Gideon's War/Hard Target by Howard Gordon

noticing the man from the alley pursuing him and firing at him. None of the bullets found Gideon, but a stray slug hit one of the three jihadis, opening his neck in a spray of blood and gristle. Before the two surviving jihadis even had a chance to level their weapons, Gideon blasted between them and rocketed off the quay and into the brown water. He swam underwater as far from the quay as his lungs would allow until finally he had to come up for air.
    The moment he cleared the surface, he heard sharp snapping noises all around him. Bullets, slapping into the water. Some of them ricocheted off into the air and some tore down into the water.
    He turned and looked back. He was about forty yards out. Gideon counted seven turbaned men gathering at the edge of the water, blasting away, as he sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold and dove again, this time heading for cover behind an ancient teak river barge.
    Surfacing slowly, he pressed his cheek flush against the algae-slick hull of the wooden barge. There was no gunfire. Just shouting and the slap of cheap plastic flip-flops and running feet coming toward him. He panted as quietly as he could, trying to get oxygen back in his bloodstream.
    He felt a soft thudding against his cheek, footfalls on the barge deck.
    If he could only talk to them, make them understand that he was no threat to them. Of course, he understood, that was a ridiculous thought. Right now, escape was his only chance to survive.
    He looked down the row of boats for shelter. About forty yards down, a modern twin-hulled catamaran lay among the many old-fashioned wooden boats. If he could swim the full distance under water, he could hide between the two hulls of the cat. He was skeptical about making it, though. A ten-yard gap yawned between the cat and the next boat. If he came up in that gap, they’d have a good chance of blowing his head off.
    Gideon took a couple of deep breaths, then dove again. He could scarcely see anything in the brown water, just dark shapes floating above him. He passed one boat, then a second, then a third. Don’t push too hard, he told himself, trying not to burn up all his air.
    How many boats had there been between the barge and the cat? He couldn’t remember. Then he saw the pale wobbly sky above him. He was in the gap now. Ten yards from the cat. Well, it had looked like ten yards from where he’d been before. Now that he was here, he was afraid it might be more. His lungs were already burning.
    Stroke, kick. Stroke, kick. Stroke, kick.
    His vision narrowed as he felt the oxygen deficit shutting down his brain. Just a few more yards.
    But the urge to breathe was getting hard to suppress. His arms and legs felt like rubber. He could see the wavering dark shape of the cat, two long dark streaks of shadow running down into the water.
    Stroke, kick. Stroke, kick.
    Everything was getting gray now. He wasn’t going to make it.
    Stroke, kick.
    Then . . . something dark.
    Forcing the cobwebs from his mind, he kicked once more before surfacing. A gasp broke from his lips. He hoped it wouldn’t be audible from the quay. Air rushed into his lungs as he panted again, so weak that he could barely hold on to the nylon rope that trailed into the water near his hand.
    But he had made it.
    Above him was the fiberglass deck of the cat. He took two weak strokes, repositioning himself underneath the center of the deck. He couldn’t see the quay. Nothing was visible except the lower hulls of the nearest boats. If he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him.
    There was some more shouting. Obviously the men who’d been after him were getting frustrated. Occasionally they fired into the water, shooting at nothing.
    Then, after a while, it all stopped. No shouting, no shooting. Just silence.
    Now that the excitement was over and he had time to think, he also had more time to get worried. How was he going to get out of here? He supposed he could work his way from boat to boat until he