Choke Point (25 page)

“Not really,” she answered. “Not with all the rain.”

“I assume,” Simon said, “they were either British or Irish?”

Atherton frowned, a slightly wary look. “And why would you assume that?”

Simon hesitated, not wanting to overshadow the man in front of the woman he intended to marry. “Well, I…I just assumed if Robbie was with them, they were from the same country.” Probably from the same military unit—ex-SAS, working as mercenaries—but he kept those thoughts to himself. “And most of this stuff—” He motioned toward the toiletries. “—is British.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Mercenaries, I’ll bet.” He turned to Kyra, who was sorting through the pills. “A clear chain of command? One man in charge?”

“No question,” she answered. “A real hardass type. Shaved head, late forties, early fifties. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, but not someone I’d want to meet in a dark alley.” She selected three identical pills and handed them to Simon. “Acetaminophen. That should help kill your fever.”

“Thanks.” He popped the pills, swallowing them dry. “You see anything else?”

“Such as?”

“Fishing village? Inhabitants? Boats?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. The weather’s too bad to see anything offshore, and the island’s deserted. I made it from one end to the other, somewhere around three miles. It couldn’t have been more than a mile across at the widest.”

“Food?” The question, Simon realized, didn’t matter that much; if they didn’t find a way to escape this island trap, and fast, they would end up dead long before they starved. “Water?”

“Plenty of wild fruit,” she answered. “We should probably save the trail mix for emergencies. And with all this rain…” She shrugged, not bothering to state the obvious, and pulled a tube of Polysporin ointment from the first-aid kit. “Here. You need to take care of those scratches. The last thing you need is to get an infection in this climate. You could be dead in a matter of days.”

Atherton let out a kind of croak, somewhere between a laugh and the grunt. “Days! How could it take days. There have to be people looking for us.”

“I’m sure they’re looking,” Kyra answered. “The question is where? Whoever sabotaged the plane knew what they were doing. I’d be very surprised if they didn’t disable the emergency transponder as well.”

Simon would have bet his left testicle on that. “And this weather won’t help matters.”

“But what about radar?” Atherton asked. “They must have seen us go down.”

“Probably not,” Kyra answered. “We never declared an emergency. And since we were flying VFR, it’s doubtful they were tracking us.”

“VFR?”

“Visual flight rules. We didn’t file a flight plan.”

A look of dismay flashed across Atherton’s face. “No flight plan? Why?”

Not that it made a difference now, Simon thought, but he couldn’t blame the man for asking. “A flight from mainland China to Taiwan would have prompted too many serious questions. And with that—” He nodded toward his pockmarked security case. “I couldn’t very well explain the Crest of Ch’in to just any old customs agent.”

“You’re saying no one has any idea where we are?”

“That’s very possible,” Simon admitted, feeling more than a little responsible. “I should have done this alone.”

Atherton waved the apology away. “It’s no one’s fault. I insisted on coming.”

“Hey, it could be worse,” Kyra said, clearly trying to put a good face on a bad situation. “We’re near the Lema Channel, so there’ll be plenty of marine traffic. Fishing boats as well as freighters.” She turned to Simon. “Right?”

He nodded, visualizing the map in his mind. “I’m guessing we’re on or near Er Zhou. It’s one of the larger islands in the Dangan Liedao chain. And the highest, if I remember right. Once the weather clears it shouldn’t be that difficult to flag down a boat.”

Atherton rolled his eyes. “This is typhoon season. We might not see the sun for days.”

As if on cue, the clouds reopened and the rain began to fall; silver-black sheets instantly transformed the gray afternoon into a charcoal twilight. No one said anything, staring at the downpour in morose silence until Atherton broke the spell. “Okay, let’s review our options.” He said it as if they had a good selection to choose from.

“Our only option,” Simon answered, “is to flag down a boat, and that’s not going to happen until the weather clears. And it’s not going to happen from here. We need to find a place within sight of the water.”

Kyra nodded. “We might be able to find a spot somewhere along the western end of the island. The coastline is pretty rugged over there.”

