Читать книгу Scorpion Strike - John Gilstrap - Страница 11

CHAPTER 5

“SO, WHAT DO WE THINK THE ‘PRIME PACKAGE’ IS?” HUNTER EDWARDS asked as they navigated their way through the undergrowth in the dark. Jonathan and Gail had both kept their radios on, and that was the first bit of chatter that had come through.

Gail shifted her shoulder so that Jonathan could reach the radio, which was strapped to her vest behind her left shoulder. “Turn mine off,” she said. “We might want these later, and it doesn’t make sense to drain both batteries.”

Jonathan’s fingers found the correct button in the dark and twisted it to the OFF position. “Good idea,” he said.

Lori said, “What does ‘prime package’ even mean?”

“Whatever they determine it to mean,” Hunter said. He walked behind Jonathan, and Lori behind Gail. “Say, Digger, you never did elaborate on where you got those knife skills.”

Jonathan ignored him. The use of real names was a big problem, and a rookie error on his part. His head had been in survival mode, he figured, not tactical mode. Having spent decades of his life training and living the role of the wolf, he’d let his guard down and transformed himself into a sheep. That moment was past, but the damage was done. And dickless back there kept using the slipup as a prod. How could Hunter think that was a good idea?

“What do you two do for a living?” Gail asked. Jonathan took it as her effort to change the subject and take him out of a homicidal frame of mind.

“I’m an investment banker,” Hunter said. “We specialize in tech companies. The last deal we did was for seven hundred million dollars.”

Such words did little to make Jonathan feel closer to the man. Bankers in general—and investment bankers in particular—ranked right up there with politicians and lawyers on his list of oxygen-wasters.

“Are you a banker, too?” Gail asked.

“Oh, no,” Lori said. “I’m not that smart. I just run an art gallery in Phoenix.”

“But she represents some really good up-and-coming artists,” Hunter said. “Putting that community college associate’s in art to good work.”

“Tell me the truth, Hunter,” Jonathan said without turning to make eye contact. “Do people often accuse you of being a dickhead?”

He stopped and turned.

“Because I’ve got to tell you, you have climbed up on my wrong side and taken residence there. I have no idea what lies ahead for us in the next hours or days, but we’ve got to find a way to make peace or go our separate ways.”

Hunter’s silhouette puffed up in the darkness. “You want to tell me what I’ve done to turn you into such an asshole?”

“Try showing a little respect,” Jonathan replied. “We are, after all, saving your lives.”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” Hunter puffed up even bigger and took a half step closer. “So far, all I’ve seen you do is take lives.” He looked like he might throw a punch. How entertaining would that be?

“Not here,” Gail said. “And certainly not now. There’s too much to do.”

“Like what?” Hunter pressed. “We’re walking through the dark after killing people whose friends are going to be very pissed off when they find out. What are we going to do? Hide?”

“Not a bad start,” Jonathan said.

“Pretty goddamn cowardly for a guy with two guns,” Hunter said.

Jonathan felt his control slipping. The C-word wasn’t often slung at him, and it pulled the pin on his rage grenade.

“Definitely not the time or place,” Gail repeated. To Hunter, she said, “Believe me when I say that. If you and Lori want to head off on your own, you’re welcome to do that. But this bullshit dick-knocking has to stop. Now.”

Jonathan’s head whipped around to Gail. Did you just include me in that dick-knocking comment?

Yes.

They’d known each other long enough that they really could communicate without words. Even in the dark.

The radio broke squelch on Jonathan’s shoulder, and a panicked voice said, “Break, break, break, we have an emergency.”

With a singsong tone, Jonathan said, “I bet I know what this is. . . .”

“Who is this?” a voice said. “And remember radio protocol.”

“This is India, in Sector Eight. Hotel and Foxtrot are both dead. Their killers are missing. Bungalows Nine and Ten.”

“That’s us,” Hunter said.

He’s fast on his feet, that one, Jonathan didn’t say.

“Are you sure they are missing?” the other voice asked. “Have you checked for bodies?”

“Alpha, you don’t understand,” Delta said. “Hotel and Foxtrot were killed by an expert. With a knife.”

