28
Nina watched in horror as her husband was hauled
along behind the floatplane. The Seahawk accelerated, but was still
a long way short of its sixty-four knot takeoff speed in the
confined channel.
It had to be stopped.
But how?
The waterway narrowed
just before its end . . .
She ran back to the
trucks and scrambled into the lead SUV. The key was in the
ignition; she turned it, the big V8 roaring in response. Into
drive, apply the gas—
The Expedition surged
forward, flattening bushes and saplings as Nina turned to follow
the plane. A small tree tumbled with a crack of shattering wood –
and she was at the cliff, the drop looming. She swerved to drive
along it, the right front wheel thumping over the ragged edge
before finding solid ground. Craning her neck, she saw the
floatplane was ahead of her – with Eddie skittering in its
wake.
She accelerated. Past
thirty – and gaining. The Expedition crashed over rocks and roots,
slamming her against the door. Ignoring the pain, Nina stayed
focused on the cliff ahead – and the plane below. She was almost
level with the aircraft. Forty, and the 4×4 was airborne for a
moment as it hit a bump, smashing down more shrubs as it
landed.
Past the plane, but
the end of the channel was just ahead—
Nina opened the door
and jammed the steering wheel hard to the right as she threw
herself out.
The Expedition shot
over the edge and plunged towards the water.
De Quesada adjusted
the rudder to keep the Cessna in the centre of the channel. The
cliffs were far enough apart to accommodate the Skyhawk’s ten metre
wingspan, but after having someone jump on his plane, he didn’t
need any more close calls—
An SUV fell from the
sky directly ahead and hit the water with a colossal eruption of
spray.
‘Mierda!’ he shrieked, yanking back the throttle
and applying full rudder to swing round it. But the vehicle was
buried nose-down in the mud beneath the shallow water, blocking his
escape route.
The only way out was
back the way he had come. Keeping the rudder hard over, he
reapplied power in pulses, swinging the plane around to reverse
course.
A man was in the
water, directly in his path.
Eddie gasped for
breath, shaking water from his eyes. The rope was still looped
round his leg, coils bobbing on the surface around him. He reached
down to untangle it, looking for the plane.
It was powering
towards him.
Nina had crashed
through a stand of bushes to a soft, if messy, splashdown in a
glutinous pool of mud. Bruised, face cut, she dragged herself from
the mire and staggered to the cliff edge.
Her plan had worked.
She had blocked the exit from the narrow canyon, forcing the plane
to stop . . . but it had turned round and was now heading straight
for Eddie.
It accelerated, about
to mow him down—
Eddie abandoned his
attempt to untangle himself and dropped underwater, kicking
downwards. The float’s keel bashed against his foot as it passed
just inches above him in the shallow channel.
He surfaced, heart
pounding – then realised the danger was far from over as the
colourful line skimmed sinuously past him, still hooked to the
strut. He grabbed the rope as it jerked into motion, friction
burning his palms.
But at least now he
wasn’t a helpless dead weight. He pulled himself along the rope
towards the float.
Something yanked hard
on his entangled leg – the winch. It had sunk when the plane
stopped, and was now being towed along behind again. Eddie
grimaced, but kept reeling himself in. He was almost level with the
Cessna’s tail, the float just feet away.
The cave passed by to
his left, the channel ahead curving round the island. Over the
engine’s roar he heard gunshots echoing from the
cliffs.
Despite the best
efforts of Probst and his team, two of the bodyguards had reached a
speedboat and started it. The cops concentrated their fire on the
vessel as it moved from the jetty - but this allowed another two
thugs to reach the bottom of the path and find cover, shooting
back.
Kit ducked as bullets
smacked into the cliff in front of him. He wiped away grit and
opened his eyes – to see the floatplane approaching.
Probst spotted it
too. ‘De Quesada, it must be!’ He swung round his rifle and opened
fire.
‘No!’ said Kit,
batting the weapon upwards. ‘You’ll hit Eddie!’ He pointed at the
man who had just pulled himself on to one of the
floats.
Probst swore in
German, then shouted to the others: ‘Don’t shoot the plane! Chase
is aboard!’
‘He’ll get away!’
Cruz protested.
Kit looked out to
sea. The Coast Guard vessel was coming in at speed. ‘Forget the
speedboats – tell them to block him before he can take
off!’
Clinging to the
float, Eddie winced as bullets struck the plane - then the barrage
stopped. Hoping that meant he had been seen, he hooked an elbow
round the diagonal brace connecting the float to the wing and freed
his leg from the rope. It whipped away as he released it, the heavy
winch still acting like an anchor.
