JET - Ops Files (23 page)

The terrorist tensed as he brushed past, perhaps sensing her in the gloom, and then she was grappling with him as he twisted with an alarmed cry, trying to get loose. Her left hand gripped his greasy hair, and she slammed the heel of her hand into the base of his neck, forcing a grunt of pain and silencing him as he pulled free and lunged away, his hand fumbling for his gun. Her foot caught him squarely between the legs, and he made a sound like a hurt puppy. She instantly followed with two brutal blows to his kidneys with stiffened fingers.

He pitched forward onto the deck, and the side of his head struck the metal with a thump. She dropped down hard on him with her knee in the small of his back, eliciting a muffled groan of pain. His hand groped feebly at the bulge in his pocket, but Maya smashed his skull against the steel, again and again, until he lay still.

One of the crewmen stuck his head out of the pilothouse door to investigate the commotion and froze, his eyes saucered in the moonlight at the sight of a soaking wet woman glaring hate at him as she stood over the terrorist’s body.

And then she was in motion, pulling the gun free with a rip of fabric, and he found himself staring down the Walther PPK’s barrel.

Maya motioned with the pistol for him to step out of the pilothouse, and to her surprise he complied, the terror in his eyes genuine. He began babbling in his native tongue, but she held a finger to her lips, and he quieted. His gaze strayed from the gun to the body, and he began trembling. Maya approached him, and he closed his eyes, his lips quivering. One hard blow to the temple with the gun butt and he fell to the walkway, unconscious.

She stepped over him and swung into the pilothouse, where an older man sat smoking at a small table, a soda can on its scarred wood surface. Maya whispered to him in Arabic.

“How many crew?”

He shook his head, cigarette frozen in his hand midway to his mouth.

She tried again in French. Nothing.

Her plan hadn’t factored in a failure to communicate. The man leaned forward and said a single word.

“Engrish.”

Maya nodded. “How many men inside?”

He held up three fingers.

“Any guns?”

He shook his head, not understanding. She pointed to the Walther. He shook his head again.

“Call them. No tricks or I shoot you first.”

He nodded and barked a few words down the ladder that led to the galley and bunks. Her eyes narrowed at the sound of movement below her, and then the first of the fishermen poked his head out of the passageway. She held the pistol behind her, out of view, and he climbed up, followed by two more crewmen – thin, obviously poor, their skin sun-burnished the color of saddle leather.

Maya showed the men the gun and gestured for them to go outside. They didn’t need coaxing after seeing the weapon. She wagged the gun at the smoking man, whom she presumed was the captain.

“Out.”

He rose and walked to the open doorway, hesitated as though he was going to say something, and then continued through. The men were standing alongside the pilothouse staring at the downed crewman. Maya addressed the captain.

“Have them carry him to the deck. He’ll live. But toss the dead one overboard.”

The captain barked an order, and two of the men complied, lifting their companion and carrying him aft while the captain and the third crewman picked the dead terrorist up by the arms and feet and slung him unceremoniously over the rail. Maya watched the body float away and then followed the men to the dark rear deck. The crewman she’d struck had come to, and the captain was kneeling by him, checking his pupils. Maya spoke slowly.

“Get net floats. You’re going swimming. You can reach the shore in an hour, but stay away from the buildings. They’ll shoot you. By tomorrow it will be safe.”

The captain stood and snapped at his men, who retrieved five circular orange floats. Maya held the gun on him. “Over the side.”

The men scrambled over the gunwale and dropped into the water with a splash. She watched them paddle away and then tucked the gun into her waistband and hurried to the pilothouse. After a quick scan of the area, she spotted what she was after and dropped down into the crew area, where she found a tin of kerosene for the stove and a metal toolbox. She opened it, removed a screwdriver and a hammer, and carried the tools and the kerosene to the engine compartment. Once inside, Maya felt around in the dark space and located the massive stainless steel fuel tank. She removed the line that carried fuel to the engine and punched a hole through the top of the tank with the screwdriver and hammer. Diesel began trickling out of the hose line. Two more holes in the side of the tank and streams of fuel were gushing into the engine bilge.

