27
In the vault, de Quesada pushed a button on the
remote, and watched the image of the bridge – and the twelve people
on it – vanish in a flash of light. An explosion rattled the
building. He smiled. ‘Now that’s what I call client
service.’
He pulled a cord on
the back wall. Another concealed doorway opened, revealing a rocky
passage descending steeply into the island’s heart. He started down
it. Below, the sound of waves echoed through a large enclosed
space.
Eddie and Nina raised
their heads. The bridge had been obliterated, only truncated stumps
left at each end. The two power poles rocked, the cable flapping
between them like a skipping rope.
Of the people on the
bridge, nothing remained but a red tint to the drifting
smoke.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Eddie
gasped. Half the assault force had been wiped out in a single
blow.
And the other half
was under attack. Crackles of automatic gunfire came from the
island. Nina shrieked and ducked again as bullets thwacked the
vegetation around them.
‘It’s suppressing
fire,’ Eddie realised. The drug lord’s men were trying to force the
surviving SWAT members to stay down while they
escaped.
Probst, with three
members of his team by the trucks, had reached the same conclusion.
‘Sniper unit!’ he shouted into his radio. ‘Take out the
boats!’
Further along the
cliff, beyond the broken bridge, two more men lay in the
concealment of a bush, their monstrous Barrett M82 rifles on bipods
before them. While the huge weapons were generally used in a sniper
role, they were also often applied to anti-materiel tasks; a single
.50-calibre round could destroy the engine of any unarmoured
vehicle, and quite a few armoured ones.
The snipers already
had targets. A jetty, reached by a zigzag path down the island’s
less steep seaward side, had three speedboats moored along it. The
first man targeted the outboard motor of the boat closest to shore.
Even with the waves causing the vessel to bob in the water, at a
range of less than three hundred metres it was a simple shot.
‘Firing,’ he said, warning his companion to brace himself as he
pulled the trigger.
A burst of flame
eight feet long exploded from the Barrett’s muzzle. Looking back
through his scope, the sniper saw a hole through the engine wide
enough to see blue water. The speedboat wasn’t going
anywhere.
His companion lined
up the next shot . . .
A new sound over the
bursts of fire from the house – a low, flat whoosh—
They looked round –
and an RPG-7 round struck the cliff between them, tearing both men
apart.
Eddie grimly watched
the RPG’s smoke trail drift away. The snipers’ first shot had
revealed their position, and de Quesada’s men had responded with
immediate overkill.
‘Keep down,’ he told
Nina, crawling through the bushes to Kit and Probst. ‘They got your
snipers,’ he told the Interpol officers, who reacted with shock.
‘They’ll be going for the boats.’
‘I’ll tell the Coast
Guard to intercept,’ said Kit, going to one of the group’s Ford
Expedition SUVs.
‘How far away are
they?’ Eddie asked.
‘There’s a cutter
three kilometres off the coast.’ The Indian began speaking into the
radio.
‘Why the fuck are
they so far out?’
‘We didn’t want to
alert de Quesada,’ said Probst in disgust. ‘For all the good that
did.’ He turned to the other men. ‘We have to make sure nobody gets
away. Get the rest and go along the cliffs. But keep spread out –
they might have another rocket.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Eddie asked as the team moved off.
‘I’m not sure there
is even anything we can do,’ the German
replied, following his men.
‘Great,’ Eddie
muttered. He checked the trucks in the hope of finding a spare
weapon, but found only the now worthless tear-gas
launchers.
Kit finished his
radio call. ‘The Coast Guard are on their way.’
‘How
long?’
‘Six or seven minutes
before they’re close enough to take any kind of action.’ He drew a
pistol. ‘Stay here with Nina. I’ll be with Walther.’
‘Be careful, okay?’
said Eddie.
A humourless smile.
‘I’m not wearing body armour. I will be very careful!’ He hurried after
Probst.
Eddie watched them
go, frustrated. There had to be something he could do. But with the bridge
destroyed, there was no way on or off the island except by boat . .
.
Something about that
troubled him, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. He returned to Nina.
‘Have you seen anything?’
She shook her head.
‘After that rocket fired, all the guys at this end took
off.’
