Read The Curse of the Dragon God Online
Authors: Geoffrey Knight
Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Adventure, #Gay
The Curse of the Dragon God (16 page)
Richard stepped out of his sports car and looked back to where the silver BMW had disappeared. He couldn’t find it among the cluster of other cars.
“Ah! Mr. Conrad! Always a pleasure to see you. Although for a minute there we thought the race was going to start without you.”
“I was—distracted.” Richard stopped craning his neck, trying to see over the parked cars, and now made his way toward a large man in a long white tobe—the robelike tunic of the Persian Gulf states—seated at an old fold-out card table. He was facing the gathering of similarly dressed men who now parted like a biblical sea for Richard to approach. Money quickly exchanged hands as a wave of excitement swept the crowd.
At the card table, the fat man’s kaffiyeh—the traditional Arab headpiece—billowed in a short-lived yet welcome desert breeze. “Let’s hope you regain your concentration quickly,” he said, beaming to Richard, his hands grabbing at money now coming from all sides. “Otherwise you may lose yourself another small fortune.”
“Oh, Jahmar, you know how much I enjoy giving you a reason to smile.”
The smile on the man at the table suddenly brightened, literally, as the sun hit him. A long-missing front tooth, now replaced by a diamond that Richard had recently lost in a bet, shone like a lighthouse.
“Mr. Conrad, what would the Dubai Dune Derby be without you?”
“Still dangerous. Still underground. Still highly illegal,” Richard answered in his plum British accent. “But probably not half as much fun.”
“Well, it’s always
fun
taking your cash,” Jahmar said with a grin. “Or are you still digging into that secret diamond stash of yours?”
fun
taking your cash,” Jahmar said with a grin. “Or are you still digging into that secret diamond stash of yours?”
Richard shot a glance into the excited gathering of men and saw a face at the back of the crowd—sunglasses, short, dark hair, square-chiseled jaw—then answered Jahmar by throwing a small black pouch on the card table. Jahmar cooed, his fingers dancing delicately as they untied the pouch string and poured a night sky of tiny glittering stones across the table. “My, my, that supply of yours seems endless,” he said, reaching under the table to hand Richard a helmet.
“No, not exactly. But enough for two to play.” Richard took the helmet and pulled a second small black pouch from his pocket. He handed it to Jahmar and watched the Arab’s jeweled smile grow even brighter. “I want to enter a new driver in the race.”
“Who?” Jahmar asked, caring less about the answer than about the twinkling diamonds he emptied into his sweaty palm.
Richard turned to face the crowd and pointed assertively. “Him.”
All heads turned, one by one, following Richard’s pointing finger, which seemed to cut a path straight through the group directly to a single man—the last man in the crowd.
Jake Stone.
With all eyes on him, the handsome American cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’ve got me confused with someone else,” he said, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose then quickly turning to head away.
It was all an act. From the brief amount of research Jake had done between San Francisco and Dubai, he had learned that Richard Conrad was a man who enjoyed chasing bait. Jake had deliberately made the catch easy—but he was careful not to make it too easy.
Conrad hastened after him, pushing through the crowd before grabbing hold of Jake’s arm and spinning him around with considerable force.
“Race me,” he challenged. “You’ve been tailing me for the better part of an hour through Dubai. Let’s see if you can keep up on the dunes.”
“I told you, you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
Jake pulled away.
This time Richard overtook him and blocked his path. He offered his hand. “I’m Rich.”
“I could tell.”
“Richard Conrad. And you are?”
“I’m Jake Stone.”
“And
I’m
very rarely mistaken, Mr. Stone. There’s something you want from me. What is it? Work? Fun? Money?”
I’m
very rarely mistaken, Mr. Stone. There’s something you want from me. What is it? Work? Fun? Money?”
“No,” Jake said, giving up the facade and cutting to the chase.
“Then you want answers of some sort. Information. Very well, I’ll tell you anything you want. But first”—Richard thrust the helmet in Jake’s stomach so hard it knocked a grunt out of him—“you’ll have to catch me.”
For a moment Jake hesitated, looking down from Richard’s goading gaze to the helmet, and back again.
