It happened so fast that the irate husband took two steps before he realized he was past his target. He spun to up the fight’s ante but stopped dead when he saw Juan had drawn his pistol. Cabrillo didn’t aim it at him, though he made sure the guy got a good look at it and rethought how best to defend his wife’s honor. She still hadn’t managed to get her legs down or her backside out of the overturned chair.
The glass doors leading into the dining room were suddenly smashed open. Two of the gunmen burst through. Screams erupted when the passengers saw the assault rifles. Cabrillo recognized them as Ruger Mini-14s, among the best civilian rifles made. He didn’t have a clear shot because of the people scrambling to get away from the armed intruders. Some dove under tables while others seemed rooted where they stood, ashen and unsure.
The men swept the room, looking for Tamara Wright. They would easily have gotten a picture off the Internet, something Cabrillo had forgotten to do. Juan turned slightly and crouched so they wouldn’t get a look at his face.
“Everybody line up against the back wall.”
Cabrillo recognized the voice of the Argentine Major.
There was a waiter standing next to the kitchen doors. He slowly tried to sneak his way through and escape. The second gunman saw the movement and fired without hesitation. The bullet caught him square in the chest, its speed sending it straight through him and on into the kitchen, where it ricocheted off some piece of equipment.
The passengers’ screaming built into a crescendo of noise that filled the dining room. In this fresh surge of panic, Cabrillo made his move. He knew that once the gunman got control of the room he was a dead man, so he launched himself toward the big picture window overlooking the inky river. He took four paces before the Argentines reacted. A string of rounds from the semiautomatic rifles buzzed around him. Glassware and dishes exploded off the tables when they were hit. One round caught a tuxedoed man in the arm. He was so close to Cabrillo that his blood splashed Juan’s sleeve.
Several other bullets hit the window, starring the glass and weakening it enough so that when Cabrillo threw himself against it it failed spectacularly. He crashed into the Mississippi in a hail of shards, forcing himself as deep as he could.
The water was pitch-black just inches below the surface. By feel, he swam along the hull as the
Natchez Belle
continued southward. He could sense the vibration of her props through the river and hear the relentless churning of her decorative stern wheel.
Juan surfaced just under where the hull and deck met, in an area protected from above. The boat was moving at about four knots, and its passage pulled him through the water at nearly the same speed. He jammed his pistol into its holster to free up his hands.
Like on a traditional stern-wheeler, there was a rocker arm protruding over the side of the ship, like the pistons that drive a locomotive’s big wheels. On the
Belle
, it wasn’t functional, only an additional element to make her look authentic.
Juan reached out of the water and grabbed one of the support brackets. There was nothing for him to climb higher once his torso was free of the river, however. This part of the ship was a sheer wall. He was partially aboard the ship but trapped along her waterline. The rocker arm lowered him back into the river like a tea bag before drawing him out again. The repetitive motion was nauseating. More shots pierced the night from inside the superstructure. Time was running out, and he knew what he had to do.
Hand over hand, he inched his way slowly aft, until the thirty-foot-diameter wheel loomed over his shoulder and tore at the water next to his waist. Unlike the original vessels where the paddles were made out of wood on a steel framework, the
Belle
’s wheel was all metal.
Juan watched it in the glow of lights shining over the fantail, judging its rotation and the rhythm of the rocker arm, until he was certain.
He lunged for one of the paddles with both hands, managing to get his fingers in position the instant before it sucked him under. The drag against his body threatened to pull his arms out of their sockets, but nothing in the world would make him let go. Just as quickly as he’d been pulled below the surface, he emerged again, streaming water. He was facing away from the ship, so, in the seconds he had, he twisted around so that when he reached the apex of the wheel he was looking at the windows of the Presidential Suite, just below the topside lounge.
Momentum threw him against the glass with more than enough force to shatter it. He landed on a king-sized bed and bounced to his feet. A woman wrapped in a towel was just coming from the bathroom. She screamed at Juan standing there, shaking off glass chips and water.
