“Someone’s hammering,” Sam whispered. “Touch that engine.”
Remi touched the Rinker’s outboard with the back of her hand. “Cold. Why?”
“This one will have more gas. Wait here. Time for our insurance policy.”
He took a breath, ducked under, and swam alongside the first Rinker to its twin at the head of the dock. He grabbed the gunwale, chinned himself up, and looked around. No movement. He boosted himself over the side onto the deck, then crawled forward to the driver’s seat. He checked the ignition. Not surprisingly, the keys were missing. He rolled onto his back, opened the maintenance hatch beneath the dashboard, and wiggled inside. He clicked on his penlight and studied the wiring bundle.
“Just like old times,” Sam muttered. Five months earlier he’d found himself doing the same thing with another speedboat on a lake in the Bavarian Alps. Luckily, like that boat’s, this Rinker’s wiring was simple: ignition, wipers, navigation lights, and horn. Using his Swiss Army knife, Sam severed each wire, taking as much length as he could. He rolled them into a tight ball and tossed it over the side, then wriggled back out and closed the hatch. He crawled back to the gunwale, did a quick check, then rolled back into the water and returned to Remi.
“Okay, if all goes well, this’ll be our getaway boat. We grab the bell, disable the
Njiwa
if we can, then bring the bell back here—”
“How?”
“I’ll manage it somehow. We’ll worry about the hernia later. We bring the bell back here and slip away before anyone knows what’s happened.”
“And if all goes unwell? Never mind; I already know. We play it by ear.”
THEY STROKED AROUND the dock to the
Njiwa
’s stern and immediately realized the yacht was bigger up close. The stern rail was ten feet above the waterline. Remi fished the dhow’s sea anchor from her backpack. Sam examined it.
“Too short,” he whispered into her ear, then gestured for her to follow. They stroked back to the Rinker’s transom. “Time for Plan B,” Sam said. “I’ll try the ladder.” Remi opened her mouth to speak, but he pushed on. “It’s the only way. If I jump from the dock, it’ll make too much noise. Get into the Rinker and be ready to take off.”
“No.”
“If I get caught, run.”
“I said—”
“You run and get back to civilization and call Rube. He’ll know what to do. With you missing, Rivera will assume you’ve contacted the authorities. He won’t kill me—not right away. He’s too smart for that; dead bodies are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Remi frowned and gave him a withering stare. “Let’s call all that Plan C. Plan B is you don’t get caught. We’re up to our chins, Sam.”
“I know. Keep a sharp eye out. I’ll signal you when it’s clear. If I raise my hand and spread my fingers, it’s safe to come; a raised fist, stay where you are.”
He took off his shirt and shoes, stuffed both in his backpack, and handed the pack to Remi.
“What’re you doing?” she asked.
“Clothing drips and shoes squeak.”
“Sam, have you been taking commando classes on the side?”
“Just watching the Military Channel.”
He kissed her, then ducked beneath the surface, stroked under the Rinker, and resurfaced under the dock. Another breath and another duck brought him alongside the
Njiwa
’s white hull. He stroked forward beneath the companion ladder, then paused. He could hear muffled voices coming from the cabin. Two men, perhaps three. He strained to catch any words or isolate the voices but failed. He boosted himself onto the dock, laid flat, waited and listened, then got up and crept up the ladder. Below the top rung he paused, poked his head up, saw nothing, and crawled onto the deck. He stood up and pressed himself against the bulkhead.
The sliding door opened. A rectangle of yellow light angled onto the deck. Heart in his throat, Sam did a rapid sidestep along the bulkhead and around the corner to the forecastle, where he froze and took a few calming breaths.
He heard the clump of footsteps on the deck. The door slid shut again, followed by footsteps clanging down the companion ladder. Sam stepped forward, peeked aft and saw nothing, so he took another step and peeked over the rail. A figure was walking down the dock. At the end of a dock, in a small clearing, sat a green gas-powered Cushman flatbed cart and, directly behind it, a white golf cart. Ahead of them, the trail curved up and away toward the helicopter pad and the main house.
The figure leaned over the Cushman, removed a rake and a pair of shovels, and tossed them into the brush beside the path.
“Making room for cargo,” Sam muttered to himself.
He turned toward the Rinker, raised a “Stay put” fist for a few seconds, then ducked down and waddled back to the bulkhead.
