The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(21)

He heard the rotors of a helicopter starting up.

Come now, Grant, get up, there’s a good lad.

He managed to get a knee under him, braced an arm on the wall. The noise was deafening now; he realized it was coming down the lift shaft. He smashed down the button, but nothing happened. The lift wasn’t working. He’d have to take the stairs. Hurry. Hurry.

He could barely handle his weapon. He fumbled the gun into his hand, braced himself against the wall, and entered the stairwell.

It was dark, but his eyes had adjusted. At the final landing, he stood, hand on the door’s handle, breathing hard, hyperventilating to sharpen his awareness.

He was buffeted by a gust of wind when he flung open the door. The helicopter he’d heard was taking off. No one shot at him, good luck there, so he threw himself out of the stairwell onto the deck. The chopper—in the darkness its lights looked like the outline of a Sikorsky X2, but he couldn’t be entirely sure—was already a hundred feet off the deck and moving away, fast.

He knew he should shoot at it, but his finger wouldn’t move quickly enough, and the chopper was out of range before he had enough control.

The deck was dark, but he managed to pick up a Maglite rolling around in the wind of the chopper’s backlash. He smelled blood, the acrid odors of death that made him want to retch. He shined the light on the ground and saw a lump that must be Devi, Broussard’s mistress. He’d seen her go into the dining room in that dress. It was the only way he could identify her. She’d been shot in the face and wasn’t recognizable anymore.

Grant felt for her pulse anyway, not surprised when he found nothing.

His brain was still foggy, his breathing harsh and ragged, but he was starting to get his wits back. Someone had attacked the ship and stolen something. He could only assume it was the strange box with the stone inside, the stone Broussard claimed was the Holy Grail. And he wondered yet again, how could a stone be the Holy Grail? Everyone knew the Grail was a cup, right? He’d seen no cups, only that huge ugly sphere and the ancient box Broussard had brought out from the inside.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the buzzing in his ears. Focus, mate.

Devi was beyond help. The chopper was gone into the night.

The boat itself was quiet, so quiet he knew immediately there was a problem.

As he turned back toward the stairs and the lift, he saw a bright flash of light. Was the helicopter coming back?

No, it was a thousand times worse.

The light grew closer and with it came the high-pitched whine he recognized from every combat zone he’d ever fought in.

An incoming missile.

He had only enough time to think, We’re dead, we’re all dead, Kitsune, I love you, I’m sorry, before the missile struck the side of The Griffon with an ear-splitting whump that immediately became a raging, white-hot fireball.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The explosion deafened Grant, the light blinded him, and the concussion from the blast knocked him backward ten feet to the deck. The Griffon, mortally wounded, listed to the side immediately. Grant started to slide, arms scrambling for any purchase. He slipped through the railing and knew he was falling. The toe of his boot snagged on a launch rope and he was swinging upside down over the water now. He saw the fire below him. If he fell, he was dead.

His senses, still dulled by the drugs, went into overdrive, delivering a massive dose of adrenaline. He used his momentum to swing toward the deck and grab the railing, where he clung like a monkey until it became too hot to hold. He pulled himself through and fell back to the deck, hitting his head hard. The deck was now at a sharp angle to the water.

No time, no time. The yacht was on fire, taking on water, he could feel it groaning beneath his feet.

They were sinking.

Where was everyone?

He stumbled across the deck to stairs, started down. He had a horrible moment of panic at the idea of the water rushing in and trapping him in the space, but pushed through his fear.

It only took him a few minutes to get back to the dining room.

It looked like a horror film—bodies everywhere, slumped in chairs or on the floor. He went to Broussard first, found his pulse thready and weak. He knew what to do, but he needed to get his carry bag. He had Narcan, it would help reverse the ketamine effects. Where was his bag? Not on his hip where it should be. His mind couldn’t quite grasp where. He mentally retraced his steps—yes, the stairwell, near the lift to the helipad.

He hurried through the room, felt a few more necks. Not everyone was dead. Some were, and there were a few who were past his help, but Broussard was still breathing, and the priority. Get him awake, get the crew awake, evacuate as many as they could before the freezing waters claimed the yacht and all aboard.

He took a deep breath. Someone else must be awake. The engine room maybe, or the bridge. Someone had to have been sailing the ship during dinner, yes? Or not.

His bag was on the floor in front of the lift, a blessing he didn’t have to run up those close stairs to the chopper deck again. He grabbed it and staggered back to the dining room. He shot Narcan into Broussard’s arm. Should he give himself a shot, too? No, it wasn’t worth the risk, his adrenaline was pulsing through him like a strobe. He would keep moving.

Broussard started to revive. Grant left him, found the rest of his team, got them shot up with Narcan. They began coming out of it. After a few minutes, he’d used all the Narcan he had, so the rest were on their own.