7:07 A.M.
Having kept the faster, escaping red speedboat in his sights the whole way, until it disappeared into the Ballard Locks, Randall glanced at the wide-open throttle of his boat, spied the speedometer, then shouted at Devlin, “This,” as the twosome passed beneath Ballard Bridge, “is as fast as she goes.”
Up ahead, several watercrafts were gathering, waiting for their turn to enter the small locks.
Randall shook his head at the traffic jam. “I don’t know how the hell he made it through that mess, but we’ll be cut off by the time we get there.”
A minute later, on his port side, her blazer flaring out behind her, Devlin patted him on the shoulder and pointed toward her eleven o’clock. “Head over there.”
He looked down the length of her finger. “Where? I don’t see anything but water.” Ten seconds later, coming to within a thousand feet of the locks, he saw what she was pointing at. “What good is that going to do us?”
Maneuvering to get behind him, she hunched over to get a handhold on a railing then perched her left foot on the gunwale. “Just trust me.”
Thirty seconds later, having circumvented the mass of boats waiting at the mouth of the locks, Randall eased the starboard side of his boat up to a pier.
Devlin pushed off, landed on the concrete, and took off running, shouting over her left shoulder. “Circle back and try to get around those boats.”
He made a counterclockwise half circle and poured on the gas.
She sprinted down a walkway meant for employees only. On her one o’clock, the red speedboat floated, its engine growling, the waters churning at its stern, its bow inches away from the small lock’s nearly open gate.
Coming up to a walkway that went over the now open gate, Devlin gave the passageway a quick look, comparing its proximity to the getaway vehicle now passing through the gate. She shook her head, Time for plan ‘B,’ then grabbed a handrail to her left, hopped the barrier, and ran to a chain-link gate labeled ‘Employees Only.’ Which is what, Jess?
On her right, the red speeder accelerated.
Seeing a padlock on the gate in front of her, she swung her left leg over, then her right, in a scissor-like fashion, until she was sitting on the top bar. She dropped onto a set of concrete steps, hustled down the staircase, and leaped off the fourth tread from the bottom. Her knees bending, Devlin touched down then straightened out and shot out of her stance. Four strides later, the marshal was doing an all-out sprint down the length of the concrete pier.
His red boat hugging the left side of the waterway, Tim McGantry cranked the steering wheel clockwise and glanced over his right shoulder, as he pushed the throttle all the way forward and raced away from the pier.
On his eight o’clock, her arms pumping, Devlin said of prayer of thanks that he had not looked over his other shoulder.
The craft picked up speed.
The former high school track and field athlete saw she was no longer gaining on her quarry. She veered right and vaulted toward the water. Her long arms and long legs still pinwheeling in the air, she aimed for the left-rear corner of the stern.
*******
Simultaneously working the throttle and the steering wheel, Randall weaved his way around the other boats clustered at the opening to the small lock.
People shouted and cursed at him for cutting to the head of the line.
With no free hand to either display his badge, or show them the middle finger, he ignored the insults and kept on going. By the time he reached the closed gate, he had garnered the scrutiny of every lock attendant within sight. He throttled back, stuck out his badge, “U.S. Marshal,” and jammed a finger straight ahead. “Get that damn thing open now.”
Attendant: “We need to fill it first.”
“Do whatever the hell you need to do...but get me on the other side. My partner’s waiting for me over there.”
The attendant gave the order to fill the lock then turned toward Randall. “Is your partner a woman...black hair...long?”
“Yeah. Why?”
The man on the lock wall pointed toward the other side of the gate. “Because she’s not waiting for you, anymore, sir. She just jumped onto the back of a speeding boat.”
*******
Her legs having given her more power than she had anticipated, Devlin had overshot her mark and caught the low horizontal stern rail just left of the outboard motor, her lower body dangerously close to the spinning propeller beneath the water’s surface.
McGantry had made a sharp left when Devlin landed, so the extra weight had gone undetected when the boat had listed into the turn.
