“Be careful, okay?” said Eddie.
A humorless smile. “I’m not wearing body armor. I will be very careful!” He hurried after Probst.
Eddie watched them go, frustrated. There had to be something he could do. But with the bridge destroyed, there was no way on or off the island except by boat …
Something about that troubled him, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. He returned to Nina. “Have you seen anything?”
She shook her head. “After that rocket fired, all the guys at this end took off.”
“Going for the boats.” He considered that. “Which … doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“This de Quesada blew up the bridge deliberately, so the only way to escape is by boat—but the path down to them’s way too exposed. He must have known we’d try to cover ’em.” As if to illustrate his point, more gunfire started, this time from the shore. The remaining members of the SWAT team had reached positions from where they could see the path down to the jetty, and opened fire. A scream echoed off the cliffs: One of de Quesada’s bodyguards had been hit. The drug lord’s men shot back, dust and chipped stones spitting from the cliff tops.
“So, what, you think he’s using his own men as a decoy?” Nina said dubiously.
“The guy’s a drug lord—he’d probably use his own grandma as a human shield. He wants us looking at that end of the island, so he can do something at this end.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Maybe he’s not really leaving—he’s just going to hide in a panic room until everyone’s gone.” He regarded the house—then stood.
“Get down!” Nina yelped, yanking at the sleeve of his battered jacket. “They’ll see you.”
“There’s nobody there. They’re all by the boats to give de Quesada time to do whatever he’s doing. I need to get over there before he does it.”
“And how are you going to do that?” Even at its narrowest point, the channel was still over fifty feet across. “The bridge has gone, and I don’t think high-diving into the sea to swim across would be a good idea!”
He pointed. “That cable. I can slide down it.”
“Are you kidding? It’s probably got ten thousand volts running through it!”
“Then I won’t touch it.”
“If you don’t touch it, how are you going to slide down it?”
Rather than answer, he hurried back to the parked vehicles and climbed into the truck’s bed. As well as carrying the Colombian SWAT team, it had also transported the weapons, including the Barretts. But it wasn’t their now empty cases Eddie was interested in; rather, the ratchet straps used to secure them. “Here we go,” he said as Nina arrived, detaching one. It was six feet long, made from a heavy-duty polyester. “It’s insulated, so I can chuck it over the wire and use it as a zipline.” Nina wasn’t impressed. “And if the line doesn’t hold?”
“Let’s not worry about that, eh?” He headed for the stub of the bridge.
She followed. “Oh, you know me, I worry about everything. Especially you!”
Eddie reached the pole supporting the power line, looped the strap around the pole, and held the ends tightly together. “Okay, stay low, just in case I’m wrong and there’s still someone over there. Once I’m across, use the radio in the truck to tell Kit what I’m doing. Back soon.”
“How?” she demanded. “You’re going to slide up the line?”
“I’ll think of something.” He kissed her, then, using the strap for support, climbed until he reached the metal pegs that acted as a ladder. Warily eyeing the power line on its ceramic insulators, he scooted around to the pole’s seaward side.
It was his first clear view of the channel far below. Waves churned and frothed, and the rocks poking from the water suggested it was not especially deep. High-diving definitely wasn’t a good idea. The open sea was visible at the far end to his left; to the right, it curved out of sight toward the jetty. Gunfire was still being exchanged, but less frequently than before—the two sides seemed caught in a standoff.
Which wouldn’t last long. Beyond the island, Eddie saw an approaching ship: the Colombian Coast Guard. The drug lord’s bodyguards would soon be forced to make a break for the boats, or be trapped.
Which suited Eddie. Their attention would be focused well away from him. He hooked the strap over the power line, applying experimental pressure. It seemed secure. Nina watched anxiously from the trees; he gave her a thumbs-up.
A deep breath, and he shifted his weight to the strap. The line pulled tight, but still held. He fixed his eyes on the house, not looking at the dizzying drop. “High voltage,” he muttered. “Okay, let’s slide …”
He threw himself off the pole.
The cable twanged and juddered with the extra load as he slid down it. The cliff edge rolled past beneath his feet, nothing below for over a hundred feet. The island loomed ahead …
The strap rasped against the cable. He slowed … and stopped.
Ten feet short of the far side.
“Shit!” He tried to jolt free, but the line wasn’t steep enough for him to overcome the strap’s friction. Another futile jerk, then he changed tactics. Legs together, he brought them gently back, then kicked sharply. He jerked forward by about a foot. Another kick, and another—
The insulator on the pole ahead sheared apart.
He dropped.
Nina barely contained a scream as the line gave way, Eddie plunging toward the water—then the sagging line snapped taut again. His fall gave him a boost of speed.
Too much speed.
All thoughts of concealment gone, she ran to the edge as he hurtled helplessly at the cliff.
Eddie whipped up his feet just before he hit the rock wall. The collision was a hammer blow against his soles, crashing up through his knees and hips. The cable shook, the strap squirming in his grip.
Another jolt—and he fell again, dropping by a foot before the line jerked tight once more. The power cable ran from the pole to a transformer on the villa—and one of the brackets securing it had just broken. His weight was now being taken by the insulator on the mainland side and the transformer’s connector, neither of which were designed to support the extra load.
