Hunter (12 page)

GOZO, MALTA

"There, bitch, take it and wash yourself."

The boss stood over her as one of his lackeys placed a large pail of seawater on the ground. A second dropped soap and a towel. Charly looked up at them, her piercing blue eyes defiant. Despite the exhaustion, exposure to the elements, the fear and abuse, Charlotte-Rose had regained her composure and sense of self. She was not going to spend her last days or moments as a victim. She was stronger than that; much stronger. Her fire had returned. Her parents hadn't brought her up to give in, no matter how dire the circumstances. Lying there, as she had been before they'd roused her, Charly had resolved to stand her ground. It was the only way.

"Hand me that soap and towel and get out," she said as she stood. Her eyes drew level with the boss. "And get me some proper clothes. You mentioned a deal. That means you're just the babysitter. So, whatever's going on, you better start taking care of me!"

The boss leapt forward, frothing with anger. His arm was raised, his hand clenched into a tight fist. Charly didn't budge. Her rebelliousness checked his momentum.

Their eyes locked in seething conflict. One army pitted against another. But this time, the fortunes of 
the underdog, out-gunned, out-maneuvered and on the verge of defeat, had turned. Tenacity had taken on brutality and was holding ground.

"Get - me - some - fucking - clothes!" Charly demanded.

The boss, hysterical with anger, pushed his face so close to hers that his rancid breath assailed her. Spit sprayed across her fair cheeks as his breathing raged through jagged rows of clenched yellow teeth. The knuckles of his fist, still high above, showed white through the flesh of his shaking brown hand.

"Boss, no!" cried one of the lackeys, worried. "They'll be here soon."

Their eyes remained locked, neither willing to withdraw back to neutral territory.

Finally, the fist relaxed and slowly dropped to his side. A thin attempt at a smile split his pitted face and he sneered and then laughed. The lackeys joined in. Charly remained unmoved.

"Bitch, your little journey is just getting started," he said knowingly. "Be ready to move in half an hour. We will come for you." Then, without taking his eyes from her, he added, "Friggieri, give her the clothes."

The same man who had brought in the soap and towel disappeared outside and returned with clean clothes for Charly: an oversized pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, sweater and pair of loafers. Much better than what they'd kept her in over the past days. He dropped them near her and grabbed the boss by the arm to lead him away. At first the boss balked at the attempt to move him but then, thinking better of it, spat on the ground at her feet and stormed out of the cave.

When they had finally left her alone, Charly's
knees buckled and she fell to the ground, shaking. The adrenalin overload finally got  the better of her.

In the distance she could hear an aircraft engine.

It was getting closer.

Chapter 30

Morgan felt every bump, pothole and divot in the road. Despite having barely enough room in the trunk of the car for his rib cage to expand and contract, he had spent the best part of the last half an hour feeling as though he was stuck in the spin cycle of a washing machine.

He was still monitoring the vehicle's movement and judging by the number of times they'd had to slow down for turns and to pull over so larger vehicles could get past and the fact that there'd been many more left turns than right, he surmised that they'd traveled mostly narrow sealed roads, heading west. The last ten minutes had been over rough, unsealed roads, hence the spin cycle. Given that they were on Malta's northernmost island, Gozo, the route suggested that they'd avoided Gozo's major population center, Victoria, and were out near the coast somewhere.

Morgan was bracing himself as best he could against the constant jarring when the vehicle came to a dead stop. He unfolded his knife and got ready.

He heard mumbling coming from the driver and passenger as the engine shut off. The two front doors opened. One slammed shut.

"Get the bags."

Morgan recognized the voice of the big Serb, barking orders at the younger one. In the background, he could hear the ocean crashing against the coast.

"What about him?" the young Serb asked.
Yeah, what about me? Morgan
mused.

"You can come back for that piece of shit later. We'll drop him out once we get in the air."

Morgan closed the knife and returned it to the inside of his boot, listening while the young guy pulled luggage from the back of the car. There was a definite hierarchy. Obviously, the older guy was too important to do any carrying.

