Don't Look Down

  Nash wheeled around, and J.T. said, "Back off."

  "Fuck you," Nash said and walked off.

  "That was immature," Lucy said. "I liked it. Next time knock him off the damn bridge."

  Wilder punched buttons on the phone, listened, and then said, "It's me. Did you get the coordinates?" He nodded. "She give you any trouble?" He nodded again. "Bring it on in close." He clicked off and then dialed another number.

  "What's going on?" Lucy said.

  "LaFavre got the coordinates from Karen. Someone text messaged them to her on his phone."

  "Karen just gave him her phone?"

  "No." He put his attention back on the phone. "This is Wilder." He held it out so Lucy could hear. Crawford, he mouthed.

  "What?" Crawford said.

  "We got a lot of shit going on here," Wilder said.

  "Just stay out of the way and—"

  "Got a five-year-old girl kidnapped."

  There was a long silence. "There's nothing that can be done about that right now."

  "Letsky is more important than the life of a five-year-old?" Wilder asked, but Lucy could tell he already knew the answer.

  "What did you call for?"

  "I know where the meet is. Got the coordinates. I'll give them to you, if you do something for me."

  "What?"

  "You're missing a Major LaFavre. Supposed to be there in one of your birds."

  "Yeah?"

  "He's not AWOL. You assigned him to me."

  "Hell, I don't care. The coordinates?"

  "You assigned him to me. If he gets any backlash from this, people are going to find out how bad you fucked this up."

  "Okay, hell, fine, I assigned him to you. Give me the coordinates."

  "Tango-Alpha, Six, Four, Four, Seven, One, Eight."

  "We'll check them out," Crawford said. "But—"

  "Take guns when you check it out," Wilder said. "Take real Army guys who know how to shoot and stuff. Or even SEALs."

  Crawford hung up and Wilder said, "Asshole," and turned the phone off.

  "Will he do it?" Lucy asked.

  Wilder nodded. "Yeah, but getting Pepper back is up to us." He started punching numbers into his phone again. "Okay, now we do leverage." He waited, holding out the phone so Lucy could hear.

  "She's still breathing and talking," the voice came.

  "I'm not as slow as you think, Ghost Boy," Wilder said. "You have something I want back, and I have something you want back."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I've got your helicopter."

  There was a long silence. "Bullshit."

  "Karen was picking it up at Hunter when she ran into some trouble." Wilder spoke slowly and clearly. "The trouble's a friend of mine named LaFavre and he has your bird. Thus, I have your helicopter. You want it back, you give me Pepper."

  "I don't fuckin' believe you."

  "Do you need the chopper to pick up the art or just for the rendezvous?" Wilder asked.

  Again there was a long silence.

  "Answer me," Wilder demanded. "Time's-a-wasting."

  "Just the rendezvous."

  "Good. You guys do whatever it is you're doing on the bridge. We'll stay out of your way. Bring Pepper to the rendezvous, I'll call in the chopper. Then we trade and you can get the hell out of our lives."

  This time Wilder waited.

  "Fuck you. All right."

  The phone went dead, and Lucy let out her breath. "Is this going to work?" she asked, her heart pounding.

  "Hell, yes," Wilder said. "Sufferin' Sappho, woman, have some faith."

  "Okay then," Lucy said, really wanting to believe him. "It's showtime."

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Wilder moved to his position near the railing. A container ship pushed by two tugboats came around the bend in the Savannah River, approaching the city's riverfront, about a mile from the bridge. It was much larger than the one they had seen the other day, a real mother of a—

  Screw me, he thought and punched in Crawford's number on his satellite phone even as he looked to the right and saw Nash standing at the edge, also staring at the cargo ship, weapon slung over his shoulder, fast-rope tied off to the railing next to him.

  Crawford didn't sound happy. "What do you want?" The sound of a helicopter thudded in the background and Wilder knew Crawford was flying toward the meeting location.

  "Letsky's art is on the damn cargo ship, isn't it?"

  "No."

