He saw them both freeze in place the instant he racked the slide on his Beretta 9mm. “Hold it right there!” he shouted over the wail of the wind.
Captain Eagleberg was aghast at what he’d just witnessed. The SEAL he’d expected—but holy Mary mother of God, the young helo pilot…was his accomplice?
He stepped out from the doorway at the far side of the fantail, a good six meters from where the two assassins stood. Close enough to shoot.
And Eagleberg was trained.
He stood, legs well apart and knees slightly bent to brace himself from the pitch and roll of the deck underfoot, and held his pistol out with both hands, aimed in their direction. “I’m placing you both under arrest, Article 31, UCMJ,” he shouted, “for the murders of Lewis Stevens, Sam Schofield, Kristine Shiflin, Luca Santiago, Ángel Cristobal, and William Chavez.”
The pilot stared at him, openmouthed.
The SEAL didn’t seem surprised, just frowned, as if he were concentrating, aiming a weapon. Though he clearly had no weapon to aim.
He had nothing.
He was empty-handed.
They both were.
“Or,” said Eagleberg. “Or I could save the navy the time and expense, and put you both down right now. Bring the killers to justice. Not the NCIS, not the FBI, not Angler, not Jackson. Old Eaglebeak.”
He lifted the pistol to chest height, aiming at a point between the two of them.
“Self-defense,” he said. He sneered. “You think anyone will doubt it?”