In moments like these, Juan was usually good for a one-line quip, but he was too stunned by the impact and the wild ride around the stern wheel. He gave the woman a charming smile, and strode from the cabin.
Only ten minutes had passed since he’d dived in the river. Ten minutes in which Max was alone, outgunned three to one. Juan pulled his pistol, racked back the slide to drain it, and blew into the receiver. It was the best he could do, but the Glock was a hardy weapon that had never failed him before.
The hallway outside the woman’s cabin was deserted. Orange flicker bulbs meant to look like candles cast bizarre shadows from the wall sconces. It gave the dim hall the feel of a haunted house. Juan’s shoes squelched with each footfall, and he was leaving a trail of stinking river water in his wake. A door suddenly opened a crack, and an eye peered out.
“Close the door and stay inside,” Juan said. The person didn’t need to be told twice. Even if he hadn’t been armed, Juan’s voice demanded compliance.
The screaming had stopped, which in a hostage situation means the gunmen now had complete control and the crowd had become docile. That wasn’t a good sign.
Juan found a stairwell, ducked his head around quickly, and then committed himself when it was clear. He eased his way up until he could see the floor of the topmost deck. From this vantage, it looked deserted, so he climbed a little higher. Despite the sultry air, he felt chilled in his sopping clothes.
There were a cluster of people standing and kneeling around a prone form. Cabrillo’s heart felt like it had stopped in his chest. There were no Argentine gunmen here, just passengers, and with a sickening dread he knew who was down.
He raced from his cover position. A woman yelled when she saw him running toward them, a pistol dangling from his hand. Others turned, but Juan ignored them. He burst into the circle of people.
Max Hanley lay flat on his back, blood coating half his face and forming a black puddle on the polished wooden deck. Juan scooped up his head and pressed his fingers against his friend’s neck in the vain search for a pulse. Surprisingly, it was there, and strong.
“Max,” he called. “Max, can you hear me?” He looked up at the crowd staring down on them. “What happened?”
“He was shot, and the gunmen grabbed some woman and took off downstairs.”
Cabrillo used his coattail to wipe away the blood and saw a long oozing trench along Hanley’s temple. The bullet had grazed him. Max probably had a concussion and would certainly need stitches, but chances were he would be fine.
Juan got to his feet. “Please look after him.”
He raced back down the stairs again, anger and adrenaline making him reckless. The Argentines had approached the
Belle
from the port side, so he raced across the ship and descended another flight of steps to the main deck.
In front of him was the entry door where just hours ago he and Max had boarded the stern-wheeler. It was open, and through it he could see the dark silhouette of a man. He shouted, and when the man turned and confirmed he was wearing a ski mask, Cabrillo fired a double tap to the torso. The man fell back, his head hitting something with an empty thud, and then he splashed into the water.
Marine engines roared an instant later. Juan ran to the open door to see the back of the cigarette boat pulling away, a rooster tail of white water forming in its wake as it gained speed. He raised his pistol in a two-handed combat grip but held his fire. It was too dark to see anything but shapes, and he couldn’t risk hitting Tamara.
He doubled over, breathing hard, and fought to control his emotions.
He’d failed. There was no other way to look at it. He had failed, and now Tamara Wright was going to pay for it. He turned away in disgust with himself, and, out of stupid testosterone-fueled anger, punched a decorative mirror hanging on a nearby wall. His reflection went crazy in the shattered glass, and his knuckles came away bloody.
Juan took another couple of deep breaths to compose himself and start his brain thinking rationally again. The list of favors he would need to call on to get him and Max out of this mess was going to be monstrous.
For now, though, the important thing was Max. He felt his phone vibrate as he rushed back up the stairs, but he ignored it. That it had amazingly survived its dunking was a fact of so little importance that it never entered Cabrillo’s mind. The feel of the ship had changed, and the seaman in him told him the
Belle
’s captain had slowed so they could turn back for Vicksburg, where every cop on duty would be waiting.
