Dom put his AK back where he found it, uninterested in getting shot by the good guys today.
Domingo Chavez made it down to the ground floor faster than his two teammates had, by chasing a terrorist into a stairwell off the atrium. As soon as he entered he heard gunfire, so he took cover for a moment, but when he started down again he saw a man and a woman, both wounded in the arms and legs. He passed them with a promise to send help, then descended another floor after hearing another shot. Here Ding saw a dead man lying on the stairs; next to him was the terrorist’s Kalashnikov. Chavez picked it up, expecting to find it empty, but the magazine was half full.
He was confused for a moment, but then he realized the dead man lying next to the gun wasn’t wearing his neck badge.
Instantly, Chavez understood. The terrorists were dumping their guns and their masks, then taking ID badges to melt into the crowd of escaping conference-goers.
Chavez dropped the rifle back on the stairwell and holstered his pistol, then ran down the stairs as fast as he could.
Chavez stood at the bottom of the escalator a minute later, looking up at dozens of men and women rushing down. Gunfire continued upstairs. His eyes settled on a woman in a blue blazer and a blue skirt as she descended with the others, packed tightly in the middle of the conference attendees making their escape past the now huge police response.
Ding could see the neck tag around her neck, but it was facing in, not out.
She reached the bottom of the escalator and started toward the exit.
Ding began to follow her out onto the street. Something about her demeanor got his attention; she was just a little too casual compared with the others around her. He couldn’t say he remembered her outfit from the hotel room at the Sofitel, but he also could not rule it out.
As he walked he noticed the woman continued past where many of the conference-goers were milling around. She took the sidewalk all the way past the entrance to the Sofitel and onto the Place Jourdan, then she turned and looked back.
Ding stared right at her, just seventy-five feet away.
She turned away quickly, and he knew she recognized him.
She was one of the terrorists, he had no doubt.
He closed on her as she reached the end of the square and made a left turn.
Once she left his sight, Ding began to run toward the corner, afraid she would climb into a vehicle and make her escape. As he came around the corner, however, she was standing right there, a short knife in her hand. She swung it up as Ding passed, slashing at his throat, but he caught her little wrist easily, wrenched her hand behind her back, and yanked up. She let go of the weapon before he dislocated her shoulder, but when she cried out, screaming in French for someone to help her, Ding threw a shoulder into her back and knocked her, forehead-first, into the brick wall of a bistro.
She dropped to the sidewalk, dazed, and he scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder.
75
The Spinnaker II had spent the last two days anchored off Salt Island in a remote cove. The six-man security team watching over Kate and Noah Walker had seen no threats to their operation whatsoever, and they’d reported the lack of action to their employer, the Russian who called himself Popov.
Still, Popov told them to keep their guard up, so to this end one of the Steel Securitas men was positioned on the flying bridge at all times with a pair of binoculars in his hand. A second lookout remained on shore, high on a hill overlooking the cove.
As far as they were concerned, the measures they had taken were already an absurd overkill. Yes, they’d killed the old man following them around the islands, but since then their jobs had given them plenty of time to work on their tans.
Be that as it may, Popov had informed the men the night before that the following day the Dutch couple who’d been involved in the original kidnapping would return to add another layer to the security.
The South African in charge of the operation pointed out to the Russian that there was no place for two more people to sleep on the boat, but he was informed they would stay on their own boat, nearby but out of sight, and they would be used in case of any new threats.
Now it was six a.m., and only a faint glow above the hills over Salt Island revealed the morning. The South African was in his bunk, as were the German, the Chilean, and the Romanian.
The American was on watch on the flying bridge, and the Cuban was up on the hill overlooking the bay. Both sentries were awake, but neither was quite alert.
After all, there was nothing to worry about.
John Clark ascended the last few feet under the dark water; then he placed his hand on the bottom rung of the ladder next to the sea stairs on the bow of the Spinnaker II. He took a moment to listen to the noises of the boat here, checking for the sound of any voices.
When Adara found the cobalt-gray catamaran the afternoon before, she’d also noticed the man sitting on the hill above it. She’d taken pictures of the entire scene, and from these Clark had confirmed this man was one of the mercenaries taking part in Kozlov’s operation, so he knew he’d have to board on the far side of the boat from the island.
This, he saw, wasn’t going to be a problem. The catamaran had swung around with the morning tides to the point that Clark could ascend the sea stairs without fear of being seen by the man onshore.
He wasn’t so sure about the man on the flying bridge, however.
Once he climbed onto the ladder he let his scuba gear sink to the bottom. It was only thirty feet deep here in the bay, so he could retrieve it if he had to, but for now he wanted to leave no hint that he was on board until he was ready to reveal it for himself.
He wore a shorty wetsuit and this he peeled off to reveal black cargo shorts and brown T-shirt. He’d kept his dive knife strapped to his ankle, and Adara had given him her compact Glock-26, which he’d just tucked into a side pocket of his shorts. He rose from the water and crouched low behind a dinghy suspended at the back of the boat, and he looked to the flying bridge ahead and above.
He could just barely make out the top of a man’s head there, but from what he could see, the moment Clark stood up, the sentry would see him easily.
Shit, Clark thought. He considered slipping back into the water to try to climb up at another part of the hull, but the gunwales were higher on the side, and there were no ropes or ladders.
If he were twenty-five years old he could board this damn boat fifty different ways, but those days were behind him.
He sat tight, watching the sky get lighter as he willed the man above him to turn around.
At six a.m. he got his wish. The sentry on the flying bridge stood up, stretched, and gave a quick wave to the man a hundred yards away on the hill. Clark couldn’t see if the wave was returned, but soon the lookout climbed down from the bridge and disappeared into the cockpit.
Clark couldn’t believe his luck. He drew his pistol, remained low, but rose to a crouch and then headed toward the cockpit behind the sentry, his back aching from the wounds he’d received three days earlier.
It was darker in the cockpit than it was on deck, but Clark realized the man he’d seen above had climbed down into the saloon. Clark trained his weapon on the space, then made his way over to the helm. Quickly he looked over at the controls, determining in just seconds that he’d have no trouble piloting the boat.
He heard noise on the stairs and he stood there in the half-light calmly.