After a long pause, Alpha said, “Return to the Plantation House. Bring our men’s equipment and weapons with you.”

“That’s a problem,” Delta said. “Their equipment and weapons are all missing.”

* * *

Tyler’s friend Jaime Bonilla was nothing if not organized. Sometimes annoyingly so. But now, as Tyler fumbled through the darkness, he sent up a prayer of thanks to Jaime for being such an OCD pain in the ass. He moved in the dark with confidence that the center aisle would be clear. He knew without a doubt that the heavy black flashlight that Jaime used to illuminate his work would be right where it belonged, in its charger, mounted to the first rack of metal shelves on the right. And it was.

Tyler lifted the light out of its keeper, placed his palm over the lens, and pressed the switch. He didn’t want a lot of light, but he wanted enough to be able to see what he was doing. At this point, he’d reached the end of his initial plan, which was simply to get out of the terrorists’ view. He wanted to buy some time and some anonymity, but both of those would run out soon. How long could it possibly take before they realized that they had two more sets of identification than they had people signed into the hotel?

And how much hope should he hold out that Annie would keep his secrets? Especially after he’d dumped her. But hey, it’s not like he didn’t offer to bring her along. Still, he felt like a shit for leaving her.

Past was past. Now that he’d given the crazy guys with guns a reason to execute him on sight, he needed to focus on the business of staying out of sight.

He needed to put distance between himself and the attackers—and the sooner, the better. There was a section of old houses—shacks, really—on the back side of the island that the construction workers used while they were building the resort. He doubted that tonight’s assholes would know anything about them. It wasn’t like Baker Sinise put the shantytown in the brochures that sold accommodations for a gajillion bucks a night.

The original roads from the shantytown to the resort had mostly been converted to hiking trails. These now veered away from the old housing to take exploration-minded visitors through the rain forest to the bamboo forest, and finally to the gem in the Crystal Sands’ crown: the ninety-foot waterfall. This was reached through a backdrop of spectacular flowers whose names Tyler could not have guessed on a multiple-choice quiz.

As he visualized the overgrown roadway in his mind, his gaze shifted to the other end of the maintenance room. He could almost see the Peg-Board to the right of the door, where he knew he would find the keys to every one of the golf carts—the bell staff called them “tycoon taxis.” The carts conducted guests from the check-in desk to their rooms, and later to just about anywhere they wanted to go on the property. Two of them would be parked under the porte cochere in front of the Plantation House, but the other six or eight would be pulled into the squatty pole barn that was hidden from curious eyes. The keys were kept locked up because kids came to the island with their parents, and kids were born with the ability to sniff out joyrides that never ended well for the equipment involved.

Keeping his fingers across the flashlight’s lens, he made his way to the door and scooped all of the keys from the board and into the front pocket of his khakis. You never knew which cart would be parked in front and which would be blocked in. Plus, why make it easy for the terrorists to get around?

Jaime had installed a heavy-duty dead bolt on the back door because it was so secluded from view, and he worried about vandalism. Tyler couldn’t remember seeing Jaime use the door even once. Well, there’s a first time for everything.

The bolt slid smoothly from its keeper, and the knob turned easily. Tyler pulled on the knob while pushing with his shoulder to keep the door from bursting open or squealing on rusty hinges. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the heavy steel panel pushed open with only the faintest whisper of a scraping sound.

He killed the flashlight as soon as the door was open, and peeked out with one eye through the tiniest crack he could manage. The wash of the pool lights provided enough illumination for him to see where he was going, which meant that there was enough illumination for others to see him going there.

He widened the opening just an inch or two at a time and scanned the full range of his vision over and over again. He could hear the movements and muffled conversations of the prisoners and their captors, but saw no faces. Back here, he was easily ten feet below the level of the pool deck, making the shield of the shrubbery even more effective. When he finally stepped clear of the doorway and still saw no one, he decided that his greatest enemy now was noise. He watched the placement of his feet as he moved down the sidewalk toward the pole barn with the tycoon taxis.

To his left, the pool filter equipment kicked on and damn near made him scream. With the cover of extra noise, he picked up his pace. He figured the farther he got from the assholes, the less critical was the need to be quiet.

