Behrouz appeared baffled, unsure. His bewilderment was compounded when someone shouted his name from the sinking yacht. At that moment an acrid wave of black smoke washed over everything and, as if to make the chaos complete, a muffled explosion shook the night. Slaton guessed the blast was not from a grenade or a gun, but rather a death throe from the ship, probably a pressure door giving way behind tons of water or a keel beam buckling.

He watched the two Iranians intently and saw a passionate mistrust between them. The implications of this defied logic. Why was the security chief threatening the man he was duty-bound to protect? Slaton wasted no time on analysis. With a hunter’s instinct, he saw Behrouz’s hesitation as his chance. The man was ten feet away, too far to reach before the gun could swing again. But Krav Maga did not fail. The rope was still looped around the dead man’s neck, yet there was more of it, a hundred feet of braided nylon painstakingly coiled by some meticulous crewman. And at the end of that, inches from Slaton’s left hand, was what he needed.

“You’ve made a mistake!” Hamedi pleaded, staring at the gun. “You don’t understand!”

Behrouz seemed more confused than ever, and that was Slaton’s cue. He reached for the rope.

The Iranian sensed movement and tried to shift his aim. Slaton had five feet of line to work with, plus the length of his arm. At the end of that radius was his weapon. With only one chance, Slaton twisted sideways and whipped a ten-pound galvanized anchor into a sweeping arc that ended perfectly at the side of Behrouz’s skull. There was an audible crunch, and the little Iranian crumpled to the deck, dead before he hit.

Slaton never stopped moving. He sprang to his feet as a fearful Hamedi rose and tried to defend himself. Shots rang in from the foundering yacht, and Slaton launched himself shoulder first, flying across the gap toward the panicked scientist.

Both men went headlong into the frigid lake.

*   *   *

Bullets ripped the water, their trails effervescent shards of orange and white light.

Slaton had a handful of Hamedi’s collar and was dragging him lower. The scientist was a large man, but thankfully he didn’t resist right away. He was in shock after having endured an armed assault, and then being pitched into an icy lake. Slaton pulled and kicked toward his only chance—the scuba rig hanging beneath the Whaler by a quick-release knot. He was nearly there when Hamedi began to struggle. They’d been under only seconds, but the Iranian was not prepared, not trained, and the lack of air induced panic.