‘Going for the
boats.’ He considered that. ‘Which . . . doesn’t make any fucking
sense.’
‘What do you
mean?’
‘This de Quesada blew
up the bridge deliberately, so the only way to escape is by boat –
but the path down to them’s way too exposed. He must have known
we’d try to cover ’em.’ As if to illustrate his point, more gunfire
started, this time from the shore. The remaining members of the
SWAT team had reached positions from where they could see the path
down to the jetty, and opened fire. A scream echoed off the cliffs:
one of de Quesada’s bodyguards had been hit. The drug lord’s men
shot back, dust and chipped stones spitting from the
clifftops.
‘So, what, you think
he’s using his own men as a decoy?’ Nina said
dubiously.
‘The guy’s a drug
lord – he’d probably use his own grandma as a human shield. He
wants us looking at that end of the
island, so he can do something at this
end.’
‘Like
what?’
‘I dunno. Maybe he’s
not really leaving – he’s just going to hide in a panic room until
everyone’s gone.’ He regarded the house – then stood.
‘Get down!’ Nina
yelped, yanking at the sleeve of his battered jacket. ‘They’ll see
you.’
‘There’s nobody
there. They’re all by the boats to give de Quesada time to do
whatever he’s doing. I need to get over there before he does
it.’
‘And how are you
going to do that?’ Even at its narrowest point, the channel was
still over fifty feet across. ‘The bridge has gone, and I don’t
think high-diving into the sea to swim across would be a good
idea!’
He pointed. ‘That
cable. I can slide down it.’
‘Are you kidding? It’s probably got ten thousand volts
running through it!’
‘Then I won’t touch
it.’
‘If you don’t touch
it, how are you going to slide down it?’
Rather than answer,
he hurried back to the parked vehicles and climbed into the truck’s
bed. As well as carrying the Colombian SWAT team, it had also
transported the weapons, including the Barretts. But it wasn’t
their now empty cases Eddie was interested in; rather, the ratchet
straps used to secure them. ‘Here we go,’ he said as Nina arrived,
detaching one. It was six feet long, made from a heavy-duty
polyester. ‘It’s insulated, so I can chuck it over the wire and use
it as a zipline.’
Nina wasn’t
impressed. ‘And if the line doesn’t hold?’
‘Let’s not worry
about that, eh?’ He headed for the stub of the bridge.
She followed. ‘Oh,
you know me, I worry about everything. Especially
you!’
Eddie reached the
pole supporting the power line, looped the strap round the pole and
held the ends tightly together. ‘Okay, stay low, just in case I’m
wrong and there’s still someone over there. Once I’m across, use
the radio in the truck to tell Kit what I’m doing. Back
soon.’
‘How?’ she demanded.
‘You’re going to slide up the
line?’
‘I’ll think of
something.’ He kissed her, then, using the strap for support,
climbed until he reached the metal pegs that acted as a ladder.
Warily eyeing the power line on its ceramic insulators, he scooted
round to the pole’s seaward side.
It was his first
clear view of the channel far below. Waves churned and frothed, and
the rocks poking from the water suggested it was not especially
deep. High-diving definitely wasn’t a good idea. The open sea was
visible at the far end to his left; to the right, it curved out of
sight towards the jetty. Gunfire was still being exchanged, but
less frequently than before – the two sides seemed caught in a
stand-off.
Which wouldn’t last
long. Beyond the island, Eddie saw an approaching ship: the
Colombian Coast Guard. The drug lord’s bodyguards would soon be
forced to make a break for the boats, or be trapped.
Which suited Eddie.
Their attention would be focused well away from him. He hooked the
strap over the power line, applying experimental pressure. It
seemed secure. Nina watched anxiously from the trees; he gave her a
thumbs-up.
A deep breath, and he
shifted his weight to the strap. The line pulled tight, but still
held. He fixed his eyes on the house, not looking at the dizzying
drop. ‘High voltage,’ he muttered.
‘Okay, let’s slide . . .’
He threw himself off
the pole.
The cable twanged and
juddered with the extra load as he slid down it. The cliff-edge
rolled past beneath his feet, nothing below for over a hundred
feet. The island loomed ahead . . .
The strap rasped
against the cable. He slowed . . . and stopped.