Of course, that presumed that all the bad guys were clustered at the pool. For all he knew, the island was crawling with them.

Don’t get cocky, dumbshit.

The sidewalk behind the pool dropped even lower down the hill. Immediately before the gate in the hedges, which would lead him back out to the common area of the resort, he took a sharp right into the blackness of the palm tree archway that ultimately led him to the pole barn. He wondered if the guests had any idea of how much effort and money it took to give the impression of a natural habitat. These were details on which Baker would make no compromise.

Again using his fingers to filter the light, Tyler dared quick flashes so he could see enough to navigate, and finally, there they were. The tycoon taxis reminded Tyler of World War II photos he’d seen of planes lined up on the deck of an aircraft carrier. They sat nose-to-tail in two perfect columns, each plugged into a charging station on the adjacent wall. The first cart in the closest column sported an inconspicuous 12 on its nose. Tyler dared a full blast of illumination from the flashlight as he hunkered down on the concrete floor between Cart 12 and its neighbor. He pulled the bundle of keys out of his pocket and sorted through them till he found the one with the corresponding number. He separated that one out, snuffed his light, then tossed the rest of the keys back into the darkness.

Tyler stood, slid behind the wheel, and slid the key into the ignition. The electric cart started silently, thank God. He reached down to the front of the seat, rocked the transmission lever into the forward position, and eased his foot onto the accelerator. The brake kicked out automatically, and he was on his way.

The tycoon taxis all came equipped with headlights, but Tyler didn’t dare use them. Instead, he did the flashlight finger trick again until he was free of the overhanging foliage and into the open night. There, the cart path was illuminated by dim overhead floodlights that were hidden in the trees, so camouflaged that they were truly invisible during the day, and barely provided navigable light after dark. The point of the lights, Baker had explained, was to provide safe walkways, not safe streets.

“Do I go fast or do I go slow?” he asked himself aloud. The instant he heard it, he realized that there was only one reasonable answer. While moving quickly might attract more attention and increase the risk of a wreck, going slowly increased the time that he’d be in some asshole’s gun sights.

Fast, it would be.

* * *

Anatoly Petrovich Ivanov climbed the stairs of the main house’s magnificent sweeping staircase two risers at a time. The fine hardwoods and the grass paper wall-coverings were lost on him, as were the fine details of the cut crystal sconces and the bauble-coated crystal chandelier. Baker Sinise was a rich guy who catered to clients with rich tastes. Yeah, he got that, but none of the opulent flourishes contributed to Anatoly’s mission, so they were all irrelevant. He didn’t care about protecting the objects and the art, but he had no interest in destroying them, either. His mission was a simple one: to leverage Baker Sinise to perform the task that only he could perform.

It was a mission that would be rendered vastly more complicated if what India had told him was, in fact, the truth: Sinise was not here. How could that happen? How could their intelligence have been so wrong?

The stairway to the third floor of the Plantation House—to Sinise’s living quarters—lay hidden from casual view behind a door that appeared to be a wall panel that was no different than all the other walnut paneling that adorned the Plantation House. It was already ajar, no doubt because members of his team had neglected to close it behind them. And what would have been the point?

These stairs were steeper, but only slightly narrower than those of the grand staircase, probably to allow for the passage of furniture and such. As he neared the top of the steps, he could hear the voices of his team churning through the events of the evening. The fact that they were speaking in Russian piqued his anger. Why did mercenaries have such a difficult time following the simplest of rules?

“English!” Anatoly yelled before he’d emerged from the stairwell. “For God’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you?”

As Anatoly crossed the threshold into Baker Sinise’s private quarters, he didn’t even try to hide his admiration. If it was possible to be even more over-the-top opulent than the public spaces, then he’d managed to achieve it. Every polished surface gleamed, and every square inch of fabric-covered surfaces was spotless. “My goodness,” he said. “It seems there is a lot of money to be made in the weapons trade.”

“Tolya,” said Gerasim Kuznetsov. “You need to see this.” He stood next to Viktor Smirnov, who somehow had beaten Anatoly up to the third floor after discovering the bodies of their comrades. Together, they had gathered around a teak dining table that could easily have seated ten people comfortably, fourteen if they touched elbows.

