Tick Tock

cope with the cartridges. “How long to cross the harbour?”
    Bringing the Bluewater sharply and expertly around to port, she said, “We're starting the run right now. Going so fast, I'll have to throttle back just a little, but it should still take like maybe two minutes.”
    At various points down the centre of the broad harbour, clusters of boats bobbled at permanent moorings, grey shapes in the gloom that effectively divided the expanse of water into channels. But as far as could be seen in the rain, theirs was the only craft currently making way. Del said, “Problem is—when we get to Balboa Island, I need to find an empty slip, a suitable dock to tie up to, and that might take some time. Thank God, it's high tide and this baby has such a low draft, 'cause we can slide in almost anywhere.”
    Reloading the Mossberg, he said, “How'd you start the engines without keys?”
    “Hot-wired the sucker.”
    “I don't think so.”
    “Found a key.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “Well,” she said airily, “those are your choices.”
    Outside on the open top deck, Scootie began to bark ferociously.
    Tommy's stomach fluttered nervously, and his heart swelled with dread. “Jesus, here we go already.”
    Armed with both the shotgun and the pistol, he pushed through the vinyl flaps, into the night and rain.
    Scootie still stood vigilantly on the sunbathing pad, staring down at the churning wake.
    Balboa Peninsula was swiftly receding.
    Tommy stepped quickly past the dining table and the upholstered horseshoe bench that encircled it, to the platform on which the dog stood.
    No railing encircled the outer edge of the sunbathing pad, only a low wall, and Tommy didn't want to risk standing on it and perhaps pitching over the stern. He wriggled forward on his belly, across the wet canvas upholstered pad, beside the Labrador, where he peered down at the turbulent wake.
    In the murk, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.
    The dog barked more savagely than ever.
    “What is it, fella?”
    Scootie glanced at him and whined.
    He could see the wake but nothing of the boat's stern, which was recessed beneath the top deck. Easing forward, his upper body extended over the low sun-deck wall, Tommy squinted down and back at the lower portion of the yacht.
    Under Tommy, behind the enclosed first deck, was a back-porch-type afterdeck. It was overhung by the sunbathing platform on which he lay, and was therefore largely concealed.
    Sans raincoat, the fat man was climbing out of the harbour and over the afterdeck railing. He disappeared under the overhang before Tommy could take a shot at him.
    The dog scrambled to a closed stair head hatch immediately starboard of the sunbathing platform.
    Joining the Labrador, Tommy put down the pistol. Holding the Mossberg in one hand, he opened the hatch.
    A small light glowed at the bottom of moulded-fibreglass steps, revealing that the Samaritan-thing was already clambering upward. Its serpent eyes flashed, and it shrieked at Tommy.
    Grasping the shotgun with both hands, Tommy pumped the entire magazine into the beast.
    It grasped at a rail and held on tenaciously, but the last two blasts tore it loose and hurled it to the bottom of the steps. The thing rolled out of the stairwell, onto the afterdeck again, out of sight.
    The indomitable creature would be stunned, as before. Judging by experience, however, it wouldn't be out of action for long. There wasn't even any blood on the steps. It seemed to absorb the buckshot and bullets without sustaining any real wounds.
    Dropping the shotgun, Tommy retrieved the .44 pistol. Thirteen rounds. That might be enough ammunition to knock the beast back down the stairs twice more, but then there would be no time to reload.
    Del appeared at his side, looking gaunt and more worried than she had been before. “Give me the gun,” she said urgently.
    “Who's driving?”
    “I locked the wheel. Give me the gun and go forward, down the port stairs to the foredeck.”
    “What are you going to do?” he demanded, reluctant to leave her there even if she had the Desert Eagle.
    “I'll start a fire,” she said.
    “What?”
    “You said fire distracted it.”
    He remembered the enraptured mini-kin at the blazing Corvette, lost to all sensation except the dancing flames. “How're you going to start a fire?”
    “Trust me.”
    “But—”
    Below, the recuperated Samaritan-thing shrieked and entered the bottom of the stairwell.
    “Give me the damn gun!” she snarled, and virtually tore it out of Tommy's