Gold of Kings (33 page)

F
ROM THE BACK, THE MUNICIPAL
building looked like a giant pillbox. The ground floor was windowless. The second floor was rimmed by tiny little squares, denoting the prison block. Just as Hakim had described.

Storm stood in shadows as dark as the dread that almost choked her. The three streetlights lining the alley and the municipal lot were all out. “Harry?”

There was nothing but silence in response. She raised her voice and called again.

“Storm?”

She clenched her fists in the effort required to keep from wailing. “Where are you?”

“Here! I'm here!”

But where was that? Shadows flitted over several of the little squares at once, which meant more than one prisoner had heard the exchange. Storm felt submerged in sweat. She needed an oxygen mask just to stay upright. “I can't tell which one is you!”

She heard a sharp crash. Then another, followed by a loud pop. The little square at the building's right-hand corner went dark.

“Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Stay right there!”

She heard Emma call her name. But there was no time to stop. An instant's hesitation would leave her weeping in terror.

Which was why she did not realize she had just told Harry to stay where he was, locked inside a prison cell, until she got back in the truck, found reverse, and started revving the motor.

 

EMMA STARTED TO CLIMB FROM
the car. But she was in clear view of the vehicle parked in front of the municipal building. It was part SUV and part pickup. The yellow streetlight made it impossible to make out the vehicle's color. But the vehicle had a squarish ugliness that was uniquely military. And the driver's door was painted with a red star.

Emma hated the chains of indecision that held her. For the first time in her professional career, she wished for a superior on site to issue marching orders. She should warn Storm, but what of Harry?

Then a shadow flittered from the vehicle. The man was small, slender, and impossibly swift. He molded so naturally with the gloom he might as well have cast the shadows out before him, netting the dark, dragging it along with him.

Emma started her motor, slammed the car into drive, and rammed the gas pedal into the carpet.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Storm's giant truck belch a lungful of smoke and gradually gain momentum. In reverse.

 

THE TRUCK WAS BUILT FOR
hauling stones down from the mountain limestone mines to the beachfront tourist developments. Clearly the designers had not intended for their twelve-wheelers to need ramming speed in reverse. Even so, once it got going, the truck built up a gut-wrenching level of thrust. The only problem was, Storm could not see where she was headed. The lid of the hold completely blocked her rear window. She scouted one side mirror, then the other, back and forth, while the truck roared and belched and rumbled and flew.

She had only the vaguest idea of anything beyond step one. Her own personal “mission impossible” was to spring Harry. After that, well, everything was just left up to Emma.

Only at that very moment, Storm saw Emma peel the Peugeot away in a swirl of smoke and tires. Headed for the exit.

Storm shouted her friend's name. Then the wall loomed up, completely filling her vision. She had time for one final glimpse through the side mirror, taking aim straight at the lone dark square. Then she straightened in her seat, pressed her head hard into the seat rest, and braced herself tightly, both hands on the wheel, both feet ramming the gas pedal into the floorboards.

And gave off a truly magnificent scream.

 

EMMA FELT BETTER THAN GOOD,
finally having a target for her rage. It was
wonderful
. She hammered the pedal down so hard it probably mashed straight through the cheesy carpet and floorboard, connecting her straight to the engine block. The motor shrilled, the tires spun, and she catapulted forward.

She really hadn't given her aim much thought, other than stopping the tan man from making it through the building's front doors. The guy flitted up the stairs, fast as a bat on steroids. Which left her with no alternative, really. Except to follow.

The Peugeot's suspension was built to cushion its passengers over bumpy French lanes. Even so, smacking the patio-sized steps bounced her head off the ceiling. Emma gave the vacant guard station a flitting glance, and had a sudden notion that the place was empty on purpose. Everybody drawn away by an official crisis, sent far off enough to let this guy do his job and escape unseen.

The little man reached the front doors and turned. His startled expression was captured by her bouncing headlights, a wide-eyed viper trapped between the entrance and oblivion. Which was good enough for her to yell, “Hi there, Leon!”

He flung open the door and leapt through.

Emma didn't have any choice, really. She followed Leon right through the doors.

The glass shattered and the wooden door frame came to rest on the car's splintered windshield. She thought she saw Leon lying inert in front of the car, but her vision was marred by dust and the windshield's hairline fractures.

Then the building erupted a second time.

She imagined a near strike from a shoulder-fired missile would feel about the same. A distant
whump,
then the building sort of lifted on its foundations. One solid jolt, then nothing.