Footfalls clicked on the wooden dock, then back up the ladder, followed by the sliding door opening and closing. Three minutes passed. The door slid open again. More clomping now. Multiple feet. Grunting. Something heavy sliding across the deck . . . Sam peeked around the corner and saw three men in the light from the cabin door: Rivera, Nochtli, and Yaotl. Between them sat a crate roughly the size of the dummy crate Sam had created on Zanzibar.
Yaotl, the biggest of the three, backed down the ladder in front of the crate while Rivera and Nochtli shoved it forward. Sam drew back into the shadows and listened as they manhandled the crate down the ladder to the dock. Sam crab-walked to the rail and peeked over.
Nochtli and Yaotl were moving down the dock, each gripping one of the crate’s rope handles. Rivera walked a few paces behind. The trio reached the clearing. The crate was placed onto the Cushman’s flatbed.
Rivera began speaking in Spanish. Sam caught only snippets: “. . . take it . . . helicopter . . . there shortly.”
The Cushman’s engine started. Tires crunched on the shell path. After a few seconds the engine faded and died away. Sam risked a peek over the railing. Rivera was striding down the dock toward the ladder. Sam backed away and took cover against the bulkhead. Rivera climbed the ladder and went into the cabin.
Sam considered his options. He had little desire to tangle with Rivera, a trained and accomplished killer, but as soon as the man reached the helicopter it would lift off with the bell aboard. More important, whatever he and Remi did next would be easier with Rivera out of the equation. The H&K was out of the question, Sam knew, because the noise could attract the attention of the other guards. He’d have to do it the hard way.
He took a deep breath and crept aft along the bulkhead to the sliding door. He took a few moments to mentally rehearse his actions, then reached out, pressed his thumb against the door’s handle, and shoved. With a hiss, the door slid open.
From inside, Rivera’s voice: “Nochtli? Yaotl?”
Sam took a half step backward, balled up his right fist, and cocked it over his shoulder.
A shadow blocked out the cabin’s light.
Rivera’s nose appeared from behind the doorjamb, followed by his chin and eyes. Sam lashed out with a straight punch, aiming for Rivera’s temple, but the man’s reflexes kicked in, and he twisted his head sideways. Sam’s fist glanced off Rivera’s temple. Wary of him recovering and grabbing whatever weapon he was sure to be carrying, Sam pivoted through the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Rivera to the right. As predicted, Rivera was reaching for something behind his back.
Years of judo training took over. Instinctively, Sam assessed Rivera’s posture and stance and saw the weak point: Still slightly stunned, Rivera was leaning against the bulkhead, trying to regroup, all his weight concentrated on his left foot. Sam ignored Rivera’s weapon hand and instead lashed out with a Deashi-Harai—a Forward Foot Sweep—that caught him just below the left ankle. Rivera collapsed sideways and slid down the bulkhead, but still his weapon hand was coming around. Sam saw the gun in it, reached up, grabbed the wrist, and used the arm’s momentum to slam Rivera’s hand against the wall. Sam heard the crack of bone. The gun fell away and bounced across the carpeted deck.
Hand still clamped on Rivera’s wrist, Sam took a big step backward, dropped his center of gravity and twisted his hips, whipping Rivera’s body flat across the floor. Sam released the wrist and dropped onto Rivera’s back. He snaked his right arm around the throat, going for a rear naked choke. Rivera reacted immediately, lashing backward with an elbow punch that caught Sam below the eye. His eyesight sparkled and dimmed. He turned his face away, felt another elbow crash into the back of his head. Sam breathed through it and curled his forearm, sliding farther across Rivera’s throat. Using his legs as counterweights, Sam rolled left, taking Rivera with him. Then Rivera made his mistake: He panicked. He stopped throwing elbows and started clawing at the forearm around his neck. Sam extended the choke, clamped his right hand onto his left bicep, then squeezed while pressing his head forward, forcing Rivera’s chin toward his chest and compressing his carotid arteries. Almost immediately Rivera’s flailing weakened. Another second, and he went limp. Sam held on for three more beats, then let go and shoved Rivera aside. Sam got to his knees and checked the man’s pulse and breathing: alive but in a deep sleep.
