Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 52

It was a chilly October morning. Kate was on the river again. The WITSEC agent guarding her was watching from the parking lot high above the boathouse on the shore.

Kate pushed off the pier and headed upstream, in the direction of the Hudson. Up ahead, on the cliff at the bend at Baker Field, the sun shone luminously off the huge painted Columbia C.

The currents were a little choppy that morning, and the traffic was light. Kate found herself pretty much alone out there. She started by doing five-beat strokes, just to get her rhythm. The sleek shell glided easily through the waves. Up ahead there was a launch boat in the middle of the river, in the stretch they called the Narrows, between Swindler’s Cove and Baker Field.

She charted a course to stay clear of it. Okay, Kate, push it.… Let it go.…

She leaned forward and powered into her routine, increasing her pace to every four beats. Her neoprene wetsuit blocked out the biting wind and cold. In her rhythm Kate’s mind drifted back to the day before. How fidgety Howard had been. How agitated he seemed even just at running into her. He was hiding something, Kate was sure. But he wasn’t about to tell her. Someone had pressured him to go to the FBI. And she was sure her mother knew something as well. Kate was worried about her. Alone out there. She was worried about all of them. The WITSEC people weren’t being straight with her.

Kate pushed against the current, powering with her legs, her seat sliding aft. She glanced behind her. She was approaching the Bend. The current was choppy, and the wind sliced into her wetsuit. She’d gone close to a mile.

That’s when she caught sight of the launch boat she had noticed before. It was coming up behind her.

There were lanes out here. She had the right-of-way. At first Kate just groaned and thought, Hey, wake up, asshole. There was no one out there but the two of them. The boat was a couple of tons at least, and it seemed to be going fast. The wake alone could capsize her.

Kate broke her stroke, steering out of its way in the direction of the Bronx shore.

She glanced behind her again. The oncoming boat had shifted course as well—still on her! Jesus, are these people even awake? There were about a hundred yards between them now, the bright red hull starting to get very large. Kate jerked the oars again and glanced back around. Her heart started to beat faster.

The launch wasn’t just headed in her direction.

It was on a collision course. It was bearing right down on her.

Now Kate started to get scared. She looked behind her toward the boathouse and the WITSEC guard up there who was powerless to do anything, even if he saw what was going on. The boat was speeding down on her. It could slice her fiberglass shell in two. Kate picked up her pace. Don’t they see me? The boat was getting closer. So close she could make out two men in the cabin. One had long, dark hair in a ponytail and was staring down at her. That was when the truth struck home.

They weren’t distracted at all. This wasn’t an accident.

They were going to ram her.

Frantically, Kate dug at the oars, drawing the tiny shell around in the face of the oncoming craft. Jesus! Her eyes got wide, staring at it. We’re going to hit! At the very last second, there was a deafening honk. The boat, its lumbering, massive hull right above her, veered. Kate screamed. There was a sickening, grating sound—her oar shattering in two. Her shell was lifted in the wake like a flimsy toy.

The boat ripped through the back of her scull.

Oh, God … no.

The next thing Kate knew, she was underwater. It was murky and freezing cold, and it hit her like concrete. The river rushed into her lungs. Kate kicked, thrashing her arms in the boat’s violent eddy. She felt like she was fighting for her life. She desperately tried to push her way up.

Suddenly she realized—You can’t come up here, Kate.

These people are trying to kill you.

Every cell in her body was crying out in confusion and panic. She scissor-kicked underwater and swam, praying there was enough air in her lungs, as far as her strength would take her. She wasn’t sure in which direction. When her lungs felt as if they were giving out, she clawed her way to the surface. She was disoriented for a second, gasping for precious, needed oxygen. She caught sight of the shore. The Bronx shore. About thirty yards away. The only person who could help her now was on the other side.

Kate spun around and spotted the launch boat circling in the vicinity of her capsized craft. Nearby she saw the pieces of her blue Peinert shell, severed in two. She saw the man with the dark, knotted hair in the stern of the boat scanning the wreckage. Slowly his gaze veered in a widening arc, moving toward the shoreline.

It landed squarely on her.

Jesus, Kate, you’ve got to get out of here now.

She sucked in a lungful of air and dove back underwater. For a few seconds, she swam parallel to the shore, petrified to come up. Then it got narrow and shallow and her muscles started giving out, and she swam the last, agonizing yards and pulled herself up, gulping convulsively, onto the rocky bank. She rolled over, too exhausted to even care about her safety. Her eyes drifted back to where she thought she should find the boat.

It was gone.

She saw it moving away, chugging full speed down the river. Ponytail was still in the stern, staring back.

Kate dropped her head onto the soil and coughed out a lungful of oily, fuel-smelling water. Somehow the boat had veered away—at the very last second. If it hadn’t, she’d be dead.

She didn’t know if they had tried to kill her or if she had just been warned. Either way, she understood what it meant.

Mercado was no longer just a name, or a threat.

It was the key to her survival now.