“I agree,” Atherton said, sounding very much like he didn’t. “Our options are limited, but we’re not going to survive out here playing hide-and-seek.”

As much as Simon hated to admit it, the man was right. “You have something in mind?”

“Maybe. To start, we need to determine what they want. That’s the first step in any negotiation.”

“Negotiation!” Kyra stared the wide stare of disbelief. “I can tell you what they want! They want us dead!”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s only a starting point, and we’re interested in the end result.” He smiled and gave her a wink. “And I’m a very good negotiator.” He turned to Simon, the smile growing wider. “That’s what
I
do for a living.”

Simon finally realized where the man was heading. “You’re suggesting we buy our way out?”

“Why not?” He didn’t wait for a response. “They’re mercenaries. We’ll just offer them a better deal. A better end result.”

He made it sound easy, but Simon knew better. The men on the beach might be mercenaries, but the reason behind everything—the accidents at the Pearl, the attack on Big Jake, the massacre at the home of Mei-li Chiang, and the downing of the plane—wasn’t
just
about money. “I’m not sure there’s enough money to buy our way out of this.”

“Are you kidding?” He looked at Kyra and smiled. “I can think of two people who would pay about anything to get their little girl back.”

Though Simon knew it was true, it was obvious from Kyra’s tight-mouthed expression she didn’t like being referred to as a chip on the bargaining table. “Yes, they would,” Simon conceded, trying to sound agreeable as he disagreed. “And I’m not saying the idea isn’t without merit, but sometimes it’s not about money.”

“Of course it’s about money. It’s always about money. That’s what mercenaries do…they sell their services to the highest bidder.”

“Except that their
services,
as you put it, have already been contracted for. If they let us go, they’ll end up being hunted themselves.”

Atherton lifted his hands and hunched his shoulders, as if to say this was only a minor detail. “It’s a matter of risk and reward. We appeal to their greed. I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

Simon couldn’t decide if the man was being foolishly brave, or showing off for his intended. “You’re willing to meet with them?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what if it’s the crest they’re after?”

“Then we give it to them. What’s the problem?”

“They’d destroy it. That’s why the plane was sabotaged.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because no one knew you or Kyra would be onboard.” He could see in Kyra’s expression that she had come to the same conclusion. “And I’m not important enough to have been the target.”

Atherton hesitated, staring into rain, as if listening to something just out of hearing, then shrugged. “So they destroy it. It’s certainly not worth our lives.”

“Isn’t it?” Simon asked, wondering what happened to bravery and honor and showing off for your one true love. “It’s the linchpin to the Alliance. A new peace between Taiwan and China. Wars are fought over less. Most people would consider that worth the cost.”

“Well, I don’t happen to be one of them.”

Kyra wrinkled her nose, as though she had suddenly noticed a flaw in what she thought was a perfectly cut diamond. “Speak for yourself.”

“You’re serious?” Atherton asked. “You’d rather die than give up that broken piece of rock?”

“It’s a decision I’d rather not make.”

He shook his head, a look of disappointment. “Well, we have to do something. We can’t just wait for some boat to happen along. Not in this weather.”

“No,” she agreed, “we can’t.” She reached over and picked up the night-vision goggles. “I’m going down there. See if I can figure out what they’ve got planned.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

An Island in the South China Sea

Wednesday, 11 July 21:26:28 GMT +0800

Hidden beneath a blanket of darkness and driving rain, her nose not more than an inch off the ground, Kyra edged forward over the slippery leaves, toward the only source of light: a faint glow just inside the line of trees that bordered the shoreline. Above her, the sky was blank and unblemished, not a single star or speck of light, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet, the shadowed outline of the trees purple-black against the sand and smoky-gray water. She had tried to use the night-vision goggles, but they were too cumbersome in the muck and she abandoned the effort. Despite the downpour, the air remained hot and thick with the smell of seawater and the fecund scent of earth and rotting vegetation. Too wet, she hoped, for the bugs and nightcrawlers.

