"We should do something," Allie said.
Rachel pulled her behind the van. "Got any ideas?"
"Anything's better than—Rachel!"
She whirled and saw that one of the gunmen had crept around the stopped cars and pounced, snapping his arm around Allie's neck. He held a handgun to her head.
"Call them off!" the gunman shouted over the wind and engine noise. "Tell them to lay down their weapons."
"Don't hurt her!" Rachel said.
"Tell your friends to back off. Now!" He pushed the gun barrel hard against Allie's temple.
Rachel backed away. "I will. Just… don't shoot."
She looked into Allie's eyes. Never comfortable in the role as a victim, Allie was now pissed as hell.
Save it, Allie. Please, baby. Don't do anything that will make him pull that trigger.
"Call them off." His arm tightened around Allie's throat. "Now."
"I'm going to do it. I have to—"
Demanski.
He had suddenly stood up next to the car behind her sister.
Thank God.
He was holding one of the silver explosive discs. He moved closer to the gunman as he carefully turned a dial on the disc's side.
Distract the bastard. Keep him from noticing Demanski.
She yelled to the gunman. "They can't hear me from over here. I need to go to them!"
The gunman hesitated, then nodded. He started to motion for her to move forward. "Go. Keep close to—"
In the next instant Demanski slammed his elbow down over the gunman's wrist. The gun flew out of his hands!
Before the gunman could turn around, Demanski jammed the silver disc down the back of his bulletproof vest.
He yelled to Rachel and Allie. "Move! Move!" He picked up the gun and pushed them forward. "Get away from him."
Rachel turned to see the gunman twisting and turning, desperately contorting himself to reach the disc.
Boom!
Rachel took one look at the carnage that was left of the man blown apart by the blast before glancing quickly away.
"I was afraid we'd get blown off the bridge." Demanski stared at the gunman. "I guess Kevlar works both ways."
Gunfire erupted from the open doors of the helicopter. Rachel and Allie took cover, and Demanski glanced over to the truck. "They've pinned down Tavak and the cop."
As the helicopter cut loose with more suppressing fire, the gunmen swarmed over the now-open truck. With military precision, the gunmen gripped the lines and clipped them to hooks on their uniforms. They dragged four lines into the truck, and after one of the gunmen gave a thumbs-up sign, the copter rose, lifting the men and a large crate into the air.
Demanski looked up in amazement. "Holy shit." He raised the gun and squeezed off several shots before a volley of gunfire from the copter pushed him back down.
The helicopter roared away, and as the sound and wind subsided, it seemed to Rachel as if a vicious, terrible storm had come and gone.
She glanced dazedly around her. Small fires burned, and pockets of debris were strewn across the bridge. Drivers had begun to emerge from their cars, and there was screaming and crying issuing from every direction.
Tavak ran toward them. "Is everybody okay?"
Rachel nodded. "Who the hell was that?"
"I have my suspicions. There are only a few mercenary teams who are that skilled and high-tech. I'd bet on Kilcher." Tavak turned to Demanski. "You saw the crate. Is that what I think it is?"
Demanski nodded. "It was the mastaba wall. They knew what they wanted, and they went right for it."
"Better than an in-flight movie, huh?" Allie said through her teeth. "What the hell do we do now?"
Tavak looked in the direction of the helicopter, which had by now disappeared in the night sky. "Now we get it back."
OIL TANKER PHOENIX
BALTIC SEA
1:14 A.M.
Dawson adjusted his earplugs as the helicopter touched down on the oil tanker's helipad. Before the door even slid open, he spied the crate behind the tempered glass.
Success!
Kilcher and his team climbed from the copter and strode across the deck, pulling off their helmets and flak jackets.
Dawson chuckled. Testosterone practically dripped from the men. Even from the one woman in the team. Hell, maybe especially from the woman. He'd chosen Kilcher because he was experienced but still had the intelligence to pick young and agile subordinates who'd try anything. Kilcher was in his midfifties, his face lined and weather-beaten. The rest of his team were in their twenties or thirties.
Kilcher was glaring at Dawson as he stopped before him. "I lost three men tonight."
"Then your team isn't as efficient as you told me it was."
Kilcher looked as if he wanted to rip Dawson's throat out. "They were good men. It's gonna set me back."
"Then it's a good thing I'm paying you so well, isn't it? Did you get the item?"
"Yeah, it's in there. But I did a bit of research today, and it's not even worth half what you're paying us." He gestured around the oil tanker's massive top deck. "Never mind what all this has to be costing you."
"When my employer wants something, no cost is too great."
Kilcher said sourly, "So he's one of those billionaire nutjobs with a roomful of stolen artwork only he can look at."
"That's no concern of yours." Dawson gestured toward the waiting crew members he had hired for the occasion. They pulled the crate from the helicopter and moved it onto the loading platform.
Dawson picked up a crowbar and pried off one of the wood panels. He pulled out several handfuls of packing straw, then peeled away a thick rubbery membrane to reveal a corner of the limestone mastaba wall. He backed away and turned to an operator with a large remote box in his hand. "Okay, take it down."
The platform lowered and took the crate belowdecks.
Exhilaration soared through Dawson as he turned back to Kilcher. "Good job. I may have other uses for your services. I'm sure we'll be speaking again soon."
"As long as the money is good enough. That attack turned out to be a little high-profile. I may need some downtime."
Dawson glanced back at the mastaba wall. Oh, yes the money would definitely be good. "But now get your helicopter as far away from here as you possibly can. The commanders of this tanker have been gracious hosts, but I'm afraid there's a limit to their indulgence."
HOUSTON, TEXAS
2:16 A.M.
"The Feds are taking the body."
Finley was still half-asleep when he picked up his phone. "Gonzalez?"
"Who in the hell else?"
"So what about the Feds?"
"I told you. The Feds are taking the shooter's corpse. Peterson down at the morgue got the call, and he just tipped me off."
Finley sat up in bed. He'd been living in a one-bedroom apartment since he'd split with his wife a year earlier, and he still felt as if he was in a strange hotel room whenever he woke up. "Which Feds?"