Empire of Gold

by Andy McDermott

  Macy put the question to the driver in Spanish. ‘About twenty-five minutes,’ she said after getting an answer. ‘And yes, I already told him that we’re in a rush.’

  Nina tapped her foot in impatience – and worry. Would they get there in time to stop Eddie making a mistake?

  Kit broke off from pacing the catwalk to check his watch. Over twenty minutes had passed since the phone call, and there was still no sign of a helicopter. The Group’s representative might simply be being cautious . . . but might also have decided that the risk was too great and abandoned the meeting.

  And their operative. The thought twisted his stomach into a knot. He glanced at the gas tank. Stikes’s sniper was still lying on the platform. The Interpol officer had no doubts whatsoever that Stikes would kill him the moment he felt things had gone wrong . . .

  A new sound over the unceasing rumble of the gas pumps. Rotor blades. The helicopter.

  Unable to conceal a sigh of relief, he looked for the noise’s source, seeing strobe lights in the sky to the west.

  Eddie also heard the incoming chopper, and froze behind one of the tanks. Stikes and Kit showed no signs of surprise or alarm, so they were expecting it. Who was aboard?

  For now, that was irrelevant. What mattered was that it gave him a deadline: it was no more than two minutes away from touching down. He had to be finished before it arrived.

  He set off again, moving through the pumping station’s shadows until he reached the ladder up one of the tanks. From here, the sound of the pumps was a steady, churning rumble, backed by the low-frequency hiss of gas rushing through the main pipeline. It would mask the sound of his climb – and better yet, he realised as he took hold of the ladder, there was a vibration running through the framework that would camouflage his steps.

  He began to climb. The tank was about thirty feet high. As he approached its top he slowed, cautiously peering on to the platform.

  A man dressed in black lay upon it, back to him.

  One of Stikes’s men, armed with a SCAR rifle with a telescopic sight. He wasn’t looking through the scope, though; he was watching the approaching helicopter.

  Eddie waited, poised at the top of the ladder. If he climbed any higher, the man might catch him in his peripheral vision and raise the alarm. The chopper was now only a minute out. Look away, dammit!

  After another agonising few seconds, the man finally moved his eye back to the sight. Eddie carefully climbed the last few rungs to crouch on the platform just behind the sniper . . .

  Then he lunged, grabbing the mercenary’s head and yanking it back as hard as he could, wrapping an arm tightly round his throat.

  The sniper made a choked gurgling sound, dropping the SCAR and trying to claw at his attacker’s face. Eddie squeezed harder, twisting sharply – and a crunch of crushed cartilage came from the sniper’s neck, followed by the muffled snap of bone. The man went limp.

  Eddie dropped him and caught the SCAR by its strap just before it tipped over the platform’s edge. He lay beside the dead man, recognising him as Voeker, and quickly and expertly checked the gun. A full load of thirty 5.56mm rounds, and the scope was a high-quality night vision unit, a sharp red chevron superimposed over the centre of the shimmering green image.

  He lined up the chevron’s point on Stikes’s head. The mercenary leader was completely unaware of him, a sitting duck. All he had to do was pull the trigger . . .

  It wasn’t mercy that stopped his finger from tightening – he had already decided that Stikes was going to die. Instead, it was the urge to find out what was going on, to catch everybody involved. The helicopter swung overhead, kicking up dust as it settled on the pad. Stikes picked up the case, and the two men on the catwalk headed for the metal stairs.

  Eddie moved the sight to the helicopter. A young, beefy blond man in a dark suit climbed out. Was this the contact? No - he hurried round to the aircraft’s far side to open the door for another passenger.

  At first, all he could see beneath the fuselage was a pair of black stiletto-heeled boots. Then the new arrival strode into view.

  He was so shocked that he almost dropped the rifle.

  The person meeting Stikes was someone he knew. Someone he thought was dead.

  His ex-wife. Sophia.

  41

  ‘I know you,’ said Stikes with a suspicious frown as Sophia Blackwood descended the steps, her long black coat billowing in the idling helicopter’s rotor wash. ‘You were Chase’s wife.’

  ‘I know you too,’ said Kit, alarmed. ‘You tried to set off a nuclear bomb in New York!’

  Stikes’s frown deepened. ‘You’re also, if I remember correctly, supposed to be dead.’

