She nodded.
“Go.”
Gamay used her legs to maximum advantage, crouching and springing forward. She flew, with arms windmilling, cleared the wall at the edge of the canal by several feet and plunged into the dark water.
Paul followed. Launching himself and landing beside her.
They surfaced seconds apart. The water was frigid, but it felt marvelous. They swam to the wall, where Paul gave Gamay a boost out onto the path and climbed out himself. She’d just put her hand on the frame of the painting when the first of three splashes landed in the canal behind them.
“These guys don’t know when to quit,” Gamay said.
“Neither do we.”
With the men swimming toward them, Paul and Gamay took off running. They were blocked by another sinister-looking pair at the end of the lane.
“Trapped again.”
A small outboard-powered boat sat tied up on the canal. It was that or nothing.
Paul jumped in, nearly capsizing the small boat. Gamay hopped in and untied the rope. “Go!”
Paul yanked the starter rope and the motor came to life, spewing forth a cloud of blue smoke. He twisted the throttle and more fumes poured from the old outboard, but the propeller dug into the water and the narrow little boat sped off.
Paul kept his eyes forward, careful not to hit any of the dozens of boats and barges tied up at the water’s edge. He’d just begun to feel safe when another small boat raced out of the fog behind them and began to close the gap.
57
“Go faster!” Gamay shouted.
The outboard motor was open full-throttle, but the boat was not breaking any speed records.
Paul tried letting off the gas, twisting the throttle to full again in hopes that they would pick up some more speed. He found the choke and pulled it open halfway. It was a cold, damp morning and he thought that might help. But the motor sputtered instead.
“That’s not faster,” Gamay pointed out.
“I don’t think this boat does faster,” Paul said. He jammed the choke shut once again and focused on weaving around impediments and boats tied to either side of the canal like an obstacle course.
The small boat following them was doing the same and catching up in the process. Around a sweeping right-hand turn, the bow of the chase boat banged the back corner of Paul and Gamay’s boat. The bump sent them surging forward and they scraped the stone wall.
As the river straightened, the other boat pulled up beside them. One of the men raised a knife and was about to fling it at Paul when Gamay swung an oar she’d found and clubbed the attacker. She caught him across the side of the head and he went over and into the water, but a second man—a man she recognized as Scorpion—grabbed the end of the oar and yanked it toward him.
Gamay was almost pulled into the other boat. She let go and fell back as Scorpion flung the oar aside.
The boats separated once again and she saw him ready his knife. “Closer,” he yelled to his compatriot.
“Make it hard on them,” she shouted to Paul. “Drive this thing like it’s rush hour.”
Paul took her advice and the two boats came together twice, banging their metal sides each time and bouncing off of each other. An oncoming barge forced them to separate again and they spread out to either side of the channel. But once they’d passed it, their pursuers came veering toward them once more.
This time, the boats hit and locked together awkwardly. The larger and faster boat won the battle for control and forced Paul and Gamay’s smaller boat toward the wall of the canal. They hit the wall and scraped along it, sending out a shower of sparks.
As they came off the wall, Scorpion lunged across the transom and seized the painting at Gamay’s feet. She grabbed the edge of the frame and held on, but the man reared back and the old wooden frame gave way.
Gamay was left holding a splintered piece of red oak whi
le Scorpion fell back in his boat with the rest of the painting. His partner immediately angled their boat back out toward the center of the canal and accelerated.
“He’s got it!” Gamay yelled.