He saw the jetty
ahead, one of the speedboats moving away.
Into the plane’s
path.
De Quesada had seen
it too. The engine note rose, the wing flaps clunking to their full
extent as he tried to give the plane as much lift as
possible.
Eddie moved forward
and briefly raised his head to glance into the cabin. He was
surprised to see the khipu in a plastic bag on the passenger seat,
but was more interested in the drug lord. The Colombian was
concentrating on getting the plane into the air.
He advanced again,
reaching for the door handle . . .
Wind whistled through
a bullet hole in the cabin roof. Ten centimetres over, and the
round would have struck de Quesada himself. Blessing his good
fortune, he looked round to see where else the plane had been hit .
. .
The top of a head,
short dark hair fluttering in the wind, was visible through a
window. Edging towards the passenger-side door.
Jaw set, de Quesada
gripped the control yoke tightly with one hand, his other clenching
into a fist . . .
Eddie pulled the door
open, thrusting himself into the cramped cabin – and was punched
hard in the face.
Caught completely by
surprise, he toppled backwards, clawing for a handhold but only
managing to snatch up the bag on the passenger seat. With nothing
to support himself, he fell. . .
His empty hand caught
the rope just as the drag of the waves snatched him from the float.
He slid back down the line. Even wet, it burned his skin again
before he managed to get a grip with his other hand, using a corner
of the large bag as a makeshift glove to protect his palm. He hung
on tightly, gasping in the spray.
The spray suddenly
stopped as the Cessna took off.
‘Oh, shiiiiit!’ Eddie yelled as he was pulled from the
water. He was heading into the sky – but if he let go of the rope,
he would slam into the speedboat directly ahead like a
torpedo.
The men in the boat
were forced to duck as the Skyhawk roared barely a foot above. One
realised it was trailing something and raised his head to see
what—
Eddie pulled up both
feet and kicked the bodyguard in the face, backflipping him out of
the boat in a spray of blood and teeth.
Behind him, the rope
rasped over the speedboat’s side—
The winch smashed
through the hull – and snagged. The boat flipped over, flinging the
other man screaming into the sea, and landed upside down, carving a
great swathe out of the ocean as it was dragged behind the
floatplane.
The extra weight
threw the Cessna out of control. It yawed sideways as the boat
pulled it back down.
Eddie hit the waves
again, this time managing to stay upright and holding his legs out
straight in front of him to use his feet as impromptu waterskis.
Each crest pummelled him as he was pulled along.
He saw the Coast
Guard cutter looming ahead. The Cessna levelled, then regained
height. The rope tightened. In another second, he too would be
airborne—
He let
go.
Arms windmilling,
Eddie skied along the water for over a hundred feet, finally losing
his balance and falling over. He skipped like a stone, bouncing
once, twice, before hitting the cutter’s side with a thunk.
Above, de Quesada had
been forced to roll the Cessna almost on its side to avoid a crash,
shooting between the cutter’s elevated bridge and radar mast with
less than a foot of clearance. He straightened with an exultant
whoop, turning the plane towards Panamanian airspace—
The speedboat, still
bounding along at the end of the rope, collided with the
cutter.
The Coast Guard boat
rolled with the impact – but the plane fared worse. The float was
ripped away – along with a chunk of the wing at the top of the
support brace and a large section of the fuselage
floor.
De Quesada screamed
as he suddenly found himself with nothing but open air beneath his
feet. The yoke went slack, control cables severed. The ailerons
drooped, sending the crippled aircraft inexorably towards the
glittering water—
It smashed into the
sea at over eighty knots. The impact crushed the damaged fuselage
like a beer can, impaling de Quesada on the control yoke. Fuel
lines ruptured, avgas gushing over hot metal. What was left of the
Skyhawk exploded in a flash of orange fire and oily black
smoke.
Eddie surfaced beside
the cutter, broken bits of boat raining around him. He spotted the
plastic bag containing the late drug lord’s belongings floating
nearby and swam to collect it before shouting up to the deck. ‘Oi!
Man overboard!’
One of the boat’s
stunned crew peered down at him, then tossed a knotted line over
the side. Eddie clambered up. The Cessna’s burning remains were
strewn along the water in the distance. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said to
the crewman. ‘That’s the last time I fly on a no-frills
airline.’
The villa’s interior
was every bit as expensive as its exterior suggested, but one room
stood out above all others. Nina gazed down at the golden sun disc
set into the bathroom floor. ‘Unbelievable,’ she said, half in
amazement, half in disgust. ‘Spending fifty million dollars on one
of the most incredible Inca relics ever discovered . . . and then
doing this with it?’
