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Back Angels of Vengeance Save as PDF
Chapters (68)
  1. Blurb
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. CHARACTER LIST
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. TWO MONTHS LATER
  60. ONE YEAR LATER
  61. TWO YEARS LATER
  62. FOUR YEARS LATER
  63. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  64. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  65. Also by John Birmingham
  66. ALSO BY JOHN BIRMINGHAM
  67. Copyright
  68. Cover

He scoped out his boat as he approached the end of the floating walkway. The Redneck Princessa was a 32-foot motor yacht. She looked battered and careworn after the run across the pond from Winchester Bay, and three months tied up as a houseboat here at Gonzales Road. The trim had faded. Her chrome surfaces were dull and speckled with spots of rust. Blobs of guano marred the deck and flying bridge. Perhaps it was the midday beers or the humidity, but he felt slightly nauseous contemplating the decay and air of abandonment. He would never have allowed any of his crew to get away with such slackness back in the Coast Guard, and he had no excuse for it now. This was worse than having his old charter shot up back in Acapulco. This was his own fault.

Feeling ashamed of himself, the Rhino climbed aboard awkwardly, looking for any sign that someone had been here while he’d been out on the shrimp boat for the previous two days. Rainwater had pooled here and there, dumped by the monsoon falls. The fish scraps left for the stray cat he’d taken to feeding were mostly gone; the bowl now full of water and probably mosquito larvae. He bent down to pick it up, too quickly . . . The rush of blood out of his head, the sulphurous humidity, the beers, the greasy food, they all combined to send his stomach pitching and rolling. He half lunged, half fell towards the gunwale to hurl over the side, but the safety rail struck him below his centre of gravity and he felt the world tip away.

‘Rhino!’

The voice was familiar, but far away. An English accent. Educated, privileged.

He recognised Miss Julianne’s voice a split second before tumbling over the edge. And then the boat disintegrated in a violent explosion that flung him feet-first far across the water, turning and burning, torn by pain and rage and a bone-deep sense of violation that passed only as darkness welled up and claimed him.

23

DARWIN, NORTHERN TERRITORY

Nearly eight months since she’d escaped New York and her nerves were still scraped raw. She flinched and ducked when the motor yacht exploded, dropping to the rough, non-slip pontoon deck, closing her eyes and breathing out as the blast wave ripped over them.

Rhino, no!

Julianne was too late. She retained a shutter-speed flicker of memory, an image of the Rhino consumed in the explosion; of a woman sitting nearby, filleting fish, beheaded by a chunk of bright steel shrapnel. But no more. Nothing that might give her any hope that her friend had survived.