Even through the strap, he felt the cable straining—
He swung sideways and lunged to grab an outcropping with one hand—just as the connector gave way. The strap flapped free, spiraling toward the churning waters. The drooping power line hung so close that he could hear the faint hum of current flowing through the cable.
If it sparked, the shock would kill him.
Very carefully, he scraped his boots against the rock until he found a toehold. He edged sideways, free hand clawing blindly for purchase. A crack in the cliff; he squeezed his fingertips inside, pulling away from the deadly line.
Another stretch, and another, and he struggled upward to the stub of the bridge. Once he had a secure hold, he paused to catch his breath, then climbed to level ground.
Nina watched, relieved beyond measure, as Eddie waved to her before jogging to the villa’s front door. She sagged against the pole, looking at the waters below as she gathered herself—
Something moved.
It took her a moment to realize what; at first, it seemed as though the rock face just above the waterline was morphing like plastic. A blink, and the bizarre sight made sense. It wasn’t rock, but something made to look like rock, slowly being pulled away to reveal darkness behind it. Metal tracks led from the shadows into the sea.
What the hell was going on?
De Quesada shut off an electric winch, allowing himself a moment of pride as he admired his emergency escape route. Nobody else knew of it, except the men who had built it—and they were no longer able to tell others, or indeed do anything other than decompose.
The cave below was naturally hard enough to spot, in perpetual shadow among the cliff’s folds, and his camouflage had made it almost invisible. The entrance was conc
ealed by a heavy tarpaulin hanging down like a stage curtain, painted in browns and grays to match the surrounding rock.
Hidden inside was the vehicle that would take him to safety; not a boat, but a Cessna Skyhawk floatplane, the little white-and-yellow aircraft perched on a set of rails down which it would slide into the channel. From there, he would turn west while his attackers were distracted by the boats at the island’s northeastern end, taking off as soon as he reached open ocean. He would leave Colombian airspace within fifteen minutes. By the time the authorities in Panama had been alerted, he would have already reached a safe house, where he would change identities before sneaking out of the country.
He descended a ladder to the cave floor and put the bag containing his belongings in the cockpit before starting the preflight checks for the plane’s short voyage.
Eddie found himself in a broad hall, paintings on the walls. No sign of anybody, but he was still cautious, moving quietly.
Shimmering reflected ripples through one door told him that the room beyond opened out on to the infinity pool; an open arch to his right led into what was apparently a lounge, a bar visible through the doorway. He edged toward it. As he approached, he picked up a smell, faint but distinctive: chlorinated water. The girls from the pool?
Back against the wall, he moved closer, listening for movement inside the room …
Something crunched under his foot.
Rock salt, almost invisible where it had been scattered over the pale marble. A simple but effective warning system.
He backed up—
Boom!
A hole almost a foot across was blown through the wall just in front of him, spraying him with fragmented plaster and wood. He stumbled in shock, slipping on the hard floor and landing on his backside—as a second hole exploded right above his head. “Shit!” he yelled, scrambling backward.
The shooter had anticipated his retreat, another two holes bursting open behind him.
He slithered around, rock salt digging into his palms, and launched himself like a sprinter past the archway.
His brief glance into the room told him plenty. He had expected to see a gunman, but it was actually two gunwomen, the topless water babes from the pool, blasting away at him—Jesus, with AA-12s—as he hurtled past the entrance. One woman was behind the bar, the other beside a couch. Shotgun fire ripped more holes out of the wall in his wake. There was a mahogany door at the end of the hall—wherever it led, it had to be safer than this—
He passed a second open archway into the lounge and reached the door.
Locked!
Both AA-12s swung to track him—
He dived into the room, slamming against the back of a leather armchair. Shots shredded the expensive piece of furniture as the women kept firing. Eddie had instinctively been counting shots—each AA-12’s drum magazine held twenty rounds, and they were rapidly chewing through them, but they would reduce his cover to matchwood long before they ran dry. He needed something more solid.
A granite desk, between him and the killer bimbos. Not ideal, but all he had—
The armchair thumped against him under the force of another shot. Eddie pushed hard at the disintegrating seat, sliding it across the room. Another round blew off an entire corner of the backrest. He kept pushing—then grabbed the chair’s base and bowled it at the dark-haired woman as he rolled under the table and strained to tip it on its side. It crashed down with a bang.
The brunette shrieked and leapt away as the tumbling chair bounced past her. The blonde behind the bar kept firing. The granite slab took the impact—but Eddie, pressed against it, still felt as though he was being kicked in the back with each shot.
“Go around it and shoot him!” the blonde yelled. Another shot—and the granite cracked, a plate-sized chunk barely missing Eddie as he jerked sideways.
A slap of feet as the brunette moved. He was running out of time—
The quickest of glances through the broken section of desk revealed a fishtank set into the wall behind the blonde. He grabbed the hunk of granite and hurled it with all his strength.
The blonde ducked as the stone flew over her and hit the glass—which shattered, bursting outward. She was knocked down by the deluge, shards and marine life hitting her near-naked body.
