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the second row of seats and leaned down, searching frantically for the dropped pistol. Blaine had the same idea and spotted it before Tyler did. He bent over to snatch it, but Tyler grabbed his arm to prevent him reaching it. Neither would let go of the other, and both of them fell into the third row as they entered the narrow canyon downriver.
    Because of the precise control the engine nozzles afforded them, the Shotover Jet boats could come within a foot of the canyon walls, nearly brushing the rocky outcroppings as they rocketed down the river at sixty knots. Though it seemed dangerous, the highly trained operators made it a safe thrill.
    Tyler just hoped that Grant had as much skill as the normal operators, because they were coming awfully close to hitting the cliffs.
    However, that wasn’t his biggest problem at the moment, which was that Blaine was mercilessly pummeling his midsection with fists the size of canned hams. Tyler threw his own punches, but because he was on his back and constricted on either side by the seatbacks and railing, he couldn’t get much power behind them.
    Blaine’s face was so close that Tyler got a noseful of his fetid breath and saw that his attacker had the scarred remains of a disfigured left earlobe, no doubt the result of a previous fight. The man was a professional, not giving Tyler the opportunity to move his arms. There was no way for him to reach into his pocket and get to the knife on his Leatherman multi-tool.
    A punch to the temple set stars whirling in front of Tyler’s eyes. Blaine bent over to retrieve the pistol so he could finish the job. At the same time, Grant juked the boat left, causing Blaine to reel backward. Seeing his slim opening, Tyler kicked out with both feet.
    He caught Blaine in the stomach, which combined with the momentum of the boat, launched him over the side just as the boat passed another outcropping of rock.
    Blaine crunched into the sandstone as if he’d fallen from a ten-story building. His inert crushed body flipped backward into the roiling water and disappeared beneath the wake of the jet boat.
    Tyler, the adrenaline masking the effects of the pummeling, bent over and picked up the pistol, a .45 caliber Heckler and Koch. He checked the magazine. Six rounds left, including the one in the chamber.
    The jet boat behind them had made up the distance while Grant had been maneuvering to help Tyler get rid of Blaine. Barely a boat length separated them.
    Rounds thudded into the back of the boat. Tyler popped up and fired off three quick rounds from the HK, but the motion of the boats made it impossible to get a clean shot. His bullets missed, but the other boat swerved away, giving Tyler a chance to climb to the front.
    Fay was belted in and leaning down in the seat as far as she could. Tyler squeezed her shoulder, and she replied with a thumbs-up.
    “Where does this river go?” he asked her.
    “It ends up in Lake Wakatipu. We can get all the way to Queenstown.”
    That might have worked but for an ominous sputter coming from the rear of the boat. Black smoke trailed behind them.
    “He hit one of the engines,” Grant yelled. “I’m shutting it down. Any rounds left in your hand cannon?”
    “Three.”
    They were coming to the end of the canyon. The river widened ahead, looping around low stretches of stone beach like the one at the dock, which would leave them fully exposed to gunfire from their flank.
    “I say we turn around. Those tourists at the dock would have called the police. They should arrive by the time we get back.”
    “Let’s do it,” Tyler said. “I’ll distract him with a couple of shots.”
    “Got it.”
    Tyler belted himself in, leaned out and squeezed off two rounds, causing Foreman to duck again. At the same moment, Grant twisted the steering wheel and Tyler’s stomach along with it. The boat did a 180, dug in, and then launched forward. Foreman didn’t have time to shoot, but Tyler saw him do his own turn. They left