Choke Point (36 page)

“I uh…I’m alone. I thought I might need a weapon.”

“Yeah, I can see you’re alone. Where did your friend go?”

“I told you…I don’t—”

Fosseler raised his gun, pointing it directly at her face. “I’m not asking you again, lady.”

“He went looking for his case.”

“His case?” Fosseler repeated. “Are you talking about the black case that Atherton guy carried in here?”

Kyra stared back at the man, a look of utter astonishment. “He brought it here?”

Fosseler ignored the question. “What’s so bloody important about that case?”

“I—” She hesitated, as if reluctant to say, then seemed to realize she didn’t have a choice. “It contains a set of rare Chinese medallions. Ming dynasty. Gold. They were hidden in the lining.”

“That right?” Fosseler said, his tone a mixture of interest and skepticism. “How rare?”

“One of a kind.”

“What the bloody hell are they worth, lady? That’s what I’m askin’.”

Kyra hunched her shoulders. “Eighteen…twenty million…maybe more.”

Fosseler nodded slowly, thinking about it, then he stepped back, moving into the middle of the enclosure but not taking his eyes off Kyra. “Don’t move.” He glanced around, eyes searching. “Trust me, lady, I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

“I believe you,” she answered, “but that would be a terrible mistake. For you, I mean.” The man narrowed his eyes and she pointed toward the canopy above his head. “Can’t you smell it?”

He glanced up just as Simon yanked the rope, the heavy material collapsing over the man before he could move. Kyra dove behind the wall of supplies as Simon threw off the tarp and scrambled to his feet. “You hear me, Catman?” He could see the man’s crouched form, the barrel of his gun poking against the stiff fabric. “You move and I’ll open up with this machine gun!” Simon started to circle, watching as the man tried to follow his voice with the gun. “You smell it? That canopy is soaked with gas!” He reversed direction, not giving Fosseler a chance to anticipate his movements. “You understand?”

“You can bloody well go to hell!”

“You fire that gun and that’s just exactly where you’re going—a one-way trip to the big furnace! You get the picture?”

The man growled a response, the words incoherent.

“I didn’t hear that!”

“Yeah,” the man screamed, “I hear ya!”

Simon kept moving, not letting Fosseler get a fix on his location. “On the ground! Hands stretched out in front of you!”

The man hesitated, the barrel of his gun jerking first in one direction, then the other.

Kyra poked her head around the wall of boxes. “Go ahead, Simon! Light him up!”

“No!” Fosseler screamed, his body dropping to the ground. “I’m down! I’m down!”

“Okay,” Simon yelled, circling around behind the man. “You can crawl toward the edge, but if I see anything but the butt end of your gun emerge from that tarp, I’m going to open fire. You understand?”

“These bloody fumes are killing me! I can’t breath!”

“Then do as I say,” Simon shouted, “and you’ll survive!”

The man began to slither forward, coughing and choking.

“Take it slow!” Simon warned, trying to create a verbal distraction as Kyra crept forward to take the gun. “Don’t do anything stupid! That’s far enough! Push the gun out!”

The butt end of the gun emerged from beneath the material and Kyra snatched it away.

“Okay,” Simon yelled, “you can come out!”

He came out spitting and gagging, his eyes so burned from the fumes he couldn’t open them until they had him zip-tied to a chair and doused his face with water. He stared up at them through red narrow slits, his hands clenching and unclenching. “You’re gonna pay for this. You can start thinkin’ about that.”

Kyra leaned close, staring at the man as if she had just discovered a new subspecies of primate. “Not very smart.”

“Up your bleedin’ ass, lady.”

“Downright ignorant,” Simon agreed.

“I’m gonna watch your balls rot off.”

It was time, Simon decided, for a little attitudinal correction. He reached down, plucked one of the Molotov cocktails from the box, pulled out the rag stopper, and poured the contents onto the man’s lap. “Let the rotting begin.”

“You fuckin’ asshole!”

Simon held up the oily, gas-infused rag. “The next time you speak, this is going in your mouth.”

The man glared back his response, his face purple with the effort of not saying what he clearly wanted to say.