Eddie was already running. If he could disarm her before she recovered …
A horrific scream filled the room. He dived as the blonde’s AA-12 barked again and again, her finger clenched on the trigger and firing off its remaining rounds on full auto. Shredded debris spat across the room. The screaming continued, Eddie wondering what the hell was happening. Maybe she was really fish-phobic …
He got his answer as he scrambled behind the bar. Clamped to the woman’s right breast was a small octopus, patterns on its body pulsing furiously as it bit her again and again.
The shotgun clicked, the drum empty. The blonde’s movements were already weakening as the deadly paralytic flowed through her system, her screams fading to choked gurgles.
“Sylvie!” shrieked the dark-haired woman in genuine anguish. She swung her AA-12 at the bar and fired. “You bastard, you killed her!”
Bottles and glasses exploded above Eddie. “Jesus!” Ricocheting pellets rained down on him like embers.
The firing stopped. Twenty rounds gone. Eddie vaulted the bar. The woman was still uselessly pulling the trigger, in her anger only belatedly realizing she was out of ammo. She tried to club Eddie with the shotgun, but he easily dodged the blow. There was a time and place for chivalry, but this wasn’t it: He punched her in the face, knocking her down on the couch.
He grabbed her by the throat. “Where’s de Quesada?”
“Fuck you!” she spat.
He squeezed harder. “Where is he?”
“Go fuck yourself!” Eddie pulled back his fist, then thought better of it and released her, hurrying back to the bar. With a brief chill of revulsion, he took hold of the octopus by its body and plucked it off Sylvie’s breast. It squirmed, suckers clinging to his skin. The little monster writhing angrily, he went back to the couch. The other woman struggled upright; he pushed her down again and held the octopus just above her face.
Tentacles lashed out and stuck to her, the creature’s venom-filled beak snapping less than an inch from her cheek. She shrieked. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll let it bite you!” Eddie shouted.
“In there!” she wailed, pointing at some shelves behind the bar. “He’s in there!”
She was too terrified to lie, Eddie decided. He pulled the octopus away and tossed it across the room into the tank’s remaining water—then punched the woman again, knocking her out. “Sucker,” he said as he went to the shelves.
Close up, they were revealed as a disguised door, the sharp stench of melted plastic coming from inside. No way to know if de Quesada was armed and waiting within. He yanked it open, ready to dive—
The room was empty. Smoke belched from the smoldering remains of a computer, a hole burned right through it. Thermite; de Quesada had been in here to destroy anything compromising on his hard drive.
He wasn’t here now, though. But he was sure the woman hadn’t lied—and why would she and her friend have been defending an empty room?
A panel not quite flush with the wall, a cord attached …
He pulled it. The panel swung outward, revealing a rocky passage leading downward.
The coughing grind of an engine came from somewhere far below.
“Oh, you are not doing a fucking runner after all this,” Eddie growled, ducking through the opening.
Nina also heard the noise. Eddie had been right—the drug lord was using his own men as a decoy while he escaped in a hidden boat.
Only it wasn’t a boat that slid down the rails, but a light aircraft, riding on elongated pontoons. It reached the water’s edge, a brief snarl of power to the propeller pulling it into the channel. A door opened and the pilot clambered along a pontoon to detach the runner that had guided it down the tracks.
Even from high above, Nina recognized him. De Quesada.
Descending through the narrow tunnel, Eddie dropped onto a ledge. He was high up in a large cave, its mouth opening into the channel. A glance through a wide crack in the rock revealed the source of the noise: a floatplane bobbing on the water outside. De Quesada ducked beneath the rear fuselage and hopped from one float to the other, crouching to unfasten something from it. As soon as the drug lord finished whatever he was doing, he would be able to escape.
He had to be stopped.
A piece of equipment was bolted to the rock wall—an electric winch, hooked to a painted tarpaulin that had been pulled away from the cave mouth. Eddie checked the rope. Brightly colored marine line, strong and hard wearing.
He looked back outside. De Quesada was returning to the cockpit.
Eddie unhooked the rope from the tarp, then switched on the winch, reversing it to unspool the line. He looked back through the opening. Below, the Colombian climbed into the plane. “Come on, come on!” he snarled, tugging at the rope. He needed more slack—
The engine revved. Out of time.
Pulling the line after him, Eddie leapt from the crevice, aiming to land on the fuselage—
The rope pulled tight, stopping him short. He hit the wing’s trailing edge and fell backward, landing hard on the tail of the port pontoon.
De Quesada, startled by the unexpected impact, turned and saw the stowaway. He jammed the throttle forward, the propeller screaming to full power as he steered the plane down the channel.
Eddie flailed, about to slip off the float …
His foot caught the rearmost strut connecting the pontoon to the bottom of the fuselage. He used the tenuous hold as leverage to sit up. The winch was still unspooling the rope—there was just enough slack for him to reach the support.
He lunged, clanking the hook on to the strut—
The line went taut again with a whipcrack. The plane jolted but didn’t slow—it was now unwinding the rope from the winch reel. Eddie dropped to keep his head clear of it. If his plan worked, when the line ran out it would either bring the plane to a stop, or rip out the strut, making it too dangerous for de Quesada to risk taking off.