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.The fantail deck was darker than the others, but there was still enough light for him to see what needed to be done.He dug the plastic-cased meter out of his pocket, snapped the rubber band and unfurled the wires.The bulkhead door that led out to the landing was bigger than he had expected, twice as wide as the other doors he had seen.There was no porthole in the door, just a double-handled lever in the center that was pulled far to the right, swinging the bolts up and wedging them in place.A black rubber seal was squeezed tight around the edge.He was running a hand along the doorframe, tracing the alarm wires from the trip-box above the door, when he saw the lock.With the door secured, two flat bars slid one on top of the other, the thick rounded shackle of a padlock passing through a pair of aligned holes.He looked at it for a second, then tossed the meter onto the floor and hurried back to the coiled fire hose by the stairs.Shawn had warned him that if he opened the door without the bypass in place he’d alert the bridge.They’d be on him in five minutes; probably less.Much less.That wouldn’t make a difference now.Once he started he’d be lucky to have two minutes.He yanked the long-handled fire ax from its brackets and turned back to the door.The lock was waist high and he came in at it on a run, stepping into the swing, shifting his weight, grunting as the ax clanged against the lock and the door.Nothing.He stepped back and hefted the ax to his shoulder, swinging, angling each blow down on the lock.His ears rang as metal bit into metal, and through the din he could hear shouts coming from the decks above.The shackle bent away from the lock and the last blow knocked it free.He dropped the ax and threw his weight onto the lever.The bars shifted and with a dull thump the bolts pulled back.The shouts were getting louder now, more urgent.He braced a foot on the doorframe and pulled.A bell alarm sounded and red lights blinked down the passageway.Mark turned and leaned his shoulder into the door, forcing it all the way open.A block of light spilled out the door and onto the open grating of the narrow platform, five feet above the waterline.On either side of the fantail deck, couch-sized yellow drums held depth-activated life rafts and a pair of orange life preserver rings hung on the railing.Beyond the railing the churning white wake rolled out of the square of light and into the black, empty night.Twenty-five minutes late.Seriously fucked up.He stepped out onto the platform.His shadow stretched behind the ship, bouncing on the foamy, rabid sea.Below him, the white noise of the wake drowned out the sound of the alarm bell and the shouts from inside.There were no ropes dangling down from the upper decks, and there was no way he was going overboard on his own.He could go back in, grab the ax and make a stand, take a couple of them out before they overpowered him or shot him.He could see it coming anyway.But then they’d head upstairs and take their revenge on Robin and Pim, the old man and the boy.It was better out here.Not for him, shit no, but maybe for them.He leaned on the railing and looked out into the black night, surprised at how calm he felt.He didn’t even jump when the hand reached up and grabbed his wrist.“You’re fucking late, you worthless fucking asshole,” Shawn spit out, pulling himself over the railing.“Now get the fuck out of the way.”Mark started to say something but Shawn shoved past, pausing at the door, pointing the barrel of his Chinese-made assault rifle into the passageway before jumping through.Mark stepped to the side as dark shapes swarmed out from under the platform, tying off their black inflatable rafts and scurrying over and under the railings like a pack of wet rats.They were Thai and Chinese, in tee shirts and nylon shorts, a few in sandals but most barefoot, and all of them shouting now.There were no uniforms, no badges, no two guns alike.He saw several with machetes, the wooden handles wrapped in duct tape.Twenty, thirty men? They were pushing past him so fast he couldn’t tell.Andy Cooper, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, swung a leg over the railing.He smiled at Mark, a wolfish, dirty smile, then pushed his way through the door.From inside the ship Mark heard the rapid reports of machine gun fire and the booms of shotgun blasts and screams that came from deep in the ship.The last shape climbed from the rafts and twisted between the railing—a kid gripping a rusty tire iron.Twenty seconds after getting the door open they were all aboard, working their way through the ship, and twenty seconds after getting the door open, Mark knew the truth.He rushed back through the door but already knew it was too late.The smell of cordite hung in the air, and the sound of gunfire, sharp and metallic, echoed down the passageways.He had to get back to the cabins, warn Robin and Pim.He reached for the ax but it was gone, then started back up the stairs.One flight up the man Mark knocked cold with an elbow to the chin still lay face down in the passageway, but now there were three bloody holes in the small of his back, his white tee shirt scorched by the point-blank blasts
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