Arena Two. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
right: he must have hid the keys somewhere when he saw Rupert coming. Smart move.
In the distance, I suddenly see the slaverunners come into view, as the whine of their engines grows louder. I feel a deepening sense of dread, of helplessness. I don’t know what to do. Our boat is too far from shore to get to it now – and even if we could, Rupert might kill Ben in the process.
Penelope barks and jumps out of Rose’s hands, race across the boat, and dig her teeth into Rupert’s calf.
He screams and momentarily lets go of Ben.
A gunshot rings out. Logan found his chance, and wasted no time.
It is a clean shot, right between the eyes. Rupert stares back at us for a moment as the bullet enters his brain, wide-eyed. Then he slumps back, on the edge of the boat, as if sitting down, and falls over backwards, landing in the water with a splash.
It is over.
“Get our boat back to shore!” Logan screams to Ben. “NOW!”
Ben, still dazed, jumps into action. He fishes the keys out of his pocket, starts the boat, and steers it back toward shore. I grab two sacks of food and Logan grabs the others, and we throw them in the boat as it touches shore. I grab Bree and hoist her into the boat, then run back to the truck. Logan grabs my sacks of salvaged supplies, and I grab Sasha. Then, remembering, I run back to the truck and grab Rupert’s bow and arrows. The last one in, I jump from the shore into the boat, as it starts to drift away. Logan takes over the wheel, hits the throttle and guns it, steering us out of the small channel.
We race towards the entrance to the Hudson, a few hundred yards ahead of us. On the horizon, the slaverunners’ boat – sleek, black, menacing – races towards us, maybe half a mile away. It’s going to be tight. It looks like we’ll barely get out of the channel in time, and barely have a chance to make a run for it. They’ll be right behind us.
We burst out into the Hudson just as it’s getting dark and as we do, the slaverunners come into full view. They are barely a hundred yards behind us, and closing in fast. Behind them, on the horizon, I also spot the other boat, though that is still a good mile away.
I’m sure that if we had more time, Logan would say I told you so. And he would be right.
Just as I’m thinking these thoughts, suddenly, gunshots ring out. Bullets whiz by us, one impacting the side of our boat, shattering wood. Rose and Bree scream out.
“Get down!” I scream.
I lunge to Bree and Rose, grab them and throw them down to the ground. Logan, to his credit, doesn’t flinch, and continues to drive the boat. He swerves a little but doesn’t lose control. He crouches down low as he steers, trying to avoid bullets as he also tries to avoid the large chunks of ice beginning to form.
I take a knee in the back of the boat, raising my head only as high as I need to, and take aim, military style, with my handgun. I aim for the driver, and fire several shots.
They all miss, but I do manage to get their boat to swerve.
“Take the wheel!” Logan yells to Ben.
Ben, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He hurries forward and takes the wheel; the boat swerves as he does.
Logan then hurries to my side, taking a knee beside me.
He fires and his bullets just miss, grazing off their boat. They return fire, and a bullet misses my head by inches. They’re closing in fast.
Another bullet shatters a large chunk of wood off the back of our boat.
“They’re going for our gas tank!” Logan screams out. “Go for theirs!”
“Where is it?” I scream out over the roar of the engine and flying bullets.
“In the back of their boat, on the left side!” he yells.
“I can’t get a clean shot at it,” I say. “Not while they’re facing us.”
Suddenly, I have an idea.
“Ben!” I scream out. “You need to make them turn. We need a clean shot at the gas tank!”
Ben doesn’t hesitate; I’ve barely finished speaking the words when he turns hard on the wheel, the force of it throwing me sideways in the boat.
The slaverunners turn, too, trying to follow us. And that exposes the side of their boat.
I take a knee, as does Logan, and we fire several times.
At first, our barrage of fire misses.
Come on. Come on!
I think of my dad. I steady my wrist, breathe deep, and take one more shot.
To my surprise, I land a direct hit.
The slaverunners’ boat suddenly explodes. The half dozen slaverunners on it burst into flames, shrieking as the boat speeds out of control. Seconds later, it smashes head on into the shoreline.
Another huge explosion. Their boat sinks quickly, and if anyone survived, they are surely drowning in the Hudson.
Ben turns us back upriver, keeping us going straight; slowly, I rise and take a deep breath. I can hardly believe it. We killed them.
“Nice shot,” Logan says.
But it’s not time to rest on our laurels. On the horizon, closing in, is another boat. I doubt we’ll be so lucky a second time.
“I’m out of ammo,” I say.
“I’m almost out, too,” Logan says.
“We can’t confront the next boat,” I say. “And we’re not fast enough to outrun them.”
“What do you suggest?” he asks.
“We have to hide.”
I turn to Ben.
“Find us shelter. Do it now. We have to hide this boat. NOW!”
Ben guns it and I run up to the front, standing beside him, scanning the river for any possible hiding spot. Maybe, if we’re lucky, they’ll zoom right past us.
Then again, maybe not.
Four
We all scan the horizon desperately, and finally, on the right, we spot a narrow inlet. It leads into the rusted shell of an old boat terminal.
“There, on the right!” I say to Ben.
“What if they see us?” he asks. “There’s no way out. We’ll be stuck. They’ll kill us.”
“That’s a chance we have to take,” I say.
Ben picks up speed, making a sharp turn into the narrow inlet. We race past the rusted gates, the narrow entryway of an old, rusted warehouse. As we pass through he cuts the engine, then turns to the left, hiding us behind the shoreline, as we bob in the water. I watch the wake we left in the moonlight, and pray it calms enough for the slaverunners to miss our trail.
We all sit anxiously in the silence, bobbing in the water, watching, waiting. The roar of the slaverunners’ engine grows louder, and I hold my breath.
Please, God. Let them pass us by.
The seconds seem to last hours.
Finally, their boat whizzes past us, not slowing for a second.
I hold my breath for ten more seconds as their engine noise grows faint, praying that they don’t come back our way.
They don’t. It worked.
Nearly an hour has passed since we pulled in here, all of us huddled together, shell-shocked, in our boat. We barely move for fear of being detected. But I haven’t heard a sound since, and haven’t detected any activity since their boat passed us. I wonder where they went. Are they still racing up the Hudson, heading north in the blackness, still thinking we’re just around the bend? Or have they wised up and are they circling back, combing the shores, looking for us? I can’t help but feel that it will only be a matter