Ten feet short of the
far side.
‘Shit!’ He tried to
jolt free, but the line wasn’t steep enough for him to overcome the
strap’s friction. Another futile jerk, then he changed tactics.
Legs together, he brought them gently back, then kicked sharply. He
jerked forward by about a foot. Another kick, and
another—
The insulator on the
pole ahead sheared apart.
He
dropped.
Nina barely contained
a scream as the line gave way, Eddie plunging towards the water –
then the sagging line snapped taut again. His fall gave him a boost
of speed.
Too much
speed.
All thoughts of
concealment gone, she ran to the edge as he hurtled helplessly at
the cliff.
Eddie whipped up his
feet just before he hit the rock wall. The collision was a
hammer-blow against his soles, crashing up through his knees and
hips. The cable shook, the strap squirming in his
grip.
Another jolt – and he
fell again, dropping by a foot before the line jerked tight once
more. The power cable ran from the pole to a transformer on the
villa – and one of the brackets securing it had just broken. His
weight was now being taken by the insulator on the mainland side
and the transformer’s connector, neither of which were designed to
support the extra load.
Even through the
strap, he felt the cable straining—
He swung sideways and
lunged to grab an outcropping with one hand – just as the connector
gave way. The strap flapped free, spiralling towards the churning
waters. The drooping power line hung so close that he could hear
the faint hum of current flowing through the cable.
If it sparked, the
shock would kill him.
Very carefully, he
scraped his boots against the rock until he found a toehold. He
edged sideways, free hand clawing blindly for purchase. A crack in
the cliff; he squeezed his fingertips inside, pulling away from the
deadly line.
Another stretch, and
another, and he struggled upwards to the stub of the bridge. Once
he had a secure hold, he paused to catch his breath, then climbed
to level ground.
Nina watched,
relieved beyond measure, as Eddie waved to her before jogging to
the villa’s front door. She sagged against the pole, looking at the
waters below as she gathered herself—
Something
moved.
It took her a moment
to realise what; at first, it seemed as though the rock face just
above the waterline was morphing like plastic. A blink, and the
bizarre sight made sense. It wasn’t rock, but something made to
look like rock, slowly being pulled away to reveal darkness behind
it. Metal tracks led from the shadows into the sea.
What the hell was
going on?
De Quesada shut off
an electric winch, allowing himself a moment of pride as he admired
his emergency escape route. Nobody else knew of it, except the men
who had built it – and they were no longer able to tell others, or
indeed do anything other than decompose.
The cave below was
naturally hard enough to spot, in perpetual shadow amongst the
cliff’s folds, and his camouflage had made it almost invisible. The
entrance was concealed by a heavy tarpaulin hanging down like a
stage curtain, painted in browns and greys to match the surrounding
rock.
Hidden inside was the
vehicle that would take him to safety; not a boat, but a Cessna
Skyhawk floatplane, the little white-and-yellow aircraft perched on
a set of rails down which it would slide into the channel. From
there, he would turn west while his attackers were distracted by
the boats at the island’s northeastern end, taking off as soon as
he reached open ocean. He would leave Colombian airspace within
fifteen minutes. By the time the authorities in Panama had been
alerted, he would have already reached a safe house, where he would
change identities before sneaking out of the country.
He descended a ladder
to the cave floor and put the bag containing his belongings in the
cockpit before starting the pre-flight checks for the plane’s short
voyage.
Eddie found himself
in a broad hall, paintings on the walls. No sign of anybody, but he
was still cautious, moving quietly.
Shimmering reflected
ripples through one door told him that the room beyond opened out
on to the infinity pool; an open arch to his right led into what
was apparently a lounge, a bar visible through the doorway. He
edged towards it. As he approached, he picked up a smell, faint but
distinctive: chlorinated water. The girls from the
pool?
Back against the
wall, he moved closer, listening for movement inside the room . .
.
Something crunched
under his foot.
Rock salt, almost
invisible where it had been scattered over the pale marble. A
simple but effective warning system.
He backed
up—
Boom!
A hole almost a foot
across was blown through the wall just in front of him, spraying
him with fragmented plaster and wood. He stumbled in shock,
slipping on the hard floor and landing on his backside – as a
second hole exploded right above his head. ‘Shit!’ he yelled, scrambling
backwards.
