51. The Yacht
The Yacht
Iwatched anxiously as Spider struggled to climb over the barrier wall.
He looked like a contestant on one of those Japanese game shows fumbling about.
And then came the crash. The man on the other side opened fire on him as soon as he saw him.
Spider, in his urgency, tried to shoot back, but lost his footing and grabbed onto some netting that in no way supported him.
It all came tumbling down upon him like an avalanche.
And Amir, who I was watching in the distance, survived out of pure luck.
Just as Saint pulled the trigger, one of his men rushed out, passed in front of him, and got hit instead; splashing him across the face and body.
And me? I was standing behind an advertisement for cologne; taking cover from the hail of bullets Amir’s men continued to unload on us.
We were pinned down. Overwhelmed by firepower. And now the yacht was starting to move.
“The yacht’s engines have been turned on. They’re making a break for it,” Saint said. He aimed for the engines and opened fire. But it was pointless, the yacht was too big and its engines too well protected for the rounds to get through.
“Take out the guys on the pier,” Spider said, still wrapped in netting and under the collapsed cargo.
“We’re kind of busy here,” Widow replied, huddled behind a taxi. The tourists had scattered not long after the shooting started, but a straggler or two zipped on by every so often, oblivious to where the exchange was taking place; several were wounded.
At that moment, Saint repositioned from the van to a truck parked just off the street, giving him a good flanking position on Amir’s men sprinkled across the pier.
“Tango down,” Saint said as he squeezed the trigger softly.
I watched as the men fell, one by one, until only one remained hiding behind a boat pillar.
“Now’s my chance” ran through my mind, so I looked at Belle and called her to me.
The two of us went ahead, followed closely by Jerry and Cash, to dig up Spider from under all the rubble.
Widow and Thor stayed behind along with Saint to cover the entrance.
“How the hell did you get so wrapped up in the netting?” Belle said, pulling an old empty crate to the side.
Spider’s head had gone through a hole in the netting.
And his legs. And his right arm. In fact, in his desperate struggle to free himself, it only made things worse.
I grabbed another crate and tossed it into the water.
“Don’t move,” Cash said as he grabbed the netting with his knife in the other hand. With a flick of the wrist, he sliced through most of it around Spider’s neck and arm, allowing him to be pulled from it.
“We have to stop that boat,” I said. “Jerry, Belle. On me.”
I shimmied through the small opening we made in the barricade and made a dash for the boat.
I watched as it slowly advanced past the pier and the last of Amir’s men made an awkward leap onto the boat.
Some didn’t make it, ending up in the water instead.
It was at that moment that he appeared once more.
This time with a Russian made RPK fitted with a drum magazine.
“I’ve had enough! Amir does not run from his enemies!
” Amir shouted, unleashing a torrent of bullets across the pier.
Nothing and no one was spared. I managed to crawl to a wooden crate positioned by the pier’s edge, which was about midway to Amir’s yacht.
Beside me were several of these neatly stacked crates sitting side by side or atop each other in rows of three.
I could hear the rounds hitting the crates farthest away from me.
Above me. And below. It sounded like a thunderous hailstorm.
It was at that moment when I turned towards the crate and saw it.
A small triangle with flames adorning the bottom; and written beneath it, explosive.
My eyes widened and my heart sank. This can’t be right? Explosives? Like gas?
“This is for Salim! For Omar! Ahmed —,” Amir said, directing his fire towards the street.
I wriggled away from the crate, but the gunfire did not let up.
There was nowhere to go. Nowhere else to hide.
In my frustration, I kicked the crate closest to me to reach better cover and accidentally knocked the lid off.
At that moment, the erratic gun fire stopped, surely to reload.
Curiosity had gotten the better of me; I quickly sat up and stuffed my head in the open crate.
Imagine my surprise when I saw a Soviet era RPG-7 neatly packed inside, gently resting on a straw bed.
“Oh-boy,” I said, my mouth salivating with excitement. “Time to blow shit up.”