The stink of diesel now overwhelming, she backed out of the compartment and poured kerosene along the floor of the passage, and then dumped the remainder on the galley floor. She ascended the ladder that led back to the pilothouse and detached the flare gun from its position on the wall, and was preparing to insert a flare into its fat barrel when she heard a thump from the stern.

Maya backed away from the pilothouse doorway to the opposite side of the cabin as an outboard motor revved and moved away from the fishing vessel. She held her breath as cautious footsteps sounded on the deck. Her eyes swept the pilothouse for an escape route, the kerosene fumes wafting from the companionway nearly choking her as the footsteps approached.

~ ~ ~

Wira watched the skiff that had ferried him to the fishing boat return to the villa, quickly disappearing in the darkness, its engine droning. The boat was eerily quiet as he approached the dimly lit pilothouse.

“Putra?” he called. “Have the captain pull the dinghy up, and let’s get going.” When he reached the doorway, he was surprised to find the pilothouse empty. He cocked his head, listening. Everyone had to be downstairs.

He entered and the odor of kerosene assaulted him. “What the hell…?”

He heard movement behind him and spun as he whipped a revolver from his jacket pocket. His shot went wide, ricocheting off the metal bulkhead, narrowly missing the soaking wet young woman in the doorway pointing a gun at him.

The Walther barked twice and searing pain spiked through his chest. He tried to squeeze off another shot, but his fingers wouldn’t obey his brain’s command. A third shot rang out from the woman’s gun, and an icy stab of agony flashed in his left eye, and then he fell backward, dead before his head slammed against the steel floor.

Maya approached the corpse and stood over it, pausing to toe the revolver away from the body before finishing her hasty preparations.

The hatch that sealed the hold required substantial effort to open. The twenty-liter can filled with gasoline for the dinghy outboard took less. After pushing the hatch aside, she lowered herself into the stinking hold and quickly found the crate. The hammer and screwdriver made short work of the wood, and she pried the lid off easily, revealing white polystyrene peanuts within. She cleared away several handfuls and saw a glint of blue metal from a container nestled in the protective foam.

The canister was heavier than she would have thought, the steel thick enough to prevent accidental punctures. She heaved it above and slid it onto the deck, and then clambered out of the hold, anxious to draw the clean sea air into her lungs.

Two minutes later the canister rested in the engine room. She returned to the pilothouse and dumped gasoline down the companionway and into the galley. Leaving a wide trail as she moved along the exterior walkway, she finally sloshed the last of it onto the deck, the raw fumes causing her eyes to water.

She dropped to where the first terrorist’s dinghy was tied to the side of the fishing boat. After she’d rowed it ten meters from the larger vessel, she started the motor. The little engine idled quietly as she pointed the flare gun at the rear deck, steadied her aim, and fired. The white hot phosphorous streaked toward the boat and struck the superstructure before it bounced off and landed on the deck.

The gasoline ignited with a whoosh, and Maya watched as fire followed her trail of fuel and engulfed the pilothouse, tongues of orange flame licking from the open doorways.

She put the outboard in gear and twisted the throttle, putting distance between herself and the boat, and was fifty meters away when the diesel caught, followed by an explosion from deep inside the hull as the compressed gas in the canister superheated and detonated.

Chapter 35

Nahir beamed as he watched the singer bop and strut, the aging icon’s stovepipe black jeans and red jacket gliding along the stage with practiced ease, his rooster-spiked chemically blond hair gleaming in the spotlight as his band brought the song to a crescendo. Nahir absently fondled Courtney’s behind with his hand, and was about to say something when a boom sounded from across the water and a mushroom cloud of flame ballooned into the night several kilometers away.

The crowd gasped and began applauding, thinking the fireworks that ended the live entertainment portion of his fête had begun early, but Nahir’s expression as he swung around looking for Carla was anything but amused. She caught his eye and hurried to his side as the band played on, committed to delivering every dime of their host’s million dollars’ worth of entertainment.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed as she sidled next to him.