Sam took ten seconds to catch his breath, then climbed to his feet. He reached up and touched his cheekbone; his fingers came back bloody. He shuffled out the door, looked around to make sure all was clear, then held up five fingers. He returned inside.
Remi stepped through the door sixty seconds later. She glanced at Rivera’s motionless body, then to Sam, then dropped their backpacks. She strode to Sam and they embraced. She pulled away. She used her index finger to tilt his face sideways. She frowned.
“It looks worse than it is,” Sam said.
“How do you know what it looks like? You’re going to need stitches.”
“My pageant days are over.”
Remi nodded to Rivera. “Is he . . .”
“Just sleeping. He’s going to be one angry man when he wakes up.”
“Then let’s not be here. I assume we’re going with the helicopter hijacking?”
“They were kind enough to load the bell aboard. It’d be rude to let that effort go to waste. The Rinker . . . Did you . . .”
“Jerked out the wires and tossed them overboard. What now? Tie him up?”
“No time. We’ve got surprise on our side. If anyone comes back looking for him, that’s gone.” Sam looked around. He walked forward and opened a door, revealing a ladder leading upward. “That’ll be the bridge. Go up and do some damage to their communications.”
Remi said, “Ship-to-shore phone and radio, right?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll go below and see if there’re any bazookas lying around.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re going to have company at the helicopter pad, and I doubt they’ll be happy to see us. Something big and loud and scary might change their minds.”
Sam knelt down, retrieved Rivera’s gun—another H&K semiautomatic—and handed it to Remi. She examined it for a few moments, then deftly ejected the magazine, checked the ammunition, slid the magazine back into place, flipped on the safety, and shoved the H&K into her waistband.
Sam stared at her.
She said, “Home and Garden Television.”
“Okay, then. We’ll meet back here in two minutes.”
Remi headed up the ladder, and Sam went belowdecks. He ransacked each of the six sleeping quarters and found only one weapon, a .357 Magnum revolver. He went back up the ladder. Remi was waiting.
“How’d you do?” he asked.
“I ripped both handsets out of their sockets and tossed them overboard.”
“That’ll work. Okay. Everyone’s waiting for Rivera at the pad. With luck, it’ll be Yaotl, Nochtli, the guard, and the pilot. Four people at most. We drive up and hope they don’t get suspicious until it’s too late.”
“And if there’s a big party waiting for us?”
“We retreat.”
CHAPTER 19
BIG SUKUTI ISLAND
“OKAY, SIT TIGHT,” SAM SAID TO REMI.
He brought the cart to a halt and set the parking brake. Ahead he could see the crest of the path. He walked forward until he could see over the rise. A hundred feet down the path was a clearing where the road forked up to the main house. To the right of the clearing, sitting under the glow of a pole-mounted sodium-vapor lamp, was the helicopter pad.
Sam walked back to the cart. Remi asked, “How many?”
“I only saw three: the guard, Nochtli, and Yaotl, all standing together at the edge of the pad. They’ve all got AK-74s, but they’re slung over their shoulders. As for the pilot, no sign. He’s either at the house or sitting in the helicopter waiting.”
“No offense, Sam, but I hope it’s the latter. If we convince him to fly us—”
“No offense taken.”
“What about the bell?”
“It’s not on the Cushman. Looks like they’ve done the heavy lifting. I’ll take the first three; you head straight for the helicopter. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She crouched on the golf cart’s floor and ducked her head beneath the fiberglass dashboard. She looked up at him. “You don’t look much like Rivera.”
“As long as we get close enough fast enough, it won’t matter.”
Sam withdrew the .357 and the H&K from his pockets, tucked one each beneath a thigh, then released the parking brake and depressed the gas pedal. The cart eased forward, and within seconds they were over the crest and heading for the clearing. He resisted the impulse to jam the accelerator to the floorboards.
“Fifty feet to go,” he muttered to Remi. “Still haven’t seen us.”
At thirty feet, Yaotl looked up and spotted the cart. He said something to the other two. They turned around. All eyes were on the cart now.
“Still no reaction,” Sam said. “Hold on tight. I’m going in.”
He stomped on the gas pedal, and the cart accelerated, covering the final twenty feet in a matter of seconds. Sam slammed on the brake, locking the parking mechanism, took his hands off the wheel, grabbed both guns, and jumped out before the trio, just outside the glow of the pole light. He raised both guns.