She took another shallow breath and pulled herself forward, the mossy green carpet absorbing the sound of her movement. The effort, she realized, would probably be for naught, the sound of the rain too loud to overhear any conversation; but she felt compelled to try, to go back with
something,
to prove she had the nerve.
Prove?
To whom?

Atherton?
Maybe, but she didn’t like the feeling that she
had
to.

Leonidovich?
No, he accepted her as she was—the good and the bad.

Herself?
Probably, that same old pressure to “beat the boys.” She glanced up, readjusted her angle to the light—
fifty more yards
—then put her head down and slithered forward.

She had barely moved a yard, when suddenly, without so much as a slackening whimper, the rain stopped, as if someone had changed the weather channel. The cathedral-like hush seemed even louder than the downpour, the silence broken only by the irregular patter and drip of water off the trees and drooping ferns. She grabbed a quick peek at the sky, surprised to see an outline of clouds and a floodlight of stars.
Shit,
of all the damn luck!

As her eyes adjusted to the light, a number of large dark shapes began to materialize around her. What the…? Then she realized…one-man pup tents, three on one side, two on the other.
God almighty!
She had somehow managed to drag herself into the middle of their camp.
Don’t panic!
But even as she thought it, her heart began to flutter and pound, threatening to explode through her chest. She swallowed back the metallic taste of fear and forced herself to breathe, filling her lungs, then letting it go…long and slow…silent.
Don’t panic!
She glanced behind her, measuring the distance, trying to decide whether to move forward or retreat.

You got the guts, little girl?
The voice echoed through her head, her father’s words the first day she took flying lessons. Oh, how she hated those words. So easy for him—the invincible Big Jake Rynerson—but that was then, and now he was lying in a coma, maybe dead, and it was up to her.
You got the guts, little girl?

Yes, Daddy, I do.
She put her head down, dug her fingers into the soft earth and started to pull herself forward when a sound not more than ten yards away froze her to the spot. From the corner of her eye she could see a man crawling from one of the tents, naked except for dark-green boxer shorts, and one of those copper arthritis bracelets on his left wrist. He stood up, a big man—his legs the size of small palm trees, his biceps nearly as large—turned his head, then hawked and spit and farted, a loud and rolling eruption that would have registered a good 9.4 on the Richter scale of flatulence.

There was an instant bellow from another tent. “Joisus H. Christ, Paddy, put a cork in that bleedin’ hole!”

The big man grinned, took a deep breath, bent forward in a semi-squat, and pushed out another sputtering blast. Despite her fear, Kyra had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Men!
Were they all so gross and immature?
Probably,
so why would she want to share her life with one of the beasts? Before she could consider the question, the man pulled out his penis—a female killer if one ever existed—and began hosing down the wildlife around his tent: the male ape marking his territory. He expelled another eruption of gas—not more than a 6.2—wagged his meaty monster back and forth like a windshield wiper, then stuffed it back into his boxers and disappeared into the tent.

She waited at least five minutes, until her heart had regained its natural rhythm, then took a shallow breath and began to slide forward over the wet ground.
Be the snake.
She pulled herself over a hump of a tree root, but as careful as she was, without the rain to cover up the sounds every tiny movement seemed to produce a thundering avalanche of water from the jungle-like foliage, and it took nearly an hour before she was close enough to the light to see or hear anything.

Edging herself between the fronds of two broadleaf ferns, she found herself no more than ten yards from what appeared to be a combination of field kitchen and command center: a rectangular table with aluminum legs, four fold-up canvas chairs, boxes of food and supplies. Everything was neatly arranged within a large canopied enclosure with rolled-up sides. A small lantern, tampered down to a yellow glow, hung suspended within a tightly stacked cove of boxes, which hid the light from the water and the possibility of being seen from any passing ships. Directly below the lantern, sitting sideways to her position, the man with the shaved head sat hunched over the table, absorbed in what appeared to be a small stack of satellite photos. Wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and lightweight hiking boots, his deeply tanned and well-toned body glistened with sweat, reminding her of Yul Brynner in
The King and I.