Shaw instinctively ducked at the echoing cracks of the shots, although he knew immediately that the weapon had been fired from somewhere down on the shore. At least fifty yards ahead and another forty feet below the edge of the bluff.
Pistol shots meant a hostile. Any police tac team would be using long guns. Shotguns, M4s, maybe submachine guns like the one Shaw wished he still held right now. There’d been no answering volley. Return fire would have followed like a swarm of hornets if the pistol shots had been aimed at cops.
One enemy shooting at another. Had he hit what he’d aimed at?
The bearded killer who’d passed him in the woods had likely been drawn by the sound of the boat thumping against the shore, just as Shaw had. If so, the man must be close. Either just ahead, in the expanse of wind-scoured grass that rapidly sloped to the final short cliff, or working his way along the upper edge, searching for a place where he could climb down.
Shaw moved forward in a crouch. Keeping low so that his silhouette would merge with the mass of trees to anyone looking up the slope from below. The rain drummed on his hood and shoulders. Hearing movement, as he had in the forest, would be next to impossible.
He descended a step at a time. After ten paces he could feel the angle of the hill increasing beneath his feet. After twenty he was pressing himself back against the pull of the drop.
Ten yards in front of him, the grass abruptly ended. The cliff’s edge. Beyond that he could see only waves.
The killer wasn’t here. But the insistent, erratic bumps of the small boat against the rocks continued from Shaw’s right. A small rise in the landmass blocked the view in that direction. Shaw got down on his knees and crawled to the peak of the low hill, the Browning in his hand.
He lifted his head above the rise. On the other side, nearer the cliff, he saw the broad shape of the bearded killer. The Viking stood tall, his rifle aimed downward at the beach. As Shaw watched, the barrel moved slightly left, then right. Seeking a target.
Most of Rohner’s people had been accounted for. Had the cops arrived without Shaw hearing them? The brawny killer might be waiting for Guerin or one of the Feds to show themselves. That rifle had enough range to pick them off anywhere on the beach, even through the rain.
The man was right-handed. Aiming down and to the left, his front facing the cliff so that his back was angled toward Shaw.
Take this big son of a bitch out, quietly. The rain would cover his approach. A hard crack over the head and a choke hold. Take the rifle. Then deal with the rest of them, however he had to.
He crawled over the rise. Down the other side. The Viking continued to aim at the shore, intent on finding his quarry. Shaw placed one hand down, one knee, one hand. Twenty feet from the man now. Fifteen. Watching.
Shaw hadn’t made a sound. He was certain of that. But the Viking suddenly knew. His shoulders tightened, thick trapezius muscles squeezing reflexively to protect his vulnerable neck a split second before he began to turn. Shaw was already launching himself upward. The killer spun, the barrel of his rifle swinging around to meet the new threat. Too high. Too late. Shaw was underneath, driving forward, slamming into the killer like a runaway train hitting the end of the line.
They fell. Down the slope. The incline so sharp that their fall stretched an extra yard, the impact a millisecond later than Shaw expected it. They hit and bounced. The Viking’s breath exploded from his huge chest with a grunt. Shaw was thrown aside, tumbling along the slope. His leg came down onto nothing. Dropping off the cliff’s edge. He let go of the Browning to claw desperately with both hands at the sodden ground, tearing away clumps of dirt. He managed to roll himself back the other way and up onto his knees.
A huge form, rushing. The Viking’s kick hit him high on the shoulder. Spun him back toward the drop. He went with the force, rolled to the ground again. A second kick, trying to punt Shaw right off the edge, glanced off his hip. Shaw punched upward, aiming for the killer’s groin and hitting his ribs instead as the man stumbled to one knee. He grabbed at Shaw, one spade hand clamping over Shaw’s throat and pinning him to the ground. Bared teeth showing white in the black beard.
The crushing fingers closed. Trying to tear out Shaw’s windpipe. The world went bright around the edges of his vision. Shaw coiled into a ball, lashing out with a kick. The sole of his boot smashed into the man’s jaw. The Viking heaved up with the force of the blow, took one step back.
Disappeared. There and then suddenly not there, like a magic trick.
Shaw rolled onto his stomach and crawled to the cliff edge.
Below, the shimmering water lapped at the narrow strip of shore. The Viking’s body lay in a twisted X halfway between the cliff and the latest receding wave. Shaw could see his white face in profile. The head nearly submerged in a tide pool, the riot of beard floating on the ripples.
A muzzle flash blazed from Shaw’s right, down on the beach. He ducked back. The Browning was somewhere in the patchy grass. He went looking on his hands and knees, with the afterimage of the flash still floating in his vision. His pistol lay a yard from the drop, along with the killer’s rifle. Shaw slung the long gun over his shoulder and crawled to the cliff to cautiously look over its edge once more.
The single shot had come from only twenty feet down the shore. Near the cliff itself. He could see nothing in the deep shadows. The horizontal length of the flash made him guess that it had been aimed along the beach, not upward at him.
Aimed at what? He looked down the beach to his left. After a moment he heard a splash. A figure ran from the cliff to a spot where the shore dipped a few feet, just above the tide line. The running man ducked below the lip of rock.
The rainy night greedily leached color from the world, but Shaw had been certain that the figure was wearing a suit of pearl gray. Hargreaves.
He was trying to reach the boat. Pinned down by the man shooting from the cliff face.
Shaw’s Zodiac, if it was still where he’d left it, was a few short yards behind the shooter. Along with the spot where Shaw had ascended the cliff face to tear the tree from its roots. He could climb down to the shore there. He crawled in that direction. Rainwater flowed from his muddy arms and legs to the wet soil and grass beneath, as if he were melting into the island.