Without knowing exactly where they were located or if anyone else had been left standing guard over the car, Morgan's best bet was to stay put and wait for the chance to make his move when they came back for him.

"What the fuck is going on?" the big Serb demanded in Maltese from inside the entrance to the cave. He'd come to collect his package, but wasn't happy about the condition it was in.

He moved closer to Charly, who was sitting on a rock, her wrists and ankles bound with rope. The bruising around her eyes and mouth was obvious. He grabbed her face with his huge paw, coaxing her to stand and turn so he could see her features more clearly. His eyes wandered hungrily over her face and body. Charly squirmed, terrified of this new arrival.

"Did any of them fuck you?" he asked her in English, loudly enough for the men to hear, although concern for her was not his priority. Charly couldn't answer, her face still clamped in the big Serb's mitt. She shook her head. "But they tried," he said, reading the fire in her eyes. "Which one of you is in charge?" he said, returning to Maltese, still looking at her. Behind him, the three local hoods remained silent.

The big Serb released his grip on her and turned slowly around to face the men. The two lackeys had already withdrawn behind their boss, betraying him, instinctively backing toward the entrance to the cave to save their own skin - self-preservation obviously outweighed loyalty in this trio. The boss remained silent. Charly couldn't understand what had been asked but she could guess. She shrank against the
wall at the back of the cave, trying to make herself invisible.

"All you had to do was babysit and keep her in pristine condition until we came to collect her," said the big Serb. He was moving toward the boss with the lazy self-assuredness of an alpha male about to mark his territory. His tone remained calm and level, never rising beyond conversation volume. "Nobody said anything about roughing her up or making her sleep on the floor like a dog or trying to fuck her. Now look at her. How am I supposed to explain this?" He reached the man. A monstrous hand leapt up from his side and slapped the boss across the side of his face. The impact nearly dropped him, half the size of the big Serb. "You were paid to do a job. You agreed to the conditions but you haven't delivered. What should I do?" Another slap, this time with the other hand to the opposite side of the face. This one sent the boss to the ground.

At the back of the cave, Charly had turned away and had covered her ears to shield herself from the inevitable.

"There's nothing wrong with the bitch," the boss spat insolently from the cave floor. "We kept her here so no-one would find her, just like we were told. So she got roughed up, so what? Who is she anyway?"

The big Serb's silence was more unnerving than hearing him speak. Unhurriedly, he moved just past the boss who remained on the floor, rubbing his face. The big Serb was looking out to sea, seemingly weighing something up. Then without another word, he turned around, grabbed the boss by the collar of his shirt, dragged him back out to the opening of the cave 
and hurled him head first over the precipice. The man was dead before he realized that he was about to be.

The big Serb walked back in to face the two cowering lackeys as if he'd just returned from taking a piss.

"Bring her down to the pier."

Alex Morgan could hear footsteps approaching the car. He recognized the lazy shuffle of the young Serb. Twenty minutes had gone by and he felt like his legs would seize if he couldn't stretch them out soon. But he needed to be ready and finally it seemed like the time had come.

Morgan knew the young Serb would expect to find him still bound and gagged, possibly even semiconscious, when he returned, so surprise was all Morgan had on his side. What he had against him was that having been trussed up for a couple of hours, despite his wrists and ankles now being freed, his body had cramped through lack of movement within the confined space. That, coupled with the position he'd be forced to attack from and the uncertainty of whether or not the guy would be armed or arrive with backup, meant his odds weren't great.

The languid footfalls drew closer and closer, each one sliding into a crunch against the gravel surface of the unsealed road. Listening carefully for others, Morgan was satisfied that the guy was alone. Good. He braced. A dozen possible scenarios flashed through his mind. Morgan squinted his eyes to reduce the sudden impact of the sun's glare upon his vision.

A key slid into the trunk's lock and turned. 

Despite his precaution, the intensity of the sunlight burst into what for the past two hours had been a 
pitch-black void. The glare was overwhelming. But there was no time for adjustment - the threat was immediate. All he could do was react to the silhouette as the trunk opened.

