Chapter 63
MAGNUS STARED AT HIS radio in a paralysis of disbelief.
A second, shuddering explosion in the cargo hold shook him out of his astonishment.
And now an acrid smoke began filling the engine room, accompanied by the sound of fire: muffled at first, but morphing to a dull roar.
The engine churned on, the boat yawing to port, and to his horror he felt the deck beginning to slant.
The boat was on fire and starting to go down by the head.
With a great effort he cleared his mind, remembering who he was and what he was capable of; and he concentrated on the consequences should Pendergast survive and tell the world the truth about him. It had become inescapably clear this was to be a fight to the end—one or both would die.
It had also become all too clear the kind of person he was up against: someone almost—or maybe even actually—his equal, perhaps endowed with the same powers he had.
If it happened to him by a medical experiment, it could possibly happen to another by a freak of birth.
Over the years, he’d grown soft and flabby by exercising his powers against the weak and feeble.
Life without challenge had filled him with lassitude.
But now, and for the first time, he had met the test of his life.
The thought was strangely bracing.
At least he was in the right place to arm himself.
There was a hidden gun locker set into a wall of the engine room.
He punched in the code, unlocked the panel, and pulled out an AR-15 and a pre-loaded, hundred-round drum magazine.
Holding its magwell up, he inserted the drum and pushed it firmly in until he heard a click.
He pulled the charging handle back to insert a round into the chamber, set the automatic lever to three-round bursts, then—taking a deep breath—kicked open the engine room door and exited onto the deck.
Flames and smoke were roaring out of the cargo hold, and the deck was slanting farther toward the bow, paddle wheel still churning, the motion evidently forcing water in through a hole blown in the forward hull.
Helmless, its rudders jammed to port, the boat was circling and essentially sinking itself in one of the deepest subchannels of the Delta.
Pendergast was in the saloon… or so he claimed.
The grand staircase was forward and as Magnus ran, he saw water already surging across the bollards on the cargo deck.
Wading through the rising water he reached the grand staircase, only to see Pendergast at the top, waiting for him with a handgun.
He dove to one side, unleashing a burst from the AR-15 as Pendergast returned fire.
The agent vanished and Magnus took the opportunity to scramble up the tilting staircase, pausing at the top to get his bearings.
He caught a glimpse of Pendergast’s black form disappearing out the saloon’s aft exit.
He fired a second, sustained burst in his direction, the rounds blowing out a row of frosted cut-glass antique windows.
He had, in that momentary encounter, captured a faint echo of the man’s mind.
This gave him a surge of encouragement and power.
He’d learned that Pendergast had only a .
45 handgun—hugely overmatched by the AR-15 and his personal sidearm, a Swenson custom 1911.
If he could only get close enough, he could see even more fully into Pendergast’s mind, “hearing” his current thoughts and thus achieving an almost insurmountable advantage.
He sprinted across the saloon toward the aft exit, then paused to glance down the stateroom deck; another mental flash—a glimpse of sixth sense—and he realized the man was close, intending to shoot through the wall; he took evasive action, and Pendergast’s rounds burst harmlessly through the woodwork.
Two could play at that game. With another spurt of gunfire, he raked the outer stateroom walls, knowing the AR-15’s .
223 high-powered rounds would go through the wood like butter.
He unleashed another burst, lower this time, chewing up the antique beadboard, sending smoke and splinters everywhere.
The fire had spread forward and was now engulfing the stateroom deck. He figured he had less than five minutes.
Suddenly, with an almost bat-like fleetness, his opponent flew out of the grand stateroom window—the son of a bitch looked unscathed—and got off a double tap at him even as he dashed up the ladderway to the hurricane deck.
But Magnus had again picked up the echo of his thoughts and was further encouraged.
He added another fact to his growing collection: the mag in the .
45 Pendergast had taken held only the standard ten rounds—all his crew had been issued the same sidearm package—and Magnus had counted six shots.
That left no more than four plus one, or perhaps less if he’d used up shots before, and he could feel the concern in Pendergast’s mind about running out of ammo and lacking either another mag or a second firearm.
Magnus leapt up the ladderway after him, aiming the AR-15 and unleashing a burst as he ascended, driving the man back.
Poking the muzzle over the top of the ladderway, he swung it around and raked the deck, glimpsing Pendergast taking cover behind one of the longboats in the stern.
The deck was now slanting badly, the paddle wheel churning, engine stuck on full throttle.
The entire bow section was engulfed in flames, spreading burning debris on the water as it sank.