  Liar, Wilder thought angrily. "Don't—"

  Crawford cut him off. "Letsky thinks his art is on the ship. Finnegan thought it was. Nash thinks it is. Because we let it leak that it was. There's a container holding cases that look like the cases the art was in on board the ship."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "What difference would it have made?" Crawford was speaking fast, trying to explain his way out of the shit hole he'd dug. "We never thought it would go this far. It was a setup from the very beginning to draw Letsky out to where we could get him. We thought that Finnegan and Letsky would try to steal the art off the ship on the high seas, where we could take them down with no civilians involved. The whole movie thing caught us off guard. That's why we had to scramble and put you on that set."

  "The SEAL platoon?"

  "They're with me. And they're not going to do a damn thing to stop Nash from taking the stuff. Their job is to take out Letsky."

  "You're an asshole," Wilder said and hung up.

  He looked at Nash, who seemed mesmerized by the approaching cargo ship. Three minutes, tops. Think fast, he told himself. If Nash looked in the containers to check them and found out the jade wasn't there… No leverage.

  No Pepper.

  Damn it, he thought and headed for the rail.

  Tyler scanned the container ship through his thermal scope. It was almost abreast of his location, less than a hundred feet away, so large it was blocking off the view of the Savannah riverfront completely. There was a cluster of warm bodies on the bridge, but as far as he could tell, there was no one forward of midship.

  He went back and leaned the sniper rifle against the metal door leading to the staircase and picked up another gun with a regular sight on it. There was enough light coming off the bridge, the town, and the spotlights on the ship itself, that he could check the containers stacked up on the deck. The source in Mexico had said the one they wanted would be on the top layer, starboard side, so it could be one of the first off.

  "What are you doing?"

  Tyler gritted his teeth and ignored her. He read letters and numbers, starting from the very front. Bingo. Fifth one back from the bow, on top, starboard. Tyler adjusted for distance and wind, then pulled the trigger. The specially loaded paintball arced through the air and splatted against the side of the container, marking it with a splotch of glowing chemical mixture.

  "Cool. What'd you do that for?"

  Tyler tossed the paintball gun away. He saw that the Kid was right next to the sniper rifle. "Get away from that."

  The Kid started and hit the gun, which slid toward the roof.

  "Damn it!" Tyler grabbed for it, but the rifle hit the ground. He picked it up, checking for damage, but there didn't appear to be any. He hissed at the Kid, doing his best gator imitation, and went back to looking at the ship.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing."

  "Are you gonna shoot somebody?"

  "Yeah. You."

  There was a long silence and then he turned around.

  She was sitting with her back against the wall, big tears rolling down her fat little filthy cheeks.

  "Crybaby."

  She sniffed and swallowed, smearing the tears off her cheeks with dirty palms. "Am not. You got any more Cheetos?"

  "No." He turned back to the scope in time to see somebody move on the bridge, and his smile widened.

  "Payday," he said to himself.

  "I said do you got any more Cheetos?"

 
The Kid just never shut up. He took his drive-on rag, a strip of green cloth, grabbed her head, and wrapped it around her mouth.

  "Should have done that a long time ago," he said as he gathered his gear.

  She tried to claw it off, but he'd tied it good and tight. She began to gag, and then cry, and Tyler became worried that she'd choke on the rag. He'd never get his chopper if the little snot choked to death.

  He ripped the cloth off. "Take it easy. Breathe." He put his hand under her chin and she sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand, and he reacted instinctively, his other hand hitting her on the side of the head. She dropped in slow motion, the momentum of the blow sending her rolling toward the roof edge.

  Tyler grabbed her a split second before she went airborne.

  Fuck. If she had gone, no chopper.

  He threw her over his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

  His fucking phone rang again. Fucking proof of life.

  Tyler ignored it and hit the stairs.

  Wilder felt the weight of the pack on his back, especially the pull of the long black case on the right side. He was tempted to take the case out, but it was too soon. He had to play this as long and as tight as he could because Pepper was out there. And the goddamn ghost wasn't answering his phone.

