Empire of Gold (46 page)

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Authors: Andy McDermott

BOOK: Empire of Gold
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‘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!’

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