“Damn it, India,” Anatoly snapped at Kuznetsov. “English and no names. These commands are not complicated.”

“I’m sorry,” India said. “You’re right, I should have known better.”

For his part, Viktor Smirnov—Delta—stood silently, apparently hoping to project an air of superiority. He held a smartphone in both hands, and from posture alone, Anatoly knew that they had been looking at pictures.

“Let me see,” Anatoly said as he approached them. He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers for Delta to hand over the phone.

The other man hesitated, but ultimately complied. “Notice the skill of these wounds,” he said.

Anatoly had probably seen more dead men in real life than he had in pictures, so he felt no emotional reaction as he took in the images of his dead operators. They lay on what appeared to be a bathroom floor, surrounded by halos of uncoagulated blood that had spilled from their gaping knife wounds.

“It appears that they were murdered as they entered through the back door of the bungalow,” Viktor explained. Younger than most of the other operators, and therefore less experienced, he appeared somewhat shaken. “There was some blood spray on the drapes and walls of the bedroom, near the veranda doors, but the final slaughter took place out on the veranda itself.”

“So, they dragged the bodies inside?” Anatoly said. He thought it was an obvious conclusion, but it was always best to be sure of these things.

“And stripped them of all their equipment and weapons,” Viktor reminded. “These are not the actions or skills of your standard tourists.”

Anatoly turned to Gerasim. “What do we know about these tourists, India?”

Gerasim Arturovich lifted the pad that normally resided in his shirt pocket and read from handwritten notes. “This comes from the registration sheet. They are Stephen Terrell and Alicia Crosby, unmarried. They are from Norman, Oklahoma, and have no food allergies.”

Anatoly cocked his head. “Why do I care about food allergies?”

Gerasim smiled, acknowledgment that they had known each other a very long time. “You asked what we know about them. I just told you everything.”

“Are there photos?”

“None that I have seen. And, of course, there is no photographic security to monitor.”

“Why ‘of course’?” Viktor asked.

Anatoly explained, “Baker Sinise touts the lack of cameras in his marketing materials as a way to lure celebrities and others who want to rest assured that their private moments are, in fact, private.”

“No accidental paparazzi,” Viktor translated.

“Exactly.” Viktor had no need to know the deeper details of their mission yet, so Anatoly decided not to explain to him how given Baker Sinise’s other business, the last thing the old man wanted was photographic evidence.

“Do what you can to find out who Mr. Terrell and Ms. Crosby are. I’d like their photographs at the very least. And something about their backgrounds. Let’s find out how a couple from Norman, Oklahoma, become talented knife slingers. I give that to you, Vik—” He blushed. “I mean, Delta.”

“We need to go out and find them,” Viktor said. “Punish them.”

“Not at night,” Anatoly said. “We have too much else to do.”

“But they killed—”

“They will pay for the killing,” Anatoly snapped. “I promise you that. But first we need to get the prisoners secured. As long as they are gathered out in the open, it’s too easy for them to wander off. I’m sure that we’ve lost a few already. Once the bulk of them are secured, we’ll have the manpower to go searching. But not until daylight. It’s not as though they can go far. This is an island, after all.”

“How long until they are ready to segregate the prisoners?” Gerasim asked. He hadn’t been down at the pool deck for quite some time.

“Within the hour,” Anatoly replied.

“That’s going to be a risky time,” Viktor said. “It only takes one or two to panic, and we’ll have a revolt. We’ll have to shoot half of them.”

“It’s always a possibility,” Anatoly said. “Surely, we have proven by now that we mean what we say, and that the price of disobedience is very high. I guess we will soon see.”

“The chances of panic would drop significantly if we kept families together,” Gerasim said. “You know that I’ve never believed in that part of the plan. Husbands and wives should remain together.”

“This is the third time you’ve mentioned it since last night,” Anatoly said. “Your objections are noted.” He turned to Viktor. “You owe me information on Mr. Terrell and Ms. Crosby.”

Anatoly turned back to Gerasim as Viktor left the room. “How did we miss that Sinise would not be here?”

Gerasim shook his head gravely. “I have no idea.” Then he smiled and picked up another piece of paper from the table. “But we know where he is.”