Somewhere ahead of her, an alarm started clanging.

Emma coughed through the dust and said to no one in particular, “Gee, ya think?”

Taking the alarm as her cue, she slapped the car into reverse. The tires spun, sending up a spray of glass and debris. The car rocked but did not move. She lifted her foot off the gas and tried drive. The glass tinkled as it flew like spray off a speedboat. She tried reverse again, and this time just let the tires scream and smoke. Abruptly the car broke free, bouncing over the door frame. Emma launched into a gut-swooping ride backward down the front steps.

Straight into the side of the military vehicle.

She heard a loud bang, which she took as the only starting gun she would ever need.

Emma rammed the car into drive. In her rearview mirror, she saw the military vehicle cant steeply toward her as she wrenched away. She realized she had blown one of its tires. Inside the cab a single head flopped and slumped forward. She turned her attention to the road and smoked her way into a sharp left.

And came within a hairsbreadth of slamming into a dump truck that came roaring around the side of the building.

The yellow behemoth was almost buried beneath its load of debris. A massive dust cloud billowed in its wake. And there on top of the bricks and mortar and rubble, gripping the cab's railing with one hand and waving the other over his head, rode Harry Bennett.

Emma would have laughed out loud if her throat hadn't chosen that moment to throttle off her breath.

T
HE TRUCK DRILLED THROUGH THE
empty roads like a locomotive. A spume of dust blew off the back, blanketing Emma's vision. Even so, Emma remained grimly attached to the truck's bumper. Every now and then she flicked the windshield wipers. Only the one on her side worked. Occasionally a rock rattled across her roof. Three miles outside town, she watched as Harry leaned over the side and shouted in Storm's window. The truck shuddered to a halt. Storm leapt down from the cab and hurried over to Emma's car. Harry grinned and blew Emma a very dusty kiss as he slipped behind the truck's wheel.

Storm slid into the passenger seat and pointed ahead. “Harry says get in front and head for the Kyrenia road. He's got an idea.”

As they started off, Storm stuck her head out the window. “I don't hear any sirens.”

“They'll be coming.” Emma kept accelerating so long as the truck remained a looming, roaring beast in her rearview mirror. When the distance grew to where she could see the dust boiling off the truck, she eased off.

Storm said, “Where did you go back there?”

“I spotted our friend Leon. He was going after Harry. I chased him into the building.” She caught Storm's look. “What?”

“You entered the police station.”

“Courthouse. But yeah.”

“In your car. This from the lady who couldn't commit a felony.”

“I was in hot pursuit.”

“Oh. Is that what you call it. And what happened to your rear end?”

“That was an accident. Sort of. I did a number on the commandant's car.”

Storm grinned. “I know what Harry would say. This just keeps getting better.”

The road entered the hills and narrowed. When the hills closed tightly, Harry flashed the truck's lights and gave his horn a blast. When Emma stopped, he came trotting up and said, “Pull around the next hairpin and wait for me.”

Three hundred yards later, Emma rounded a bend so tight she feared Harry's truck wouldn't make it. He blinked his lights and stopped the truck where the road jinked back on itself. She turned and watched the truck rumble and grind. The rear began to rise, dumping its load of municipal rubble. The debris completely blocked the road from cliff face to drop-off.

He left the dump truck as it was, climbed down from the cab, and flung the keys into the crevasse. He ran back, climbed into the rear seat, and said, “I'm hoping I'll find the right words to thank you ladies once we're truly out of this.”

H
ARRY?”

He swam up through impossible depths. A hand took hold of his shoulder and shook him gently. “It's time, Harry. You need to wake up.”

The words warmed like sunlight, caressing from his ears to his heart. He murmured, “I could lie here forever.”

“You were the one who said we had to make an early start.” Emma helped him sit upright. “You also said no fire, so all we've got is water and energy bars.”

Harry rose to his feet, taking it in careful stages. He was whipped, bruised, battered, and about as tired as he'd ever been in his life. So were the ladies. More than the flashlight's glimmer carved new caverns into Emma's cheeks and around her eyes. He chewed the energy bar and willed his body to shake off the fatigue. He needed to be totally ready for what lay ahead. “What's the matter with Storm?”

Emma glanced over to where Storm stood between the Jet Skis, silhouetted by the night. She searched for words and settled on “We missed out on Boucaud.”

Harry nodded. He had almost forgotten the guy. His brain only had room for one clear thought. He finished his breakfast, drained the mug
of water. “Thanks, Emma. For everything. Most especially for right now. Thanks.”