It was going to take some fast talking to keep himself out of prison. The shootings would eventually be proven justified, but there was still the fake ID, the unregistered guns, and the fact that he and Max had lied to customs to get into the country in the first place. This was why Juan preferred to work in the Third World. There, a judicious bribe in the right hands bought your freedom. Here, it tacked another couple of years to your sentence.
Up on deck, people were still clustered around Max, but Juan could see that his friend was sitting upright. The blood had been cleared from his face, and a man was holding a bar towel to the side of his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said when Juan squatted down at his side. “I went to pull Tamara behind me, and the guy just opened fire. One went wide, but the second . . .” He pointed to his head. “I went down like a sack of potatoes. They get her?”
“I got one of them, but, yeah, they got her.”
“Damn.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Juan’s phone vibrated again. This time he pulled it out to check who was calling. “This can’t be good.”
“Langston, you’ve got lousy timing,” he said to the veteran CIA agent.
“You’re not going to believe what happened about two hours ago.”
Juan had put it together when the gunmen stormed the ship, and said, “Argentina just announced that they’re annexing the Antarctic Peninsula, and China has already recognized their sovereignty.”
“How could you . . . ?” Overholt’s voice trailed off in incredulity.
“And I can guarantee that when this comes up at the UN tomorrow, the Chinese will use their veto power as permanent members of the Security Council to kill any resolutions condemning the annexation.”
“They’ve already announced they would. How did you know?”
“That’s going to take a little explaining, but first I think I’m going to need a favor. Do you happen to know anybody in the Vicksburg Ph.D.?” Cabrillo asked this as the ship’s purser showed up with two goons from the engine room carrying wrenches the size of baseball bats.
A second later, he was facedown on the deck, with one goon sitting on his back while the second gorilla pinned his legs. The purser was holding the Glock like a tarantula in one hand and had Cabrillo’s cell in the other. Juan hadn’t bothered putting up a fight. He could have taken out all three, but he had Max to consider.
He just wished Overholt had answered him, otherwise this was going to be a long night.
EIGHTEEN
I
N TOTAL, THEY LOST EIGHTEEN PRECIOUS HOURS. MAX spent most of these under guard at the River Region Medical Center, where his head was scanned and stitched up. Juan was the guest of the Warren County Sheriff’s Department. They kept him up all night in a windowless interrogation room, where detectives and uniformed cops grilled him relentlessly.
It took them two hours to determine that his identification was bogus. Had Cabrillo expected any kind of background check, he could have brought papers that would prove legit no matter how hard the authorities studied them. But he hadn’t expected this kind of trouble, so his identity was breachable. Once they learned he wasn’t William Duffy of Englewood, California—the name on his second set of papers—the questions came harder and faster.
And while his story about a woman being abducted off the
Natchez Belle
had been confirmed by other passengers and the crew, the police seemed more interested in the hows and whys of his and Max’s presence to try to thwart the attack.
There was nothing Juan could say to convince them that he wasn’t part of the plot. And when the rushed ballistic report came back proving that the dead John Doe wearing a ski mask who’d been fished from the river had been killed by the gun the crew took from him, murder-one charges were threatened. They delighted in pointing out that Mississippi was a death-penalty state.
The FBI arrived at around nine the following morning, and for an hour, while jurisdiction was established, Cabrillo was left alone. Just for the fun of it, he pretended to pass out. Four cops, who’d been watching through the two-way mirror, rushed in. The last thing they wanted was for their prisoner to escape justice by dying on them.
It was around two-thirty, by his estimate—his watch had been taken upon his arrest—when two gray men in matching gray suits showed up. The cops and FBI agents, who were arrayed against Cabrillo like a pack of dogs slobbering over a fresh bone, looked nervous. They were told by the gray men that this was a matter for the Department of Homeland Security.