  Sophia smiled, coming fully into the light at the foot of the stairs – revealing that her beautiful face was marred by a deep, crooked scar that ran from an inch behind her left eye down her cheek and on to her neck, disappearing beneath a black scarf. The rest of her outfit was also black, including a pair of expensive leather gloves. ‘Gentlemen, I’m all those things, and more,’ she said. ‘But right now, I’m the person you wanted to meet’ – she turned away from Stikes and looked at Kit – ‘and, like it or not, your superior. So shall we get to business?’

  ‘As you wish, Lady Blackwood,’ said Stikes. There was a faint tinge of mockery to the word; the British government had stripped Sophia of her title following her failed attack on the United States. She gave him a cold look. ‘I assume Jindal told you what I want in exchange for these.’ He held up the case.

  ‘I know what you want,’ said Sophia. ‘However, the people I represent are more curious about why.’

  ‘It’s simple, really. When I first met Jindal in Venezuela, I knew something wasn’t right. Interpol division heads don’t go out and do fieldwork – and they certainly don’t do fieldwork that’s only tangentially related to their job. He gave me some cock-and-bull story about the archaeological expedition being connected to a smuggling investigation, but he obviously had some other motive for being there. So I had a little chat with him, and learned about your organisation. The Group.’

  If Sophia’s look at Stikes had been cold, the one she directed at Kit was positively icy. ‘Funny. He somehow forgot to mention that.’

  ‘I was tortured!’ Kit protested. ‘If I hadn’t said anything, he would have killed me. And I didn’t tell him why the Group need the statues. How could I? I haven’t been told myself.’

  ‘You told him more than enough, apparently.’ She turned back to Stikes. ‘So, you have some idea of the Group’s objectives. What do you want from them? Your wanted status with international law enforcement to disappear, perhaps? Or is it just about money?’

  ‘Only indirectly,’ said the Englishman. ‘I’m actually offering them my services.’

  Sophia arched a perfect eyebrow. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Yes. I have the experience, the connections and, frankly, the ruthlessness to be a great asset. From what Jindal told me, what they’re planning will genuinely change the world. I want to make sure I’m on the side that benefits when it happens.’

  ‘Everyone will benefit. Or so they say.’ There was a glint in her eye that suggested she had a different opinion.

  ‘They will,’ insisted Kit. ‘I wouldn’t be a part of this if I didn’t believe it would help the world.’

  Stikes rattled the case. ‘But they need these first, don’t they?’

  Sophia glanced back at the blond man watching from the top of the steps. ‘There was a suggestion – not mine, I’ll point out – that we should take them from you by force.’

  Stikes gave her a lupine smile. ‘That would be a bad idea.’

  ‘I know. We used a thermal scanner to see who else was here before landing. Mikkel is very good, but I doubt even he could pick off all three of your men before they killed us.’

  ‘He’d be lucky to draw his—’ Stikes broke off abruptly. ‘Three men?’

  Sophia responded in kind to his sudden concern. ‘What is it?�
�

  ‘I only have two men.’

  ‘Then who’s the third?’

  ‘Ay up,’ said a Yorkshire voice.

  The trio whirled to see Eddie climb on to the catwalk, carrying a SCAR. Mikkel’s hand flashed into his jacket to draw a gun – but Eddie had already whipped the rifle up and fired. The blond man collapsed, two bullet wounds in his chest.

  The SCAR came back to the three people on the walkway. ‘So,’ said Eddie, advancing, ‘interesting little meeting. My ex-comrade, my ex-wife, and,’ a searing glare at Kit, ‘my ex-friend.’

  ‘Eddie, this isn’t what you think,’ said Kit, raising his hands. ‘Interpol authorised me to make a deal with Stikes for—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Eddie roared. Kit flinched. ‘Don’t give me any more of your fucking lies and bullshit. You’ve been working with him the whole time to get those fucking statues – and you killed Mac for them!’

  Silence, Kit frozen with an expression of shocked guilt. Stikes finally broke it. ‘McCrimmon’s dead? What a shame.’

  Eddie’s mouth tightened with anger. He snapped up the rifle and fired. Stikes’s beret flew off and disappeared into the darkness. The mercenary staggered, dropping the case and clutching his head as blood ran down his face.

