As soon as Pike’s head cleared the top, Jack reached out with his left arm and locked it around his neck, reefing him tight, while simultaneously plunging a screwdriver into his temple.

Pike never had time to utter a sound. A shudder went through his body as the shaft of the screwdriver penetrated through his skull like it was a melon. It pierced deep into his brain, not stopping until the hilt of the handle slammed against the side of his head.

Jack stared into Pike’s eyes and said, “Bet you’re not happy with that. Consider yourself screwed, asshole.”

When Jack let go, Pike’s body tumbled down the stairwell to the main deck. Seconds later, Jack searched him.

Again with no gun! What is it with you tough guys?

Jack heard the roar of the tender approaching as the walkie-talkie on Pike’s belt squawked.

“Pike! What’s happening?” demanded Barfoot. “You copy me? Over.”

Jack guessed he would have three minutes before they boarded. He also knew one thing for certain. They did have guns.

Chapter Forty-Five

Jack saw that Pike was wearing tan-coloured cargo shorts similar to what he had on, but his shirt was a different colour. A new plan came to mind.

Jack ripped Pike’s shirt off, not bothering to undo the buttons. He then tore his own shirt off, before grabbing Pike’s cellphone and walkie-talkie.

“Pike here. Can you copy?” said Jack. As he spoke he clicked the transmitter button on the walkie-talkie off and on repeatedly, giving a slightly broken message that would sound like static.

“Copy. What’s happening?” asked Barfoot, over the roar of the engine as Oskar directed the tender straight for the yacht.

“Over the starboard side,” said Jack, repeatedly clicking the button. “Badly injured. Grabbed a life preserver and jumped.”

“Starboard side! Copy!” yelled Barfoot.

“I’ll swing around and use the spotlight,” replied Jack, while climbing back up to the wheelhouse.

Barfoot ignored his yacht as it pulled away at high speed. His focus was on a life preserver in the water that the spotlight on the tender had illuminated. As they neared, the Princess had circled around at high speed and was approaching the preserver from the opposite direction.

Barfoot could see that the preserver was around the lower legs, with the feet sticking out one end while the body floated face down beneath the water on the other end.

Moments later, the spotlight on the yacht highlighted the life preserver from the opposite side.

“I see him!” yelled Oskar, as he and Barfoot used their hands to shield their eyes. Although the Princess was still a considerable distance away, the glare from its powerful spotlight still reflected off the water as it approached.

“Let me finish the bastard,” added Oskar, turning off the engine.

As the tender silently slid through the water up to the life preserver, Oskar grabbed the assault rifle he had laying on top of the duffel bag.

Chunks of the life preserver showered into the air as Oskar opened up with the machine gun. Many of the bullets found what he was aiming at and bloody chunks of flesh were torn from the thighs and buttocks. He didn’t stop until the magazine was empty.

“We got him!” radioed Barfoot, glancing at the Princess. “Slow down! Do you see us? We got him!”

“I see you, copy that,” replied Jack.

Barfoot gazed down at the body in the water. Something didn’t look quite right. The hair seems red … or is it from the blood? He reached in the water and hauled the bloody head out by the collar. He stared in disbelief at Pike’s face, with a screwdriver handle seemingly attached to his skull.

The sound of his yacht running at full speed echoed in Barfoot’s brain and alerted him to the danger. He looked at Oskar and yelled, “Get us out of here!”

Oskar stood dumbfounded for a moment, looking at the screwdriver handle sticking out of Pike’s head.

Barfoot dropped Pike and stumbled over Khalid’s prone body toward the engine, but knew he was too late when the hull of the Malaysian Princess briefly cast its dark shadow upon them.

Jack heard Oskar scream as he drove the yacht over them. It was followed by a clunking sound of the tender’s engine hitting the hull of the yacht, before the shredded remains of the tender were spit out the back.

Jack spun the yacht around immediately and shone the spotlight on the wreckage. Only the nose of the tender protruded from the water.

Good …

Then a head bobbed to the surface and he watched as Barfoot did a slow breast-stroke over to cling onto what was left of the tender. Jack put the engine in neutral and stepped out on the upper deck to look down at him.

“Swim to shore if you want,” yelled Jack. “I’ll get on the radio and wait.”

“My leg,” yelled Barfoot, “I’m bleeding bad. I need help.”

“More like you have a gun tucked in your pants and want to shoot me,” replied Jack.

“No, I don’t. Everything was in the duffel bag … except for what Oskar was using and it was empty. Please … help me.”

Jack saw that the water around Barfoot had turned a shade of red.

“You really are hurt,” noted Jack.

Barfoot nodded.

“Can you swim over?”

“My arms are okay. I can make it,” replied Barfoot, letting go.

“Not so fast, asshole, stay there!”

Barfoot grabbed onto the tender again and looked up at Jack.

“I sure as hell am not taking your word for it that you’re not packing,” yelled Jack. “Take off all your clothes. Then do a little roll in the water and spread your legs and arms so I can see. If you are packing, I’ll be running over you again.”

Barfoot did as requested and Jack waved for him to come over, before going down to the swim grid to meet him and drag him in by the arms.

Naked and bleeding profusely, Barfoot lay on the deck while breathing heavily. Jack saw a short series of deep cuts to the inside of Barfoot’s leg that had been caused from the propeller. Blood poured onto the deck like it was coming from a severed garden hose.

“Clamp your hand over it,” ordered Jack. “Looks like your femoral artery has been sliced. You’ll bleed out within fifteen minutes if we don’t stop it.”

Barfoot sat up and clamped both hands over the wound, slowing the blood flow only a little. He glanced at Jack who was standing over him while taking his belt off.

“There’s a first aid kit up in the wheelhouse,” gasped Barfoot.

“I’ll get it in a minute. First we’ll use this to make a tourniquet,” said Jack.

“Thank you,” said Barfoot, as Jack tightened his belt around the thigh.

“Thank me when you’re convicted, you bastard,” replied Jack, reefing his belt tight.

Barfoot stared silently at Jack’s face, but didn’t reply.

“You’ve killed a lot of people … and left a lot of kids and mothers without their dads or husbands,” said Jack, bitterly. “I should really throw you back in and see how long it takes the sharks to find you.”

Barfoot swallowed but remained silent.

The holes for the belt buckle did not match up with the end of the belt when Jack tightened it, so he handed the loose end to Barfoot. “Pull it tight while I go get the first aid kit. Don’t move or you will bleed out within minutes,” warned Jack.

Barfoot nodded and clasped the belt, but then his eyes closed and he went limp, letting the belt loosen.

Jack could see that he was still breathing, but did not know how much blood he had lost, or how long he had left to live without proper care. He grabbed the shirt he had ripped off of Pike and wrapped it around Barfoot’s thigh to hold the belt in place, then hurried up to the wheelhouse.

He did not see a first aid kit on the walls, so he rummaged through some cupboards, tossing out charts and a couple of life jackets.