Low Profile by Nick Oldham Page B

want
Faye
any closer. One of the men turned and stomped into the cockpit. A moment later, Flynn’s radio came to life.
    â€˜Calling
Faye2
, calling
Faye2
… please answer.’
    Flynn picked up his mic. ‘Receiving.’
    â€˜This is
Destiny
… request you back off: private party, many thanks.’
    Flynn looked at Costain. ‘They’re telling us to get lost.’
    â€˜Are we in a public place, or not?’ Costain retorted. ‘Get in close … let’s look at those fuckers.’
    â€˜Repeat,’ the voice said over the air, ‘pull away, please.’
    Flynn said, ‘I’m not sure you can make that request. These are open waters and we are not putting you in danger.’
    An edge came to the other man’s voice. ‘Do not, repeat, do not approach.’
    â€˜They’re not happy teddies,’ Flynn said to Costain.
    â€˜Fuck ’em. We’re allowed. Go in.’
    Flynn hung up the microphone and concentrated on manoeuvring
Faye
a little closer. He could easily have gone alongside the Fairline because his echo-sounder was giving him a snapshot of the sea floor which showed plenty of depth and nothing to worry about, but he didn’t want to tell Costain this, or push things. For some reason the men aboard the other boat were getting shirty and didn’t want anyone else peeking over their shoulders at what they were doing. But whatever they were up to, they were doing it in public, so tough, and now Flynn was intrigued because this was obviously what Costain had come to see.
    He took
Faye
closer, maybe one hundred and fifty metres away from the other boat now.
    A shout came over the radio: ‘
Faye2
, please acknowledge. I will not remain polite for very much longer. Turn and go, please.’
    Flynn flicked off the radio.
    The man who had been making the transmission came out of the cockpit back on deck and then the three men all stood in a row and continued to glare at Flynn’s boat.
    â€˜Closer,’ Costain said.
    â€˜OK.’ Flynn was quite enjoying annoying people now – until he saw the man who had been on the radio turn back into the cockpit. He came out a moment later and Flynn swore as he swung a rifle up to his shoulder, one with a telescopic sight on it; he drew back the bolt action and slammed a round into place.
    Surely not.
    The man settled into the rifle and aimed it at
Faye
. A moment later the front screen of Faye’s cockpit shattered, there was a rush and zing of air over Flynn’s head and a microsecond later came the report of the shot.
    â€˜Fuck,’ said Flynn, ducking instinctively – too late if the round had struck him. ‘Bastard’s shooting at us,’ he said.
    Costain’s girlfriend screamed and fell over. Costain himself dropped to his knees and scrambled across the deck to his rucksack, throwing his binos aside.
    Flynn held on to the helm and saw the man drawing back the rifle bolt to eject the used shell casing. Flynn slammed
Faye
into reverse and rammed on the power. Her aft sank and her bows rose as the engines roared – but this was a movement she was comfortable with, something Flynn did regularly to assist anglers to haul in their catches.
    Another bullet hit
Faye
; this time a side cockpit window exploded and the round whizzed just above Flynn’s head.
    Costain tipped out the contents of his rucksack and a Russian-made Makarov pistol, a semi-automatic, skittered across the deck; he dived for it and grabbed it. He hauled himself upright on the deck rail and aimed at the Fairline. Before Flynn could scream
no
, Costain started firing wildly at the other boat and all three men aboard ducked, although there was little chance of him hitting anything other than an unlucky seagull – distance and the motion of
Faye
reversing saw to that.
    Flynn spun her around and gave her full throttle. She picked up her nose like a Grand National winner and moved quickly and