The shooter had
anticipated his retreat, another two holes bursting open behind
him.
He slithered round,
rock salt digging into his palms, and launched himself like a
sprinter past the archway.
His brief glance into
the room told him plenty. He had expected to see a gunman, but it
was actually two gunwomen, the topless water babes from the pool,
blasting away at him – Jesus, with AA-12s – as he hurtled past the
entrance. One woman was behind the bar, the other beside a couch.
Shotgun fire ripped more holes out of the wall in his wake. There
was a mahogany door at the end of the hall – wherever it led, it
had to be safer than this—
He passed a second
open archway and reached the door.
Locked!
Both AA-12s swung to
track him—
He dived into the
lounge, slamming against the back of a leather armchair. Shots
shredded the expensive piece of furniture as the women kept firing.
Eddie had instinctively been counting shots – each AA-12’s drum
magazine held twenty rounds, and they were rapidly chewing through
them, but they would reduce his cover to matchwood long before they
ran dry. He needed something more solid.
A granite desk,
between him and the killer bimbos. Not ideal, but all he
had—
The armchair thumped
against him under the force of another shot. Eddie pushed hard at
the disintegrating seat, sliding it across the room. Another round
blew off an entire corner of the backrest. He kept pushing – then
grabbed the chair’s base and bowled it at the dark-haired woman as
he rolled under the table and strained to tip it on its side. It
crashed down with a bang.
The brunette shrieked
and leapt away as the tumbling chair bounced past her. The blonde
behind the bar kept firing. The granite slab took the impact – but
Eddie, pressed against it, still felt as though he was being kicked
in the back with each shot.
‘Go round it and
shoot him!’ the blonde yelled. Another shot – and the granite
cracked, a plate-sized chunk barely missing Eddie as he jerked
sideways.
A slap of feet as the
brunette moved. He was running out of time—
The quickest of
glances through the broken section of desk revealed a fishtank set
into the wall behind the blonde. He grabbed the hunk of granite and
hurled it with all his strength.
The blonde ducked as
the stone flew over her and hit the glass – which shattered,
bursting outwards. She was knocked down by the deluge, shards and
marine life hitting her near-naked body.
Eddie was already
running. If he could disarm her before she recovered . .
.
A horrific scream
filled the room. He dived as the blonde’s AA-12 barked again and
again, her finger clenched on the trigger and firing off its
remaining rounds on full auto. Shredded debris spat across the
room. The screaming continued, Eddie wondering what the hell was
happening. Maybe she was really
fish-phobic . . .
He got his answer as
he scrambled behind the bar. Clamped to the woman’s right breast
was a small octopus, patterns on its body pulsing furiously as it
bit her again and again.
The shotgun clicked,
the drum empty. The blonde’s movements were already weakening as
the deadly paralytic flowed through her system, her screams fading
to choked gurgles.
‘Sylvie!’ shrieked the dark-haired woman in genuine
anguish. She swung her AA-12 at the bar and fired. ‘You bastard,
you killed her!’
Bottles and glasses
exploded above Eddie. ‘Jesus!’ Ricocheting pellets rained down on
him like embers.
The firing stopped.
Twenty rounds gone. Eddie vaulted the bar. The woman was still
uselessly pulling the trigger, in her anger only belatedly
realising she was out of ammo. She tried to club Eddie with the
shotgun, but he easily dodged the blow. There was a time and place
for chivalry, but this wasn’t it: he punched her in the face,
knocking her down on the couch.
He grabbed her by the
throat. ‘Where’s de Quesada?’
‘Fuck you!’ she
spat.
He squeezed harder.
‘Where is he?’
‘Go fuck yourself!’
Eddie pulled back his fist, then thought better of it and released
her, hurrying back to the bar. With a brief chill of revulsion, he
took hold of the octopus by its body and plucked it off Sylvie’s
breast. It squirmed, suckers clinging to his skin. The little
monster writhing angrily, he went back to the couch. The other
woman struggled upright; he pushed her down again and held the
octopus just above her face.
Tentacles lashed out
and stuck to her, the creature’s venom-filled beak snapping less
than an inch from her cheek. She shrieked. ‘Tell me where he is, or
I’ll let it bite you!’ Eddie shouted.
