Unlike the others, the men who had been selected from the boat were Indonesians with a limited command of Malaysian and no knowledge of Arabic; he had to use English so they would understand.
‘There has been a change in plans,’ he told them, grabbing onto the back of one of the seats. ‘The people we have come for are there.’
He pointed to the rock. One of the tourists was treading water next to it; the other must have been hiding behind him.
‘There?’ asked the man near the wheel of the boat.
‘Yes,’ said Sahurah. ‘Take us there.’
He took the machine-gun from Adi’s hands, cradling it against his shirt. While it was heavier than the AK47 he had first learned to shoot as a boy, it was surprisingly small for a gun that could fire so rapidly and with so much effect. Sahurah had only a pistol himself, strapped in a holster beneath his shirt.
Adi took the gun back greedily as soon as he was in the boat.
‘We will not shoot them unless it is necessary,’ Sahurah reminded him.
Adi frowned, but then set himself against the side of the boat in a squat, holding the weapon’s barrel upward and protecting it from the spray as they turned and started toward the rock. The helmsman brought the boat around in an arc, circling around from the west.
The man at the wheel cut the engine when they were twenty meters from the rock. Sahurah reached to his shirt for his gun; he would fire a shot and then tell the tourists to surrender. He would use sweet words to make the idiots believe he meant no harm. The Westerners were, without exception, cowards, eager to believe whatever they were told.
Adi tensed beside him. Sahurah knew he was about to fire. He turned to stop him, but it was too late: the gun roared. Sahurah turned and saw Adi falling backward as the machine-gun fired – he thought the little man had been pushed back by its recoil and tried to grab him, but both Adi and the gun fell off into the water. Stunned, Sahurah reached for him when he felt something punch against him, a stone that tore into his rib. He grabbed for his weapon and found himself in the bottom of the boat, finally realizing that the man on the rocks had a gun.
Zen’s first shot missed, but his second and third caught the man with the machine-gun in the head. He fired three more shots; at least one struck the man next to the gunman. The boat jerked to the left and roared away out to sea.
Zen lost his grip on the rock as the wake swelled up. He couldn’t keep the gun above the water, let alone himself – he slid down and then pushed up with his left hand, clambering up on top of the rock.
The boat was headed off. Thank God, he thought to himself. Thank God.
Something ricocheted against one of the rocks about thirty feet from him. Zen threw himself into the waves, still clutching the pistol. He pushed around to the seaward side of the rock then surfaced.
There was a man on shore about fifty yards away with an AK47. Zen went down beneath the waves as the man aimed and fired again. The rocks would make it almost impossible for the gunman to hit him unless he came out on the isthmus. A second gunman stood near the brush on the eastern end of the beach; Zen paddled to his right, finding a spot where he couldn’t be seen from that angle. He was safe, at least for a while.
Then he heard the motor of the speed boat revving in the distance. They were coming back.
When Breanna saw the object in the distance, she thought at first it was a large crocodile. She stopped mid-stroke, frozen by fear.
Then she saw that it was bobbing gently and thought it must be a raft. She started toward it, and in only a few strokes realized it was part of a dock that had been abandoned ages ago and now sat forlornly in the water. Abandoned or not, it was the first sign of civilization she had seen since setting out and she swam with all her energy, kicking and flailing so ferociously that she reached it in only a few seconds. She pulled herself against it to rest. As she did, she saw a small skiff maybe seventy-five yards away, the sort of small boat a fisherman might use to troll a quiet lagoon on a hazy afternoon. An old American-made Evinrude motor, its logo faded, sat at the stern. Breanna threw herself forward, stroking overhand in a sprint to the 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