like the processing ship the other night. Like someone is expecting an Arcadian response.
The Japanese sailor is slipping into shock. I try to get some answers out of him, but he only shakes his head wildly, shrieking with pain, and then sprints into unconsciousness.
All of the men on the bridge are all carrying sidearms. SIG Sauer P226s. Two of them are so new I'm sure their users have never fired them. The P226 is a fine pistol, though unexpected on Japanese sailors; I take the new pair of pistols and the clip from the third.
The men below deck are better armed. It's only because I'm expecting trouble that I don't walk straight into their ambush. As it is, I empty one of the two pistols driving them back into the depth of the ship. The hallway is filled with smoke, and my ears are ringing from all the gunfire, but I creep forward. I've killed two men—neither is Japanese—and I pause long enough to check their bodies. The only thing they're carrying is extra magazines for guns that the others have taken. No wallets; no IDs; no receipts from a favorite lunch place back on the Continent. Professional mercenary behavior.
Who are these guys?
I check their teeth and dental work, both of which suggest American backgrounds with time spent on overseas military bases. I inspect the extra magazines again: .40 S&W rounds. Same as the pistols.
I don't know the layout of the boat, and playing hide and seek with these guys doesn't sound like much fun, and I'm wary that I'm supposed to follow them. I don't need another repeat of the aerosol incident from the factory ship. I go back to the upper deck and head for the engine room instead. There are two guys waiting down there, trying to be stealthy, but the cloying stench of the diesel engine doesn't hide the scent of their sweat. The first tries to gut me with his tactical knife like I'm a wild sturgeon. I catch his wrist, break it, and take the knife from his slack fingers. The knife blade