Beth spotted it simultaneously.
‘He’s going to get away with it,’ she said, stark realisation spreading across her face.
King nodded solemnly, slowing down as their truck pulled up to the abandoned scene. Much like the scene around the abandoned Liebherr haul truck, Reed had left a tiny portion of his haul behind in the bed of the semi-trailer. Hundred-dollar bills drifted out through the open doors, blown into oblivion by the seaside wind buffeting across the coastline.
King sat motionless behind the wheel of the truck, watching the bills dissipate into thin air.
Just as Reed had.
Then he noticed churning water out the driver’s window, significant enough to seize his attention away from the wind howling through the open windshield frame. He looked out to sea and spotted a craft hurtling toward the shore, moving fast, approaching hard.
He instinctively reached for the HK416, ready to fetch another magazine from the duffel bag and prepare for an all-out war.
‘He can’t have more reinforcements,’ King muttered under his breath. ‘How the fuck…?’
Beth turned to him inquisitively, then she looked past him to stare at the approaching craft in unison. He noticed her paling out of the corner of his eye.
‘Extra forces from the container ship?’ she said.
‘I didn’t think he’d bring an army with him. He must have planned this out in detail.’
He began to reach into the passenger footwell for a fresh magazine, but something stopped him. He squinted, analysing the approaching boat.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that…?’
All of a sudden, he recognised the insignia on the hull. It was the same emblem emblazoned on the convoy of vehicles that had stopped him on the way to Afgooye. He squinted hard and made out a trio of shadowy figures milling around onboard the boat’s upper deck. It was hard to discern, but he thought he spotted uniforms.
‘Somali Police Force,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’
Beth nodded. ‘Makes sense. They deal with maritime law enforcement. I haven’t been here long, but they must do an awfully poor job of it if these kind of payloads are getting through to container ships.’
‘I can only imagine,’ King said, remembering the glint in the officers’ eyes as he’d handed over a hefty bribe to ensure safe passage. ‘Do you have your military credentials on you?’
She nodded again. ‘I look like hell though. Still covered in your blood.’
‘Sorry about that,’ King said. ‘Needed something to shock the bandits into hesitating.’
‘It worked,’ she said. ‘That’s all that matters.’
‘You think you can persuade these guys to take us out to sea?’
‘I’m sure I can.’
‘Then let’s go.’
He reached down and snatched the entire duffel bag out of the footwell, slinging it over one shoulder. He and Beth stepped down out of the tractor unit, plunging into the white sand. It stretched for miles in either direction, shrinking to a pinpoint whichever way King looked. To their rear, the rising sand dunes masked the view of El Hur itself.
The Somali Police Force boat pulled into shore in a blaze of momentum and the three officers leapt out into the shallow waters. Here, the swells had diluted, allowing the boat to hover in place without the need for one of the men to drop an anchor over the side. The ocean soaked through their pants, sloshing around their knees as they waded up to Beth and King.
There were 9mm semi-automatic pistols in leather holsters at their waist, but it seemed they had no intention of drawing them.
They didn’t consider King a threat, obviously.
King followed suit, dropping the duffel bag into the sand and letting the empty AK-47 fall on top of the canvas material.
As soon as he let them out of his hands, and gestured for Beth to follow suit, the tension seemed to dissipate from the approaching officers. Their gazes wandered, when previously they’d been locked onto the pair.
The officers had certainly stumbled onto a strange scene.
They sauntered onto the beachhead and came to a halt directly opposite King and Beth, forming a single line. It was obvious they were hesitant on how to proceed. They were maritime law enforcement officers, but King doubted that usually involved confronting a pair of Americans this far off the beaten track.
King knew none of them would speak English — the SPF translator he’d met on the way to Afgooye had been a mild fluke, only present upon Reed’s request.
These men hadn’t been instructed to meet them anywhere.
A chance encounter.
So, immediately, he started a series of gestures, ushering the trio’s attention to the RHIB speeding away from shore. The craft was already a dot on the horizon, heading straight for one of the container ships floating a mile or so out at sea.
The three men turned in unison to follow King’s gaze.
They noted the fleeing craft, and turned to study the empty semi-trailer littered with cash, right next to the dormant tractor unit.
An odd sight, to be sure.
One of the men stepped forward, his eyes still fixed on the semi-trailer. King took the movement as simple curiosity, unable to help himself as he closed in on the sight of hundred-dollar bills drifting in the breeze.
‘Not mine,’ King muttered.
Then, in one fluid motion, the officer who had waltzed into range snapped his attention straight to King, producing a set of steel handcuffs from his belt with a practiced flick of the wrist. They made eye contact, and the man gave King a look as if to say, What were you expecting?
King understood, all at once.
The party of police officers on the road to Afgooye weren’t isolated from the rest of the force. They were a single entity, led to servitude by whoever paid the most. Obviously King’s ruse to pass himself off as Reed’s brother had only worked for a short period of time. It would have taken one phone call on Reed’s part during the drive to El Hur, and from that point onward the entire Somali Police Force would have been instructed to keep an eye out for King, and stop him at any cost.
Money talked, after all.
It meant everything out here.
A billion dollars could buy a whole lot of help.
But — in the half-second it had taken King to realise the trio’s intentions — none of them had bothered to reach for their firearms. Perhaps they weren’t accustomed to violent combat, used to compliance from their foes. Perhaps they had taken King dropping his rifle as an act of surrender, even before the confrontation had taken place.
In the end, King had no qualms with the trio’s decision to attempt to apprehend him without expecting him to resist arrest.
Because that meant the following seconds would hand themselves over to fists and feet.
King bristled with anticipation as the officer closest to him reached half-heartedly for his wrists, searching with the open handcuffs, sizing up the stretch of skin to clamp the steel across.
He waited until the officer touched him — some kind of effort to flick an internal switch, just as he had done with the armed bandits.
When a single sweaty palm clamped down on his forearm, he exploded off the mark.
44
It came down to physics.
The guy across from King had sinewy muscle, but it rested on a skinny, athletic frame. He was built like a marathon runner — obviously he kept himself in good shape, without an ounce of fat on him, but it was a world away from the brutish powerlifter’s frame King sported. With five inches of height over the man and enough explosive power in his strikes to put anyone down for the count with a single direct impact, the guy never stood a chance.