“What’s the matter?” Richard mocked. “Ready to give up the game so soon?”
On the contrary, Jake had the feeling the game had only just begun. He threw down his first gauntlet. “Did you know Zhang Sen has been kidnapped?”
Richard raised one eyebrow. “So you do want answers. The first being, yes, of course I knew. He’s a dear friend and business colleague. But if you want to know anything else, that depends entirely on how good you are behind the wheel of one of those.” His head tilted toward the five dented dune buggies glinting in the sun.
Jake took a deep breath and grabbed the helmet. “All right, then. How fast can they go? They look pretty beat-up.”
“For good reason. The Dubai Dune Derby isn’t so much about speed. It’s more about…durability.” Richard then said to Jahmar without taking his charming eyes off Jake, “Jahmar, we’re ready to race!”
With an excited bellow, the oversized Jahmar rose to his feet and announced, “Gentlemen, start your engines!”
Like a wave sweeping along behind them, the crowd followed five men to the waiting buggies. Richard walked alongside Jake, guiding him to a scratched-up oncered vehicle. “The course stretches a quarter of a mile that way. You’ll see a red marker—if you get that far. Then down to the water, along the shore, and over this dune to return here.” As he spoke he pointed to the massive mountain of sand separating them from the sea. “I advise you to climb the last dune as fast as you can, otherwise you’ll lose friction, what little there is. Trust me, when these things topple down a hill that big, they don’t just roll. They bounce. So make sure you’re strapped in properly, otherwise—”
Jake was already climbing into the battered buggy. “Otherwise what?”
Richard gestured to the roll bar above Jake’s head. “See that patch of reddish-brown? That’s not paint. That was Shakil Antoun’s final mistake.”
“I take it he doesn’t mind me driving his car.”
“No, not at all. You automatically forfeit your place when you’re dead.”
“Are there any other rules I should know about?”
“No. In fact there are no rules whatsoever except to finish first. Entry fee is anything over $50,000 and the winner takes all, so you can imagine rivalry gets a little heated at times. But since you’re brave enough to join in the fun, it’s only fair I give you a few tips.” He looked over at the other three drivers now fastening helmet straps and seat belts. “That guy in the yellow-striped buggy over there, his name’s Scalper. Watch him, know where he is at all times, otherwise he’ll jump a dune on your blind side and take the top clean off your bug.”
“Hence the name,” Jake figured.
“Over there,” Richard continued, “getting in the blue buggy, that’s Khalil Khoury—Killer Khoury to his friends.”
“Because he likes to kill?”
“Not as much as he likes to maim. He says it leaves a more lasting impression than death. But Maimer Khoury just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” His gaze moved to the third driver. “And over there, getting in what’s left of that purple buggy, that’s Elvis.”
“Elvis?” Jake looked quizzically at the bald, badly scarred Arab who didn’t look remotely like Elvis at all.
“One day on the track,” Richard explained, “his car was completely demolished, and Elvis there, well, for eight and a half minutes he was actually dead. Then suddenly, in front of everyone’s eyes, he came back to life. If you ask me, I think Death is still chasing him. The question is, how long can he outrun it?”
“What about you?” Jake strapped on the seat belt that formed an
X
across his chest.
X
across his chest.
“Are you asking how long I can outrun Death? Like everything else I do, that’s a race I intend to win.”
“No, I don’t mean Death. I mean, what’s your nickname?”
Richard smiled, took a helmet from Jahmar, and slid it over his blond head. “Me? I don’t need one. My real name carries all the clout I need.” He made his way over to a hammered black dune buggy with a smashed headlight. “Watch for Jahmar, he’ll give the green light. And remember, no rules!”
“No rules,” Jake whispered to himself nervously, putting on his helmet and finding the key already in the ignition. “Jesus Christ, Jake. What the hell are you doin’?”
Jake turned the key and the battered red buggy roared to life. Suddenly the other four buggies did the same. As Jahmar made his way to the front, the crowd fell back, cheering and chattering and exchanging money down to the last second.