It was a futile clump of words, for she merely gripped his arm, then handed him a flashlight and said, “I'll start packing up.”

They had dumped the car outside the resort's perimeter fence and sauntered through arm in arm, just three weary tourists returning from a night of revelry. They smiled and laughed for the guard. Harry made himself into a drunken clown, pantomiming a roll in the sand. The guard made a pretense of checking their names on his clipboard. But he spoke no English, and the three of them kept up a good-natured banter as he waved them through. They held to the smiles and light chatter, walking hand in hand down to the shore.

Harry broke the lock on the lifeguard's shed with his boot. They loaded the sleds and pulled the Jet Skis into waist-deep water, out past the reach of the shoreline lights, then motored out, taking it slow. They spent what was left of the night on the same beach as before.

Harry filled his mug from the water canister and walked over to where Storm stood. The tight sliver of moon revealed features etched by fear, excitement, apprehension, loss, and sheer exhaustion. Harry thought she had never looked more beautiful. “I'm really sorry about messing up your rendezvous.”

She jerked at that final word. “What?”

“With Boucaud.”

Her look was beyond despondent. “We did what we had to, Harry. That's all that keeps me going.”

“We won't let him get away with this.”

“He already has.”

“No, Storm. You're wrong.” He gave it as long as he felt he could, then said, “I need to say this. The words aren't much, but they're all I have. Thanks, Storm. You are one amazing woman.”

He could see her struggle, as though searching for words that had been lost to the night. Harry knew exactly how she felt. He drained his mug and called, “Let's saddle up.”

 

THEY PASSED THE LAST HEADLANDS
between their seafront campsite and the islands just as dawn's first faint wash illuminated their world.
Harry had not wanted to navigate the rock-strewn waters in the dark. Everything but the three sleeping bags and what food and water Harry could carry in his backpack had been left behind, in a small cave.

When they approached the first cluster of islets, he signaled for the women to hold well back. Emma cut her throttle. Harry leaned over and puttered forward at a walking pace.

The islands started close to shore, then rose to their highest point a mile and a half to sea. Their destination was in the outermost group, neither the highest nor the most readily accessible. The island cluster stank of seaweed and guano. Harry saw no sign of human presence. The water remained clear of fog, perhaps due to the heavy clouds gathering overhead.

From a distance of five hundred yards, the island looked like an ice cream cone that had been mashed hard into the rocky base. The pedestal was a flat rock about a hundred yards to a side, canted slightly so that the morning waves lapped over the low end.

Harry ran aground twice during his final approach. Both times he put the Jet Ski into neutral, found footing on the underwater rock, and shoved himself free.

When he finally arrived, he pulled the machine up onto the ledge, then turned and waved. Storm kept her face close to the water's surface, calling soft warnings. Emma made the approach without once becoming stuck.

There was a rhythm to it now, a sense of shared commitment so strong that words were unnecessary. Storm hunted about the base on her hands and knees, searching as much by feel as with her eyes. Emma took one hammer and worked higher up, moving counterclockwise around the base. There was no need for Harry to tell either woman to take great care walking on the water-slick rock. He started climbing, his ascent timed to plinks from Emma's hammer.

The cone was canted slightly to the north and ringed by ridges at semiregular stations, like a fossilized beehive. Harry reckoned it was two hundred feet in diameter and twice as high. He decided to climb the north face, the most difficult angle, for the simple reason that nothing about this search had been easy. This side was the position least likely to be found by accident. The slant wasn't critical, just enough to make his climb a little tougher.

His plan was simple. Scale the summit, hammer in a pair of hooks, set his rope in place, then work his way back down, swinging around the entire peak before descending the next step.

That is, unless he got it lucky on the ascent.

Which was exactly what happened.

The rock was so blackened by salt and seawater, Harry was actually past the sign before his mental alarm started clanging.

He eased back a notch, wiped one hand over the rock's surface. Then he used the same hand to swipe at his eyes. Making sure it wasn't a figment or an illusion or a dream to balance out his nightmares in the cage.

The sign stayed right where it was. A stone fish rudely carved into the face, about two-thirds of the way up.

“Emma!”

“Yo.”

“Come give me a hand.”

“I'm not done.”

Harry took a deep breath. Filled his lungs with the iodine stench of rotting seaweed and the strong flavor of sea. And the special taste of gold.

He called down, “Yes, you are.”