He pulled open the door of the engineer’s cabin and, using it as cover, fired a burst into the longboat, hoping the rounds would penetrate deeply enough to reach Pendergast. Two more shots came back—that made eight—which he answered with another burst.
In the wake of this brief exchange of fire, Magnus took the opportunity to slip aft to the deckhand’s cabin.
And now, at last, he was finally within full range of Pendergast’s busy mind…
and he picked up, almost like a radio broadcast, the raging thoughts of his adversary—from which he learned the man indeed had only two shots left in his magazine.
He could feel the heat of the fire at his back, feel the slant of the deck; something had to happen, and fast, or they both would be sucked down with the burning ship.
The key was now to show himself, present the most tempting target possible, and waste the man’s last rounds.
He unloaded another burst into the tarp-covered longboat, splinters flying everywhere.
As a sensation of panic and alarm reached him, he knew the rounds were making it through.
Time to flush out his prey. Magnus now stepped partially into view; Pendergast fired a round, but Magnus had picked up on the man’s intention to fire and was able to evade the blast. Otherwise, he’d have been dead—the man was a crack shot.
He then showed himself again, a most tempting target—and in the same manner as before evaded Pendergast’s final shot.
And now he got the message—half sensation, half thought—that he’d hoped for: Pendergast was out of ammo. All he had was a marlin spike and some sort of sharp tool.
Magnus prepared to step out and finish him off, but then hesitated.
The man was damnably clever. He wasn’t sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, whether Pendergast had sussed out his special power—but if he had, he might be transmitting a counterfeit thought.
No one had done it before—in the early days after the experiment, Telligren had tried a few times as a test, without success—but then, he’d never encountered anyone like Pendergast.
He waited, letting his brain soak in the steady stream of anger, chagrin, and helplessness, along with a burst of remarkably complex reasoning that explored, like a chess master, every possible strategic outcome. None of them were good.
Still, he must be cautious. He would test him; show himself again, confident he could anticipate any shot before it was fired and dodge it.
He stepped out on deck and walked toward the longboat.
No shot came; what did come was only further chagrin at the vulnerability of the man’s position: no way to fight back except with a marlin spike.
He could even see the man staring at his useless gun, slide locked back.
But now he picked up on a fresh idea of Pendergast’s: the man had taken the bloody marlin spike from his belt and planned to throw it.
Magnus assumed the man was an expert knife thrower.
Very well, he thought with satisfaction, let’s see how this works out.
He continued walking down the hurricane deck, exposing himself completely.
And then, in perfect synchronicity with Pendergast’s thoughts, he deftly skipped aside just as the marlin spike whirled past him and embedded itself with a shuddering thud into the wall behind him.
The game was up. Magnus leaned back, breathing hard, and laughed. “I know you’re out of ammo. Come out, hands up, or I’ll perforate you.”
A beat—and then the man stepped out. Christ, Magnus thought, he was a monstrous-looking son of a bitch: covered with black coal dust mixed with clotted blood and gore.
Now they were face-to-face and Pendergast’s thoughts were even clearer: fury, humiliation, mortification…
and continued scheming. He held the useless gun in his hands, slide locked back.
“Drop it.”
Pendergast complied.
“That tool in your belt—take that out and drop it.”
He removed the tool and let that fall.
“Take a step forward. Just one.”
Now, at this proximity, his thoughts were clear as a bell. He was completely unarmed, his mind overflowing with frustration, humiliation… and fear.
Magnus needed to know nothing more. “Step back again.”
The man took a few steps back, and Magnus did the same. They were on opposite ends of the stern, the churning of the paddle wheel loud just below, mist and spray in the air. He could also hear the approaching roar of the fire, heading rapidly toward them from the bow.
“One question before you die.”
The man said nothing.
“Do you have the gift?”
“No.”
“Then—how do you do all this?”
“I am more observant than most. And what I observe—”
But in an instant, Magnus realized what it was Pendergast observed: it came like a silent emergency broadcast to his brain; immediately followed by the realization that he, Magnus, was doomed.
Enraged and alarmed, he fired the AR-15 at Pendergast, the weapon bucking with recoil.
But even as the roar of the weapon sounded, something like a black shroud descended upon him without the ghost of a warning from behind.
He swung around, firing madly; he felt powerful hands grip both sides of his chest; there was a sudden jerk upward—and then, to his perfect astonishment, he was in the air, flipping over the rail and plummeting headfirst toward the churning, boiling paddle wheel below.