Jahmar lifted both arms high in the air. “Gentlemen. On your marks. Get set…”
Engines revved. Clutches burned.
Jake desperately sized up his dead man’s buggy. He found the gears, pedals, gripped the wheel.
“Go!” Jahmar bellowed.
Like a volcanic eruption, the spinning wheels of the five buggies sent so much sand into the air that it momentarily turned the bright white sun into a burnt-out ball in the sky. The engines roared, gears squealed. Then, one by one, the vehicles took off. First Scalper, then Killer, then Richard, then Elvis, and bringing up the rear, red tail still whipping and sliding, was Jake Stone, his fists wrestling desperately with the wheel.
Flying sand stung his face and quickly clouded up his sunglass lenses. Praying he wouldn’t crash into an unseen vehicle, he simply tightened his grip on the wheel, straightened his trajectory, and laid his foot all the way to the floor.
All five buggies rocketed across the blazing desert, speeding over the first undulating dune and setting sail into the air from its sandy peak. They landed one at a time with a crunch and bounce before continuing their charge toward the distant red marker.
Consumed by the dust cloud from the other buggies, Jake began to veer, cautiously, a little to the left, then over to the right, trying to clear the cloud and gain greater visibility. His buggy sloped up a dune, and suddenly he was out of the cloud bank, racing along a sandy ridge parallel to, though still lagging behind, the others.
Up ahead he could see Scalper and Killer vying for the lead, with Richard close behind and Elvis closing in fast. The engines screamed, the wheels devoured the desert. Ahead of them, a stake with a red flag protruded from the ground. Scalper tried to make a clean break, but Killer suddenly veered his buggy toward his competitor and the nose of it clipped the left side of Scalper’s tail bar.
The impact was enough to jolt the rear of the yellow-striped buggy off track, and before he knew it Scalper lost control of his vehicle. He heaved on the wheel, too hard, trying to overcompensate, and the buggy flew into an uncontrollable spin, creating a tornado of sand as it pirouetted off course and out of the lead.
The remaining buggies slipped into single file in their new rankings, first Killer, then Richard, then Elvis. Flying along the ridge, Jake punched his gears, made a swift, smooth descent down the dune, and took fourth place as Scalper’s yellow-striped buggy finally twirled to a halt.
As Jake roared by, Scalper watched him with the menacing gaze of a shark that had just spotted the silver streak of the last fish in a spooked school. He grabbed the wheel in one hand and his gearshift in the other.
Up ahead, Killer’s blue buggy sprayed a wave of sand in the air as it rounded the red marker, turning so fast that it almost flew into a tumble. He maintained control of his car and the lead, heading straight for the turquoise ocean.
Behind him, Richard took the corner with even greater speed and precision, followed by Elvis, whose buggy wobbled precariously for a moment and then stabilized quickly.
In fourth place, Jake took the turn, splitting the difference between caution and speed. As the red marker disappeared behind him he glanced back to see whether Scalper had rejoined the race. But there was no sign of him.
Without taking his hands off the wheel or his foot off the accelerator, Jake instinctively glanced over each shoulder, taking in his blind spots. On the right he saw nothing but the vast desert. On his left there was a low dune.
Jake slammed both feet on the brakes.
The tail of the buggy reared up, the front wheels dug in hard, and the vehicle slid to a long, shuddering stop just as Scalper’s buggy launched itself clean off the dune on the left. The yellow-striped buggy cut low and fast in front of Jake, slicing the air where Jake’s buggy would have been had he not braked.
But instead of scalping the top of Jake’s vehicle, Scalper’s buggy soared straight into a nosedive. Metal crumpled and glass smashed as the buggy’s nose plowed into the ground, the momentum of the jump flipping the vehicle over completely until it crashed flat on its back like an upturned turtle, engine whining and wheels spinning uselessly in the air.
Jake put his buggy into gear and quickly pulled up alongside the smashed car. “Are you all right?” he called, twisting his neck to see Scalper upside down inside the buggy, angrily trying to unbuckle his seat belt while screaming abuse at Jake. Jake let out a karmic chuckle and said to himself, “Yeah, you’re okay.”
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