Maybe he didn’t want to catch up with Drake. Maybe he was scared to death of Drake. Orc had fought Drake to a draw once. Sam had fought him and come out on the losing end.
Caine had killed him.
And yet, there was Drake. Alive. As Sam had known he was. As Sam had feared. The psychopath lived.
Edilio stumbled and tripped in the sand. His automatic rifle hit muzzle first and fired, BAM BAM BAM into the sand as Edilio accidentally squeezed the trigger.
Edilio stayed on his knees. Get up, he told himself. Get up, this is what you do. Get up.
He got up. He started running again. Heart pounding like it would tear itself loose.
Drake wasn’t far away now, just a hundred feet, maybe, not far. Whipping some poor kid who’d run too slowly.
Edilio had seen the results of that terrible whip. It had broken something in Sam, the pain of that whip.
But Edilio moved closer. The trick would be to get close enough…not too close.
Drake still had not seen him. Edilio raised the rifle into firing position. Fifty feet. He could hit Drake from here, but there were a dozen other kids in range just beyond him. Bullets didn’t always go exactly where you aimed them. He could kill Drake. He might also kill the fleeing children.
He had to stall until the kids got out of range.
He lined Drake up in the sights. Aiming was hard with the weapon on automatic. The kick would be ferocious. You could aim the first shot, but after that it would be like spraying a fire hose.
Had to get Drake to stop. Had to let the kids get away.
“Drake,” Edilio said. But his mouth was as dry as the sand. What came out was a barely audible rasp.
“Drake!” Edilio yelled. “Drake!”
Drake froze. He turned, not in a hurry, slow. Languid.
Drake smiled his feral smile. His eyes were blue and empty of anything but amusement. His dark hair was matted and filthy. His skin seemed to be smeared with mud. There was dirt in his teeth.
“Why, Edilio,” Drake said. “Long time, wetback.”
“Drake,” Edilio said, his voice failing him again.
“Yes, Edilio?” Drake said with exaggerated politeness. “Something you wanted to say?”
Edilio’s stomach heaved. Drake was dead. Dead.
“You…you’re under arrest.”
Drake barked a surprised laugh. “Under arrest?”
“That’s right,” Edilio said.
Drake took a step toward him.
“Stop. Stop right there!” Edilio warned.
Drake kept moving. “But I’m coming to surrender, Edilio. Slap the cuffs on me, officer.”
“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Kids beyond Drake were still running. Far enough? Edilio had to give them all the time he could.
Drake nodded, understanding. “I see. You’re such a good boy, Edilio. Making sure the kiddies get out of the way before you gun me down.”
Edilio guessed that Drake’s whip would reach ten, maybe twelve feet. He was no more than twice that distance now. Edilio aimed for the center of Drake’s body, the largest target, that’s what he’d read you were supposed to do.
Another step. Another. Drake advanced.
Edilio stepped backward. Again.
“Oh, no fair,” Drake mocked. “Keeping me out of range like that.”
Drake moved suddenly, with shocking speed.
BAM!
Click!
The first round hit Drake in his chest. But no other bullets flew.
Jammed! The gun was jammed. The sand was in the firing mechanism. Edilio yanked the bolt back, trying to—
Too late.
Drake lashed him, curled his whip around Edilio’s legs and suddenly Edilio was on his back, gasping for breath and Drake was standing over him.
The serpentine hand wound its way around Edilio’s throat. Edilio thrashed. He tried to swing the gun like a club, but Drake blocked it easily with his free hand.
“I’d whip you, Edilio, but I don’t really have time for fun,” Drake said.
Edilio’s brain swirled, crazy, fading. Through blood-reddened eyes he saw Drake’s smile inches from his face, savoring the close-up joy of watching Edilio die.
Drake grinned. And then, as Edilio lost consciousness, as he fell into a pit of blackness, he saw metal wires growing across Drake’s mud-flecked teeth.
FORTY-ONE
12 MINUTES
SANJIT HAD FORGOTTEN every single thing he thought he had learned about flying a helicopter.
Something about a lever that changed the pitch of the rotor blades.
Something about angle of attack.
A cyclic. Pedals. A collective. Which was which?
He tried the pedals. The tail of the helicopter swung violently to the left. He took his feet off the pedals. The helicopter had almost spun off the deck.
“Well, that works okay!” Sanjit shouted, desperately hoping to reassure the others.
“You should probably go up first, before you try turning!” Virtue yelled.
“You think?”
Now he remembered something. You twisted something to make the rotors give you lift. What was there he could twist?
Left hand. The collective. Or was it the cyclic? Who cared, it was the only thing that twisted.
He twisted it. Gently. Sure enough, the engine noise increased and changed in pitch. And the helicopter lifted off.
Then it began to spin. The helicopter drifted toward the bow, toward the superstructure while the tail spun the helicopter like a top, clockwise.
Like a Tilt-A-Whirl.
Pedals. Had to use them to…
The helicopter stopped spinning clockwise. It hesitated. Then it began to spin counterclockwise.