‘In there!’ she
wailed, pointing at some shelves behind the bar. ‘He’s in
there!’
She was too terrified
to lie, Eddie decided. He pulled the octopus away and tossed it
across the room into the tank’s remaining water – then punched the
woman again, knocking her out. ‘Sucker,’ he said as he went to the
shelves.
Close up, they were
revealed as a disguised door, the sharp stench of melted plastic
coming from inside. No way to know if de Quesada was armed and
waiting within. He yanked it open, ready to dive—
The room was empty.
Smoke belched from the smouldering remains of a computer, a hole
burned right through it. Thermite; de Quesada had been in here to
destroy anything compromising on his hard drive.
He wasn’t here now,
though. But he was sure the woman hadn’t lied – and why would she
and her friend have been defending an empty room?
A panel not quite
flush with the wall, a cord attached . . .
He pulled it. The
panel swung outwards, revealing a rocky passage leading
downwards.
The coughing grind of
an engine came from somewhere far below.
‘Oh, you are
not doing a fucking runner after all
this,’ Eddie growled, ducking through the opening.
Nina also heard the
noise. Eddie had been right – the drug lord was using his own men
as a decoy while he escaped in a hidden boat.
Only it wasn’t a boat
that slid down the rails, but a light aircraft, riding on elongated
pontoons. It reached the water’s edge, a brief snarl of power to
the propeller pulling it into the channel. A door opened and the
pilot clambered along a pontoon to detach the runner that had
guided it down the tracks.
Even from high above,
Nina recognised him. De Quesada.
Descending through
the narrow tunnel, Eddie dropped on to a ledge. He was high up in a
large cave, its mouth opening into the channel. A glance through a
wide crack in the rock revealed the source of the noise: a
floatplane bobbing on the water outside. De Quesada ducked beneath
the rear fuselage and hopped from one float to the other, crouching
to unfasten something from it. As soon as the drug lord finished
whatever he was doing, he would be able to escape.
He had to be
stopped.
A piece of equipment
was bolted to the rock wall – an electric winch, hooked to a
painted tarpaulin that had been pulled away from the cave mouth.
Eddie checked the rope. Brightly coloured marine line, strong and
hard-wearing.
He looked back
outside. De Quesada was returning to the cockpit.
Eddie unhooked the
rope from the tarp, then switched on the winch, reversing it to
unspool the line. He looked back through the opening. Below, the
Colombian climbed into the plane. ‘Come on, come on!’ he snarled,
tugging at the rope. He needed more slack—
The engine revved.
Out of time.
Pulling the line
after him, Eddie leapt from the crevice, aiming to land on the
fuselage—
The rope pulled
tight, stopping him short. He hit the wing’s trailing edge and fell
backwards, landing hard on the tail of the port
pontoon.
De Quesada, startled
by the unexpected impact, turned and saw the stowaway. He jammed
the throttle forward, the propeller screaming to full power as he
steered the plane down the channel.
Eddie flailed, about
to slip off the float . . .
His foot caught the
rearmost strut connecting the pontoon to the bottom of the
fuselage. He used the tenuous hold as leverage to sit up. The winch
was still unspooling the rope – there was just enough slack for him
to reach the support.
He lunged, clanking
the hook on to the strut—
The line went taut
again with a whipcrack. The plane jolted, but didn’t slow – it was
now unwinding the rope from the winch reel. Eddie dropped to keep
his head clear of it. If his plan worked, when the line ran out it
would either bring the plane to a stop, or rip out the strut,
making it too dangerous for de Quesada to risk taking
off.
The Skyhawk headed
for the open ocean beyond the cliffs on each side. It picked up
speed—
The reel reached its
end.
For an instant it
held . . . then the entire winch was torn from the wall, flying out
of the crack and splashing down in the water.
The plane lurched,
pitching Eddie into the sea.
Churning wake filled
his nostrils, choking him. The Cessna surged away. He kicked,
trying to get his head above the surface.
Something brushed his
legs.
The
rope—
A loop closed round
his ankle, the weight of the winch pulling it tight – and he was
dragged along by the plane, bouncing helplessly through the
waves.