“I have no idea. It looks like one of the anchored boats might have caught fire.”

“Idiots,” he said, unconvinced. He peered at his watch and shook his head. “Offer my condolences to my guests. Tell them I was called away for an emergency. I’ll return soon.”

“You’re leaving?” she asked, surprised.

“I think that’s prudent. I don’t believe in coincidences, so better safe…”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, Nahir?”

“Probably nothing. Like you said, a boat. Someone smoking where they shouldn’t have been. Happens all the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“When will you be back?” Carla asked.

“Shortly. When I’m sure what happened. See to it that the booze keeps flowing, and offer my apologies.”

Nahir took a final glance at the singer and edged through the crowd to the villa, where Gohar was already standing by the pocket doors speaking into a radio, his eyes locked on his master.

~ ~ ~

Maya beached the dinghy and was running on the sand before the sound of the dying motor’s sputter had faded. She’d almost made it when a glaring white light flicked on and framed her in its beam, blinding her. She was reaching for the Walther when an amplified voice called out in English.

“Don’t try it. There are rifles trained on you. Toss the weapon onto the sand, or we’ll cut you down.”

She hesitated.

“Do it. Final warning.”

Maya removed the little pistol from the waist of her pants and dropped it next to her.

“Lie face down. Now.”

Maya did as instructed. Running footsteps approached, and then a blow struck the back of her head, knocking her senseless.

Chapter 36

When Maya regained consciousness she was tied to a wooden chair, her wrists bound to the arms with nylon cord. The air felt heavy and oppressive, like a leaden blanket, and her nose detected a familiar odor – the repugnant stench of Natasha’s cell. She opened her eyes to find Nahir studying her like something out of a test tube. Next to him a thin man with a malevolent smirk stood with his arms crossed, a cigarette trailing tendrils of smoke dangling from his lips, an attack dog waiting for the command to kill.

Nahir stepped forward, his glare more annoyed than enraged, and casually backhanded her. She licked a fleck of blood from her lower lip but didn’t offer him any other reaction, her eyes dead.

“It appears you’ve had a busy night, my dear. I hope it was worth it,” Nahir sneered. “It will be your last on the planet. Or at least you’ll wish it had been after I get through with you.”

No response.

“I’m going to ask you one time, and then I’ll turn you over to Hamid here. He enjoys hurting young things like you even more than I do, and he’s anxious to begin. So be very careful how you respond. If you tell the truth, I’ll ensure you have a quick, painless death.” Nahir glowered at her. “And don’t pretend you don’t understand. You had to speak English to get the job.”

Maya retreated further into the protective shell of her mind.
Do what you like to my body
, she thought.
You have no power over me in here
.

Nahir cleared his throat and enunciated very carefully. “Who are you working for?”

These are the same animals that savaged Natasha. They deal in death. Don’t give them the satisfaction of a reply
.

Maya blinked but remained silent. Nahir nodded, and Hamid punched her. The blow split the skin over her cheekbone, rattling her teeth and causing her to choke. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled for air, coughing, and the two men watched her with satisfaction. When she was finally able to breathe, she spit blood at Nahir’s feet.

Nahir’s voice was a velvet croon. “I see you don’t understand the rules of the game, or you think you’re some kind of hero. Here’s reality: this isn’t a movie where you escape at the last minute. Unless you tell us what we want to know, you will die in this hellhole when my men get tired of raping and torturing you. I would lead them in this, but you dented my birthday plans, so it would appear prudent to take my leave of the island. But I promise you, you’ll be brutalized in ways you never imagined possible. I’ve instructed Hamid to peel your living skin off and make you eat it for his amusement, and believe me, you’ll be begging for death when he’s finished.” He paused. “And you accomplished nothing. There is still plenty of the gas left, so your sacrifice has been in vain. Now. One. Last. Time. Who are you working for? MI-6? Mossad? CIA?”

Maya closed her eyes, not wanting to know when the next blow came. She was sure that Nahir wasn’t joking about what lay in store for her, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her display any emotion.