Armageddon Read Free Page B

boat. She got to the side and pulled herself up.
    The boat sat about five or six yards offshore, a line at the stern anchoring her. The shore here was lined with trees; Breanna saw a path at the right side, though it wasn’t clear what was beyond it.
    “Hey! Hey!” she yelled. “Help! Help!”
    She couldn’t see anyone. Breanna turned to the motor. It was old, possibly dating from at least the 1960s, with part of the top removed. It had a pull rope.
    She grabbed the rope and yanked at it. The engine turned itself over but didn’t start.
    Breanna stared at the motor, which had been tinkered with and repaired for more than thirty odd years. The motor seemed to be intact, without any fancy electronic gizmos or cutoff switches; even the turn throttle seemed to work. She tried the rope again and this time the engine coughed twice and caught. The propeller growled angrily as Breanna got the hang of the jury-rigged replacement mechanism that set the old outboard properly in the water. The boat jumped and started to move forward; she just barely managed to turn it in time to keep the craft from sailing into the rocky shore. She realized she hadn’t released the anchor—the boat groaned, dragging the rock along. She couldn’t steer and reach the line at the same time; since she was moving forward at a decent pace she didn’t bother pulling it in, concentrating instead on getting her bearings as she sped back to rescue her husband.
     
    ZEN PUSHED HIMSELF BACKWARD FROM THE ROCK, DUCKING down under the water and swimming to the west. He stayed below for as long as he could, the pressure in his lungs building until it became unbearable. As his face hit the air he heard a cacophony of sounds—the motorboat, guns firing, a distant jet. He gulped air and ducked back, pushing again. He didn’t last as long this time. When he surfaced the boat was nearly on top of him. He pushed down and waited, the wake angry but not as close as he feared.
    When he resurfaced, the crack of a rifle sent him back underwater with only half a breath.
     
    WHERE WAS THE INFIDEL BASTARD? SAHURAH LEANED against the side of the boat, searching for the tourist in the water. The man had gone beneath the waves somewhere around here; he couldn’t have swum too far away.
    Sahurah knew that it was the cripple who was shooting at them. How exactly he knew that—and surely that was not the logical guess—he couldn’t say, but he was sure.
    So the moment of pity he had felt on the beach had been a grave mistake. A lesson.
    He heard one of his men firing from shore and turned toward the east. A head bobbed and disappeared in the water nearby.
    “There,” shouted Sahurah, momentarily using Malaysian instead of English. “There, over there,” he yelled. “Go back. Get the dog. Run him down!”
     
    BREANNA STRETCHED FORWARD, TRYING TO GRASP THE knotted line holding the stone while still steering the boat. She was about three inches too short; finally she leaned her leg against the handle, awkwardly steadying it, and grabbed the rope, pulling it back with her as she once more took control of the motor. The anchor turned out to be a coffee can filled with concrete; she pulled it up over the side and let it roll with a thud into the bottom of the craft.
    A boat circled in the distance offshore. Breanna bent down and held on, steadying herself as she made a beeline for it.
     
    SAHURAH BROUGHT UP HIS PISTOL TO FIRE. HIS FIRST THREE shots missed far to the right. As he shifted to get a sturdier position he felt the pain in his side again; the bullet had only creased the flesh but it flamed nonetheless.
    He would have revenge. He aimed again, but as he fired, the boat jerked abruptly to the north.
    “What?” demanded Sahurah, turning toward the helm.
    The men pointed toward the west. A second boat was coming.
    For a long moment, Sahurah hesitated. He felt his anger well inside him. Unquenchable thirst—frustration—rage.
    He had failed.
    “Get the others,”