  He could hear the chopper in the distance and looking to the east he could see its lights as it went in a holding pattern about a thousand feet away over the river. He "lanced over at Lucy at the monitors, her face grim as she listened to the phone ring. Still no answer.

  Wilder went over to where Althea was handcuffed to the back door of the truck.

  "How you doing, kid?" he said.

  "Okay." She looked paler than usual, but she tried to smile.

  "It's okay," he told her. "We're all watching out for you."

  "I know," she said. "But, J.T.?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Remember that gun you showed me? The Clock?"

  "I've got it right here," he told her to reassure her.

  "Could I have it?"

  "What?"

  "You know, to give to Bryce? So he can save me." She smiled at him wanly.

  "Uh, no," Wilder said, trying not to shudder at the idea of Bryce with live ammunition. "But he won't need it. He knows everything he has to without the gun. And he's got that big knife."

  "Oh." Althea nodded. "Okay."

  "Great." Wilder surveyed the bridge. Just the stunt people, Lucy, Gloom, and Bryce. Everybody else was gone, ordered off the bridge by Lucy half an hour earlier.

  High Noon. The townspeople were clearing out.

  "J.T.?" Althea said from behind him.

  "Yeah?"

  "Bryce can't see me if you're standing there."

  "Right," Wilder said and moved out of the line of sight.

  Lucy gestured to him and he turned on the small FM radio in his combat vest.

  "There's no answer," he heard her say through the speaker, her voice tight. "I called, there's no answer."

  Wilder looked out at the ship, getting closer. "He's on the move," he told her. "Give him five minutes and try it again."

  "You sure—"

  "Yes," he said, "start the stunt," and a minute later he heard her say, "Rolling."

  There was no echo on the set. Nobody there to echo. Ghost town.

  Then she said, "Action," and Wilder watched as Nash, dressed as Rip, reached up to the bulky block of fake explosives he had attached to the back door next to Althea and pressed a button while she screamed and struggled. A glowing red display began a countdown as Nash ran toward the fast-rope he had waiting.

  Such a cliche, Wilder thought. Just get off the fucking bridge and out of Lucy's life.

  Nash grabbed the thick fast-rope, wrapped his arm around it, and disappeared off the bridge, sliding down toward the deck of the ship as the bow passed underneath. Bryce came dashing forward, trying to be the hero, looking wildly back and forth. The bad guys had disappeared and his girl was trapped with a bomb. What should a hero do?

  Save the girl, of course.

  Wilder glanced over his shoulder, gave Lucy his best reassuring smile, then ran forward to the fast-rope and grabbed hold to go after the bad guy.

  His girl knew how to save herself.

  Lucy checked the monitor. No film in the camera but still a nice shot of the armored car. If she had an apple in her hand and Pepper beside her, it would be a good night.

  Get her back, get her back—

  She looked at it closer.

  The detonator looked wrong. Any other day, shed have said, "What do I know from detonators?" but today was not that kind of day. "J.T.?" she said into her headpiece.

  "What?" he said, sounding distracted, which he probably was, since he was somewhere between the bridge and the ship, descending fast.

  "I don't think the detonator's right. It's smaller and it—"

  "Tell Althea to get away from the truck." She heard a thump and Wilder's sharp intake of breath. "I'm on the ship."

  "Well, get back here."

  "Doesn't work that way—one-way rope. Gravity rules."

  Lucy stood up. "Althea," she called. "We're going to go a different way with this shot. You can leave."

  Althea nodded and tried to help Bryce unsnap the cuff. "It's stuck," she called back.

  "The cuff is stuck," Lucy told J.T. over the radio as she started to run toward Althea. "What do I do?"

  "Stuck?" J.T. swore, but his voice was low, almost a whisper. "It's not stuck, the asshole used real cuffs, which probably means real explosives. You—"

  Lucy dropped the headset and ran for Althea. When she reached the car, there were sixty seconds on the detonator.

  Lucy pulled the gun out of the holster under her shirt. "Hi, Al, how's it going?"

