“Dean, don’t move!” his father shouted from somewhere far away.
As the fog lifted from his vision, Dean saw the man standing in the dugout canoe pointing the Steyr directly at him. What was going on? There seemed to be water in his ears, everything was muffled and faint. Waving back, he started that way and felt something large brush by him, raking his side as if with sandpaper. Dean cried out in pain and saw the big dorsal fin of a shark cut the surface only yards away. Hot pipe! When that ship dropped, it cleared the pass, letting the man-eater into the harbor at last.
IN THE DUGOUT, Ryan saw the shark brush past his son on an inspection pass and reacted instantly. Drawing the panga, Ryan slashed his palm and thrust it into the ocean, splashing the water. Doc knew fish and had said a shark could smell fresh blood from a mile away.
“Come on,” he growled, flexing his hand to make it bleed more. “Over here!”
In response, the shark abruptly shifted direction and charged straight for the canoe. Dropping the knife, Ryan grabbed Doc’s stick and pulled out the full yard of Toledo steel. He’d get only one chance at this. When it found no food, the shark would go right back after Dean. Dripping blood into the water, Ryan braced himself for the strike. Just a little bit closer.
He yanked out his hand as the jaws of the great white reached for the food, its huge body slamming into the canoe, nearly spilling the man. Shouting a curse, Ryan slashed down with all of his might, and blood exploded from the water as he completely removed the dorsal fin of the beast.
Surfacing in mindless rage, the great white snapped insanely in an automatic response to pain, then it tried to turn and attack, but rotated helplessly around and around. Without the stiff dorsal to rudder its swim, the deadly killer was completely out of control. Spiraling away, the shark bucked and thrashed, thin blood pumped from the wound into the clear harbor waters. Turning end over end, beating its tail wildly, the great white wove a random path through the water, its motions gradually slowing until it stopped moving and limply rose to the surface, turning over to expose its pale belly to the bright sunlight.
Panting for breath, Ryan pumped a couple of rounds into its guts with the SIG-Sauer just to be sure. From the shore, the locals cheered, then stopped and ran pell-mell toward the ville gate, dropping their belongings along the beach.
“Hey,” Dean wheezed, appearing over the gunwale.
Lowering the sword, Ryan helped the boy on board, then removed his jacket to drape over his greasy shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” the one-eyed man asked, checking his son for any wounds.
Dean simply shook his head, too tired to speak, and with a trembling hand he held out the munitions bag.
“A-anything else to get?” he croaked in a hoarse whisper.
Taking the soaked bag, Ryan felt a sudden rush of pride for his son. “No, we’re leaving now.”
A wan smile. “Okay by me.”
Placing the munitions bag in the stern alongside the med kit, bedrolls, backpacks and wire-rimmed glasses, Ryan went to the middle of the canoe, took the single oar and started paddling toward the trawler. They had only traveled a short distance when he heard a dull metallic clanging and recognized it as the ville warning bell. That was when he noticed the people were gone from the beach, the gate closed. Glancing quickly about, Ryan saw the other companions standing on the deck of the fishing trawler, then glanced at the waterfall flowing into the lagoon that in turn fed the harbor. The dock was empty, no smoke visible from a fire. Everything seemed fine. Even the sky was clear.
Then from around the point of the island, a squat boat came steaming into view, its deck covered with men and weapons.
“Fireblast,” he cursed, and started stroking faster. “We’re not going to make it, son.”
“Pirates?” Dean asked weakly, looking around.
“Worse,” his father replied, as another PT boat cleared the point, closely followed by several more. “It’s the lord baron, and he brought the whole bastard fleet.”