Simon leaned down next to the man’s ear, speaking in a low voice, a little man-to-man secret sharing. “Here’s the deal, Catman…I don’t like you…I don’t like your friends. But, because of her—” He nodded toward Kyra. “I’d kinda like to show off my benevolent side. So, I’m going to give you a chance. One chance only. And just between you and me, I hope you screw up, because I really do wanna see you burn.” Simon chuckled softly, trying hard to sell his craziness. “I want to hear you beg and scream. I want to hear your balls pop and your skin crackle. You get the picture?”

The man nodded, eyes wide, as if seeing Simon for the first time.

“So, I’m going to ask you a number of questions. And you’re going to answer them truthfully and without hesitation. If you do that…well, shit, then I don’t get to see you do that screaming Joan of Arc thing.” Simon dropped his voice to an even lower whisper. “But if you screw up, if you hesitate—” He chuckled again, the sound a bit maniacal even to his own ears. “Then I’m gonna toss a match. Clear?”

Fosseler nodded rapidly.

Simon straightened up. “Okay, first question. Where did you leave the boat?”

The man hooked his chin toward the south. “About two hundred yards.”

Kyra handed Simon the gun. “I’ll check it out.” She took off at a run.

Simon tucked the automatic into his waistband and turned back to Fosseler. “And your buddies are sitting out there waiting for an all-clear…?”

Fosseler nodded again. “I’m supposed to call ‘em on the radio.”

“And say what?”

“We didn’t have a code, if that’s what you mean.”

“Okay, here’s what you’re
going
to say: ‘I got the bloody bastards. Come on in.’ I suggest you say it with meaning. You think you can do that, Catman?”

“I ain’t bloody stupid.”

Simon gave the man a little smile. “You better hope so.” He pulled the chair around, so Fosseler’s back was to the beach, then placed one of the twenty-liter containers of gasoline next to his chair. “I’m going to be sitting right behind you in the rocks. If something goes wrong…you try to warn them…my first shot—” He kicked the side of the container. “—right here. And just so you know, I was captain of the pistol team in college.”
Thank you, Jimmy boy.

The man nodded, his head drooping to one side, like a sick animal.

Kyra came trudging up the beach, panting and out of breath. “It’s there.”

“Fuel?” Simon asked.

“Almost full.”

“Then let’s do it.” He held the radio up to Fosseler’s mouth. “Be smart,” he warned, and pressed the
TALK
button.

“I got the bloody bastards,” Fosseler growled. “You can come in.”

Robbie responded within seconds.
Beep.
“What happened?”
Beep.

“Tell him he’s breaking up,” Simon said. “Just keep saying the same thing: ‘It’s okay. You can come in.’”

Fosseler did as instructed, repeating the message twice before Robbie gave up. Kyra looped a piece of rope over Fosseler’s head, pulled it into his mouth, and tied it behind his head. “Be good, now, my friend’s an excellent shot.” She gave Simon a wink, then picked up the box of homemade bombs and headed toward the outcropping of rocks where they had first come ashore.

Simon gave Fosseler a little wink, then reached down and tapped the red container with the pistol. “Nice target.”

By the time he reached the rocks, he could hear the faint whine of the outboard. “You better take off, Rynerson, we’ve only got a few minutes.”

“I’m still not convinced these things will break when they hit that rubber boat.”

“It won’t matter. The jolt will be enough to release the gas.”
Hopefully.
“They’ll be trapped here.”

“Maybe you should use the gun.”

“I’ve never fired a pistol in my life. Chances are I’d never hit the damn thing.” He picked up one of the bottles, testing the weight. “This is perfect.”

“I could try. I don’t think Robbie would shoot me.”

“Forget that.” He had a feeling she would make the suggestion. “We can’t be sure where they’ll come in, and I can throw farther than you.” He pulled the automatic. “Take this.”

“Don’t be crazy. You might need it.”

“I have no intention of sticking around long enough to use it, and I’m not about to get into a gun-battle with professionals.” Those professionals, he realized, were getting closer, the engine whine growing louder by the second. “If something goes wrong, you take off. Don’t put yourself in jeopardy.”

She hesitated, reluctant, then took the gun. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. The minute you hear the explosion, start the engine, I’ll be coming fast.”

She leaned forward and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll pull the boat this way as far as I can.”

