The President's Vampire Read Online Free Page B

jetboats kept coming. They would be alongside the yacht in less than a minute.
    Howard swore again and ran down the stairs to the main lounge. Carrillo was probably going to kill him no matter what. At least this way, he could pretend he was still doing his job.
     
     
    CADE HAD REACHED TERMINAL VELOCITY—the point at which the pull of gravity was equaled by the resistance of the air against him. He fell toward the ocean at roughly four hundred miles per hour. His eyes were open. He blinked once and focused his gaze on the yacht. The small boats were pulling into a circle. He saw muzzle flashes in the dark.
    Cade literally could not go any faster. He still had nearly twenty seconds of free fall left.
    They were going to hit the boat first.
     
     
    HOWARD REACHED THE SALON just as the gunfire erupted. He realized, too late once again, that wading into a room of drunk, armed men was not the smartest move. One of Carrillo’s bodyguards struggled to get up from his place, shoving aside the woman giving him a lap dance. Carrillo’s clients reached for their own weapons, and made a dash for the exits. Screaming and bellowing drowned out the gunfire.
    It was an unholy mess. Howard was knocked to the floor and nearly trampled.
    A strong hand pulled him to his feet again, then slammed him to the wall. He looked into the eyes of Carrillo.
    “What the fuck is happening?” he demanded.
    “Pirates,” Howard said, and felt, for a moment, like he was in an old movie. “I think they’re trying to board.”
    “Cocksucker,” Carrillo screamed, and pulled out his ever-present sidearm. Unlike most of the men in the Mexican cartels, he didn’t go for anything showy. No gold plating or pearl handles or laser sights. Carrillo favored an old Colt .45 of his father’s, a World War II antique kept in pristine condition with a daily ritual of cleaning and maintenance.
    It was old, but it worked fine. Howard had seen it in action several times.
    For a moment, he looked down the barrel and thought Carrillo blamed him. Then the big gun swung away, to the head man of Carrillo’s clients.
    There was a deafening boom, and when Howard looked over at the Somali again, half his face was gone. Carrillo pumped another round into him for good measure, and the man’s body went down onto the carpet.
    “Double-crossing motherfucker,” Carrillo said, before lapsing into gutter Spanish. He saw Howard staring and slapped him. “What are you waiting for? Get us the fuck out of here!”
    Howard ran back up the stairs. The clients and crew ran around madly on deck, the bodyguards firing wildly at anything that moved, unsure who was on their side and who wasn’t. Howard had to dive to avoid a spray of bullets and ended up near the deck railing.
    He heard splashes and thought that people were jumping overboard. But when he looked, he realized that the invaders were leaping from their boats and swimming right to the sides of the yacht. He didn’t understand. Without ropes, they’d never make it up the sides.
    Then he saw it, shooting out of the water, coming straight at him.
    It was the size of a man, and shaped more or less like one, but the head was narrowed down almost to a point in front, like a snake. Any nose it had was just a couple of slits in the skin. Rows of sharp teeth were visible behind the fishlike mouth, gaping open as if sucking in breath. Its skin was leathery and slick, dark as oil and shiny in the reflected light. The claws on its hands and feet dug into the Kevlar composite hull and it scrabbled up the side.
    But its eyes were the worst. They were yellow, staring straight ahead, and cold, despite a luminous glow that highlighted their dark, diamond-shaped pupils.
    Howard had been at sea for a while. He’d seen some things. He’d gone deep-sea fishing and pulled stuff out of the ocean that looked like it came from another planet.
    But he’d never seen anything like this.
    Its bulbous yellow eyes locked with his own, and it