Luke ran through the darkened alley.
The guy ahead of him had a huge head start. But so had Buddy Barnes back at Ranger school. A twelve-mile tactical march with full gear, the last test over two days of intense physical fitness training. Don’t finish the march in under three hours and you’re out. The failure rate hovered at a constant 60 percent. But he’d not only finished, he’d caught Buddy, making up a hundred yards over the last two miles to cross the end line first. The winner received the honor of buying the first round of drinks during the next leave. No matter it would cost a couple of hundred dollars, everyone wanted to win that march. Problem was, when the time came he didn’t have a couple of hundred dollars. So Buddy had loaned it to him until the next payday. That was what Rangers did for one another. He missed Buddy. A roadside bomb in Afghanistan killed his friend, and he’d helped carry the flag-draped coffin to the grave at Arlington.
He kept running, stepping up the pace, careful with the damp cobblestones. This wasn’t a flat dirt trail at Fort Benning. It was a rolling city by the sea full of hostiles and friendlies, and it was sometimes hard to know which was which.
He thought of Laura Price.
She’d been a little of both.
But she’d been careless and that sloppiness cost her big time.
His target disappeared around a corner about half a football field ahead. He felt a familiar pulse of adrenaline. He was in the prime of his life, ready for all challenges. But he told himself to be smart. Always be smart. He wasn’t sure if the guy was even aware he had a pursuer, as the man’s pace had not changed. He found the same corner and whirled around, not losing a step. He stared ahead and saw that his target was no longer running. Instead, the man was down in the middle of the street, in a firing stance, arms extended, gun aimed.
Damn.
He launched himself into the air, leaping to the right, catapulting his body onto the hood of a parked car and slamming into the windshield.
Two shots came his way.
He rolled to the sidewalk, gun still in his grasp, and lay on his stomach, his chin to the street, poking his head around a bumper.
Another round whined off the side panel.
He reeled back into a crouch and tightened his grip on the gun, then aimed and squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet of his own toward the target.
A quick peek and he saw the guy was gone.
He came to his feet and rushed ahead.
Another alley opened to the right of where the shooter had taken a stand. He stopped at the intersection and saw the man running near the bottom of a long, inclined path. Beyond he caught the glimmer of water. They were headed toward the harbor, which actually wasn’t far away at any point within the city. He kept going, hustling down to the alley’s end where he stopped and surveyed the scene. A marina dominated the concrete wharf. Boats bobbed on mooring lines inside a high-density basin. His gaze scanned the many finger docks. No one was around. But he caught the drone of an engine to his left.
He ran down the concrete walk that fronted the water and saw a Zodiac, out on the water, motoring away, heading into the Grand Harbor. Two figures stood inside the inflatable.
One of them tossed a taunting wave back at him.
Asshole.
He needed a boat.
Now.
He bolted back to the marina. Many of the boats he could see were sizable, twenty-plus-footers with all the bells and whistles. Impractical for this pursuit. Toward the end of one dock he spotted a small, fifteen-foot V-hull with a solitary outboard. Of course, he didn’t have a key to trip the engine but that shouldn’t be a problem. As a kid, he’d learned how to hot-wire an outboard. He and his brothers would just take a screwdriver and spark the leads beneath the ignition pad, which always did the trick. He didn’t have any tools, but he shouldn’t need any. He untied the mooring lines and, as the boat drifted from the dock, bent down beneath the key panel and yanked the two wires loose. He got lucky. They came free, leaving some of their copper exposed. He sparked them together and the engine coughed to life.
The revs steadied and he quickly twisted the wires together. He then hooked the wheel left and goosed the throttle. The prop bit water and lunged the hull forward toward the harbor. The Zodiac had a big lead, and his newly acquired pleasure craft did not have much more horsepower. The best he could do was keep up and see where they headed. What exactly he was going to do once he learned that information remained to be seen. But he was tired of being one step behind. Laura, Malone, the Secreti, Spagna. All of them had been ahead of him from the start.
He passed Fort St. Angelo and the harbor mole at the tip of Valletta’s jutting peninsula. The Zodiac was about a quarter mile ahead, a black smudge skirting across black water.
Beyond it, out in open water, he spotted lights.
Another craft at anchor.
Which had to be their destination.