Being dragged in the watercraft’s wake, Devlin did a horizontal chin-up, released her left hand, and gripped the rail further left. Repeating the process twice more, she put a couple feet between her and the prop’s blades.
Passing under Salmon Bay Bridge, the driver turned to starboard and entered Shilshole Bay a minute later.
Her legs swaying back and forth, feeling the burn in her arms, Devlin gritted her teeth and gripped the rail as tight as she could.
The slick steel slipped through her palms a half inch.
She did another lateral chin-up to reacquire her grip. I can’t hold this much, she grimaced, longer.
The boat deviated left then slowed a bit.
Squeezing with all her might, Take it, Jess...this is your, she flipper’d her legs, pulled, and swung her left leg onto the boat, hooking the back of her ankle over the stern rail.
Up ahead, a larger vessel cruised by, and McGantry then accelerated.
Devlin pulled with her leg and arms. Her stomach scraping up, onto, and over the stern, she dragged herself into the boat and trundled onto her back. Her chest heaving, she looked right and locked eyes with Tim McGantry.
She rolled clockwise and went to hands and knees before standing on rubbery legs.
McGantry reached to his right.
Devlin staggered a few paces then willed herself to charge forward.
He pivoted right while swinging out his right arm.
She closed the distance before he could line up the Ruger GP100 with her face. Grabbing the cylinder with her right hand, his wrist with her left hand, she wrenched his arm backward while spinning right.
He went with the motion, his left hand rotating the steering wheel in the same direction he was being pulled, clockwise.
Heading west, the boat started a gradual right turn.
Throwing out her left leg, Devlin tripped him.
He came down on his chest.
She landed on top of him.
The two combatants grappled for control of the revolver.
Her wet right hand slipped down to the front sight atop the four-inch barrel.
The cylinder rotated a sixth of a revolution.
A 357 Magnum concussion filled the space, as a 125-grain bullet chipped off a piece of the vessel and continued across the water.
Hot gases escaped from around the gun’s forcing cone, singeing the marshal’s thumb knuckle.
Wincing, fighting through the pain, Devlin jammed her now tingling right thumb into the trigger guard, keeping McGantry’s finger—and the trigger—from coming forward. She then delivered a series of left elbows to his head and face.
He wrestled with her.
She beat his inner wrist against the floor.
On his stomach, the man reached up, over his head, grabbed her ponytail with his left hand, and pulled.
Her left shoulder bearing down on his right shoulder blade, her head being jerked backward, she raised his right arm higher and slammed his wrist onto the handrail.
He let out a yell while his fingers splayed.
The Ruger bounced once off the gunwale and fell into the water.
The craft now heading north, the combatants exchanged a couple blows and scrambled to their feet. Facing McGantry, her back to the bow, Devlin went for the gun on her right hip.
The six-foot robber charged, wrapped his arms around her, and the two crashed into the dash panel.
McGantry rocked backward to deliver a headbutt.
She kneed him in the groin.
His bear hug on her loosened.
She wriggled her arms free, slapped both of his ears at the same time, and pushed him.
Backpedaling, he latched on to her right wrist. And like a pro wrestler tossing his opponent into the turnbuckle, he pulled, did a one-eighty, and threw her toward the outboard motor.
Devlin’s heel scuffed.
She toppled onto her backside and skidded a few feet along the floor until her shoulders banged against the stern. She put a palm to her forehead, shook loose the cobwebs, and looked up.
The boat now cruising eastward, McGantry towered over her, a knife in one hand.
The federal agent laid her forearms on the stern and pushed herself into a sitting position before thrusting out her right leg and driving the heel of her tactical boot into his genitals.
Holding himself, he staggered backward, cursed at her, and reversed course, his face twisted into a snarl.
Devlin grabbed the butt of her holstered Colt 45. In the next heartbeat, her eyes bulged when she spotted a long structure getting taller and wider just forward of the bow.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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