In a brazen move, Morgan's left hand shot up, grabbed the young Serb's wrist and wrenched the arm inward, tipping the man over his center of gravity. At the same time, he launched his other hand for the shirt collar and, grabbing a handful, pulled the man inward hard, smashing the young Serb's face against the straight metal edge of the trunk's open lid. Morgan repeated the move twice more, splitting the Serb wide open across the bridge of the nose.

Morgan exploded from the trunk, kicking the Serb out of the way. The two of them fell in a crumpled heap. Morgan rolled onto his back, finally clear of the confined space. His legs felt like jelly as blood rushed back to them.

The back of the young Serb's head hit the ground first. Dazed, blood streaming down his face, no clue what had just happened, he turned over onto all fours to get up. A kick from Morgan's brown suede boot connected with the side of his head. Unconscious, the man slumped face first into the graveled road.

Morgan stood over him and breathed in a deep, precious lungful of fresh sea air. He spun the Serb onto his back and found his own gun, the SIG Sauer P226, tucked into the waistband of the guy's jeans. Retrieving it, he checked it was still loaded, grabbed the spare magazines that had also been pilfered and re-equipped the paddle holster and mag pouches on his belt. Rummaging through the pockets again he
found his sat phone. He tapped in his security code and was relieved to find the thing still operating. He immediately called Intrepid HQ, got through to the 24/7 operations room, gave his designation number four three - and waited to be patched through to the chief of staff.

"Alex, it's Mila," came the no-nonsense reply. "Chief of staff is still on leave. Tell me what's going on.

"OK, Mila," he began, knowing the conversation would be recorded. "Here we go ..."

Morgan gave her the headlines of everything that had occurred to date, speaking quickly to get as much across as he could within limited time: his inspection of the boat; the blank ammunition he'd found onboard; the captain and the policeman; the address of the house he'd followed them to; the Serbs; and the urgent need, he stressed, to get local law enforcement to him ASAP.

"I'm on the west coast of Gozo island, on the southern end of a large bay." He looked around, trying to get his bearings and recall his memory of the key features of Gozo. "I think it's called—"

"Dwejra Bay, the Azure Window," Mila replied. "I've just pulled it up on Google maps. OK, what do you need?"

"Wait a minute," Morgan said, hearing the piercing scream of a woman in distress, audible above the crashing of the sea along the coast.

He ran to the edge of a small cliff and then, as he strained to get a fix on her location, the splutter of an engine being coaxed to life drew his attention to the water's edge far below.

"Gotta go:" he said. "Get whatever coverage you can to track an aircraft: seaplane, yellow and white with the letters HF on the tail; about to take off from this location. And send some cops. Out."

The seaplane, a de Havilland DHC-3 Turbine Single Otter, was one of a fleet normally hired out for charter flights around the islands of Malta. But today the fleet would be operating minus one. The aircraft had been commandeered, unlawfully, and a new pilot, one more familiar with illicit sorties across borders than tourist joy flights, sat at the controls. The actual owner/operator was lying dead in the Harbour Flight office on the Valletta waterfront with a 9mm slug from a Russian-made Stenchkin automatic buried in his skull.

The DHC-3 was moored next to a long concrete pier. It was out of the way, rarely used and reached far into the water from the end of a narrow dirt track that wound back up into the cliffs.

On the pier the big Serb stood lazily smoking and talking familiarly with a man who obviously spent most of his gangster downtime in a gym. He stood only 5 feet 6 inches but was a ball of steroid-induced muscle mass. His head was completely bald and he wore a thick, dark goatee. His skintight, sleeveless T-shirt suggested he liked the way he looked, too. Muscles had flown in with the seaplane from Valletta and, on the big Serb's orders, was responsible for hijacking it, along with taking care of the loose ends at the Harbour Flight office. The Stechkin was in a dodgy shoulder holster buried under his right armpit.

The big Serb and Muscles watched with detached amusement as the two local lackeys continued their efforts to manhandle Charly aboard. It was a struggle - she was fighting them all the way. The big Serb was boasting about the captured cop they'd brought all the way up from Lija in the trunk. He was impatient to show off his new prisoner.