He moved deeper into the rocks—a well-protected spot with a good escape path—placed the bottles and a half-dozen wooden kitchen matches within easy reach, then hunkered down to wait. The engine was now a high-pitched wail, the light bouncing over the surface of the water and coming straight on, the men apparently oblivious to any threat.

Threat,
was he really a threat? The plan had sounded reasonable, but now that it was about to happen, it seemed full of holes and wishful thinking. What if they stopped offshore and tried the radio again? What would they do when no one answered?

What if he couldn’t make the throw? What if he missed? Would there be time for a second?

Then it was too late to second-guess…everything going silent as Robbie cut the engine, the Zodiac scraping onto the sand, half in, half out of the water. Robbie jumped out of the boat, Chricher only a step behind, apparently recovered from his trip to la-la land.

Simon waited until the men were halfway up the beach, then lit the rag on the nearest bottle, stood up, took careful aim, and let it fly. The bottle rotated slowly in the air, end over end, like a Fourth of July pinwheel, then bounced off the side of the buoyancy chamber and splashed harmlessly into the water.
Damn!
As he crouched down, Simon saw Robbie spin and drop, gun extended, searching for a threat.

One more,
he had to try. He took a deep breath, pictured the throw in his mind, recalculated the arc, then lit the second bottle and stood up. Robbie leaped to his feet, taking aim, but Simon forced away the image, extended his arm back behind his head, then stepped forward and released just as Robbie fired.
Brrrang!
The bullet ricocheted off a large boulder behind Simon’s head, spraying rock fragments across his back, but he couldn’t turn away…had to watch the bottle as it arced toward the boat…
too long
…but only by a couple of feet, the bottle hitting the outside chamber and bouncing back into the air. It seemed to hang for a moment, then dropped into the bottom of the Zodiac with an impotent
thump.
Simon hesitated, considered one more try, then realized Robbie was on the run, closing the distance between them. As Simon spun around, already picturing his route through the rocks, he heard a muffled
WHUMP
as the gas ignited.
Thank you, Jesus!

He could now hear the small outboard, not more than hundred yards, but Robbie was less than fifty back.
Run, Leonidovich! Run!
It felt like he was plowing through crusted snow, the sand dissolving into tiny sinkholes beneath his feet, the harder he pushed the deeper the holes. Now he could see the small inflatable…
fifty yards
…idling just offshore.
Brrrang!
A bullet whistled past his ear, and he swerved to the left.
Brrrang!
Then Kyra opened fire, the gun pointing at the sky—
pop-pop-pop
—the sound less deadly, her voice rising above the reverberations. “Don’t do it, Robbie! You haven’t killed anyone! Please! Don’t do it!”

Simon plowed through the water, grabbed a quick peek over his shoulder—shocked to see Robbie less than ten yards behind—and dove into the boat. Kyra opened the throttle, and the small Zodiac leaped forward. Simon pushed himself into a sitting position, helpless to do anything as Robbie stopped and cradled his gun…taking careful aim…then his shoulders slumped and he dropped his arm, watching until they disappeared into the darkness.

Kyra threw back her head and howled, a mixture of relief and triumph. “We made it!”

Simon nodded, too exhausted to feel anything.

She cranked back on the power, her expression mutating from elation to self-reproach. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I should have realized you wouldn’t feel much like celebrating.”

Sorry?
“What are you talking about, Rynerson?”

“You know…losing the crest…the publicity…all that. What it will do to your reputation.”

He smiled to himself, barely able to keep from laughing. “Well, you don’t need to worry about that, Rynerson. The only thing I lost was one of those fake reproductions from the Pearl.”

Her mouth went slack, as if caught between expressions.

“There was obviously an information leak,” he went on quickly, realizing he had just taken a giant step onto thin ice. “I couldn’t take the chance of losing the thing, so I made other arrangements to have the pieces picked up and delivered.”

Her nostrils flared, as though she had just gotten a whiff of deceit. “Other arrangements! Are you kidding me? All this time we’ve been carrying around a fake? Risking our lives for—”

“No,” he interrupted, “it wasn’t like that. That piece of rock was the only thing keeping us alive. As long as we had something they wanted, we had a chance.”

“So we were—” She faltered, clearly struggling to put it all together. “What? A diversion?”

“Not
we.
You weren’t supposed to be on the plane. I tried to talk you out of it.”