  "Lucy?" Althea said, and then Lucy put the barrel on the chain and fired. Althea screamed and Lucy spun her around and yelled, "Run," and Althea and Bryce ran for the rail while Lucy went flat out for the monitors, yelling, "Get behind the truck," to Gloom, diving behind it with him just as the armored car exploded, catching a piece of hot metal on her cheek and something else on the back of her head.

  Then she was on the ground behind the truck, hands over her head as metal rained down all around them.

  Wilder was in the middle of the ship, crouched down on a container, MP-5 at the ready, when he heard the explosion from above. Hot metal went everywhere, sharp edges slicing through the air, heavy chunks thudding onto the river, steaming, and somewhere up there…

  "Lucy?" Wilder whispered into the radio, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.

  Silence.

  He swallowed. "Lucy?"

  Maybe she was just concussed. Maybe…

  "Lucy," he said, his voice sharp. "Answer me, damn it."

  "Hey," her voice came over the headset, shaky. "I just got blown up. Give me a minute."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No," she said, her voice unsteady.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," she said, but she wasn't. He could tell.

  "Where are you bleeding?"

  "I'm not—"

  "Don't screw with me, Lucy, where did you get hit"'."

  "My cheek," she said. "I'll probably have a nice scar.'

  "Scars add character. Where else?"

  "Thumped the back of my head."

  Wilder swore. "Double vision? Dizziness—"

  "J.T., a fucking car just blew up behind me. Dizzy, hell, I'm mad. What did that asshole think he was doing? He was going to kill Althea."

  "He was creating a diversion," Wilder said, relieved that she was mad. "Probably supposed to keep me busy to give him time to get on the ship without me. I moved too soon."

  "The ship's pretty much under the bridge."

  "I know," Wilder said. "I'm on it." He looked to the right as his section of the ship cleared the bridge and saw two people dangling on ropes above the waiting speedboat. "Bryce and Althea got off the bridge." They re just not getting off the ropes.


  "Are they okay?"

  Wilder watched Bryce swing closer to Althea and fumble with her rigging. "Kind of."

  "Kind of?"

  Use the knife to cut her free, Wilder thought, and still Bryce fumbled.

  Wilder went to the side of the ship, trying to keep an eye out for Nash and anything else that would kill him. He waved to get Bryce's attention, and by some miracle, after the fourth or fifth wave, Bryce looked over and stopped, stunned.

  Wilder pulled out his knife and waved it at Bryce.

  Bryce looked at his own knife.

  That's good, Wilder thought, make the connection.

  Bryce drew his knife and reached for Althea, and Wilder said a prayer to whoever protected fools and actors, put the sword back in the sheath, and went to look for Nash.

  ***

  Hell, Lucy thought, as her head throbbed. Pepper. Damn it, I can't have a concussion, I have to get Pepper.

  "You okay?" Gloom asked.

  "Great," Lucy said and looked over the top of the truck bed.

  The armored car was in burning pieces all over the bridge, its glow lighting up the center span.

  "Get off the bridge," she said to Gloom. "Get everybody packed up and out of base camp. Get them away from this hellhole."

  "I'll wait for you in the camper," Gloom said and started down the bridge, giving the burning car a wide berth.

  Lucy headed for the rail. The ship was almost completely out from under the bridge now and J.T. was on it. Althea and Bryce were hanging by ropes over the side above the dark water, Bryce waving his knife at Althea in the shadows. No, really, trust Bryce, she thought and then sighed. Below them, Doc waited in the boat, as planned in the stunt as a safety, only the running lights on.

  I hate you, too, she thought. Kidnapping bastard.

  She straddled the railing and watched as Bryce cut the rope and he and Althea did the short drop into the water.

  Don't look down, she thought. God, I hate irony. She clipped the rope to her vest and looked out into the darkness at the skyline as instructed. Then she took a deep breath, threw her other leg over the rail so she was on the river side, and pushed off, extending her brake arm as J.T. had taught her so that she descended a good fifty feet before bringing it in tight and coming to a halt, swinging on the rope.