‘If you’ve got more
money than you can ever spend, I suppose you get daft with it
eventually,’ said Eddie, drying his hair with one of de Quesada’s
towels. After his rescue, the Coast Guard ship had landed at the
island, and the surviving members of the drug lord’s gang had
surrendered. The remaining speedboat had been used to ferry Nina
and the SWAT team from the mainland. ‘So, we found the sun disc,
and I got the khipu off el druggio. Plus we saved the world the
cost of the bastard’s trial. Job done, I think.’
‘Is the khipu
okay?’
‘Far as I know. It
was sealed in a bag with a bunch of other stuff – passports, cash,
stuff like that. Kit’s checking through it all.’
‘And are you
okay?’
He patted his jeans.
‘Bit damp, still. Banged-up, shot at, the usual. Nothing too
serious.’ In truth, one knee had a searing ache from his impact
with the cliff and the friction burns on his palms still stung, but
he covered the discomfort. ‘What about you?’
Nina’s hand went to
the Band-Aid one of Probst’s men had applied to a cut on her face.
‘I’m okay. Just had a scratchy landing when I bailed out of that
truck. But it was pretty muddy, which broke the fall.’
‘You’re lucky you
didn’t break the rest of you,’ Eddie said. ‘It was a bloody stupid
risk.’
‘Oh, kettle, pot!’
she snapped. ‘And if I hadn’t done it, de Quesada would have gotten
away – and you would have been dragged along behind his plane like
a banner advertising balding Englishmen.’
‘The difference is,
this kind of stuff is what I do.’
‘No, it isn’t! Not
any more. You work for the United Nations now, not a stunt troupe.
Every time I watch you doing something like this, I almost have a
heart attack because . . .’ Her voice fell. ‘Because I’m scared
that I’m about to watch you die.’
‘I’m not gonna die,
okay?’ he said firmly. ‘Just ’cause I don’t bounce as much as I
used to doesn’t mean I’ll smash like Humpty bastard Dumpty if I
take a bit of a fall.’
‘There’s a difference
between a bit of a fall and a hundredfoot drop off a cliff,’ Nina
pointed out. ‘And when people are actively trying to kill you . . .
’
‘You’d think they’d
learn,’ Eddie snorted. ‘Anyone who tries to kill me gets fucked
up.’
‘Who’s trying to kill
you?’ Kit asked, appearing in the doorway.
‘Nobody at the
moment, thank God,’ said Nina. She gave Eddie a look that promised
the discussion was not over, then turned to the Interpol officer.
‘Have you searched the rest of the house?’
‘Yes. Some of his
other artworks are on the CPCU’s list of stolen items, although
nothing on the scale of that.’ He indicated the sun disc. ‘And the
bag Eddie recovered contained a phone with a list of de Quesada’s
contacts around the world – that should be very useful.’ His
optimistic look clouded. ‘I just wish it hadn’t cost twelve of the
good guys’ lives to get it.’
‘Almost thirteen,’
Nina said quietly. Eddie decided to ignore her.
‘There’s another
thing,’ Kit said. ‘Eddie, can you take a look at
something?’
‘What is it?’ asked
Nina.
‘Just . . . something
Eddie might be able to identify with his military experience. Nina,
can you photograph the sun disc so we can send pictures to Interpol
and the UN, please?’ He handed her a digital camera.
She realised Kit was
being evasive, but nevertheless took the camera. ‘What about the
khipu?’
‘It’s with de
Quesada’s other items. You can examine it as soon as we’ve finished
checking them.’
‘Okay . . .’ She
exchanged curious looks with her husband as Kit led him from the
room.
‘So what’ve you
found?’ Eddie asked as they walked down the hall.
‘It was in de
Quesada’s office, among his papers.’ Kit stopped outside the arched
doorway, glancing almost furtively into the room to make sure the
other agents were occupied before taking something from a pocket.
‘Here.’
Eddie took it: a
plastic evidence bag, containing a business card. ‘What’s so
special . . . ’ he began – then he read it. He said nothing for
several moments.
‘It’s . . . it
is your father’s, isn’t it?’ Kit asked,
breaking the silence.
‘Yeah,’ said Eddie,
voice flat. ‘Yeah, it is.’ The card was identical to the one his
father had given Nina, which had been taken from her by Stikes. It
definitely wasn’t the same card, though, this one pristine and
uncreased. ‘Think I’ll have to have words . . . ’