  ‘You missed?’ said Sophia, affecting casualness as she recovered from the shock of the gunshot. ‘Not like you, Eddie.’

  ‘I don’t miss what I’m aiming at from this range,’ he growled.

  Stikes felt the wound. The bullet had carved a deep gash in his scalp, red spreading through his fair hair like ink on tissue paper. ‘That was a mistake, Chase. If you want to kill me, you should have done it then. You’ll never get another chance.’

  He stared at the other former SAS man, anticipation growing as he waited for the crack of a distant rifle, an explosion of blood and bone . . .

  His expectancy faded. Nothing happened.

  ‘Oh, were you waiting for one of your sniper mates to shoot me?’ asked Eddie sarcastically. He held up the SCAR. ‘Got this off the bloke on top of the tank. And I killed the guy on the cliffs over there before I got here. You’re getting sloppy, Stikes, putting your men in the most obvious positions.’ A gesture with the rifle. ‘Okay. Weapons. Chuck ’em.’

  Stikes reluctantly pulled the Jericho from his holster and tossed it past Eddie, where it hit the machinery below the catwalk with a dull clank. Eddie moved the gun on to Kit. ‘I’m unarmed,’ he said.

  Eddie nodded; the Indian wouldn’t have had the opportunity to acquire a new weapon. The SCAR lined up on Sophia. ‘So am I,’ she said.

  Her ex-husband gave her an irritated look. Sophia sighed and reached into her coat, drawing out a matt-black Glock 36 compact pistol, which she dropped over the edge of the walkway. There was something odd about her left hand, Eddie noticed; some of her fingers seemed unnaturally stiff inside the leather glove. And looking more closely, besides the scar, there was something different about her face: her cheekbones looked sharper, the line of her nose more curved. Had she had plastic surgery?

  ‘So, what are you going to do now, Eddie?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to kill us?’

  ‘Him?’ said Eddie, nodding towards Stikes. ‘Yeah. For what he did to Nina. You, I haven’t decided yet. Since I already thought you’d died twice, might have to make it third time lucky – but I wouldn’t mind seeing you back in prison either.’ He rounded on Kit. ‘As for you, though . . . Isshould kill you. But first, I want to know why. Why did you do it – why shoot Mac? Why?’

  Despite the cold wind blowing down from the hills, Kit was sweating. ‘I didn’t want to do it, Eddie, you have to believe me. But he didn’t give me any choice. He was going to destroy the helicopter – and the statues.’ His eyes flickered towards the fallen case.

  ‘The statues,’ Eddie echoed quietly – before suddenly erupting. ‘Those fucking statues! Am I the only one who doesn’t put all this stupid archaeological shit above people’s lives? What’s so important about the fucking things?’ He aimed the rifle at the case. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow them to fucking pieces right now.’

  He noticed Sophia tense – she had a reason, at least. But Kit spoke first, taking a step closer with his hands spread, almost pleading. ‘I . . . I can’t tell you, Eddie. I wish I could. But it’ll change the world. We have to have the statues. For . . . for the sake of all humanity.’

  Eddie regarded him for a moment . . . then his eyes narrowed. ‘Not good enough.’ His finger tensed on the trigger—

  Bright lights washed over him.

  He looked round. Another car was pulling up beside Kit’s—

  The instant of distraction gave the Indian an opening. Kit leapt at him, one hand grabbing the SCAR and shoving it away from the case. Eddie fired, a burst of bullets twanging off the pipework below. Stikes jumped away from the line of fire, Sophia hurriedly taking cover behind him.

  With both hands on the rifle, Eddie couldn’t defend against a punch that jarred his vision. He and Kit grappled for control of the SCAR, lurching back along the catwalk. The gun’s ejection port was facing the Interpol officer; Eddie pulled the trigger again, more rounds ripping into the pumping machinery - and showering Kit’s face and neck with searing cartridge casings.

  Kit shrieked and jerked back, still trying to wrest away the SCAR. Another burst of fire, but this time the spent brass sprayed over his shoulder as he forced the gun upwards. Eddie kicked at his legs, trying to trip him—

  A shrill screech came from a pipe below, followed by an earth-shaking thud and a thunderous roar of flame.

  The bullets had damaged one of the pumps, gas escaping through a cracked valve . . . and igniting as more red-hot rounds flashed through it.

  Nina and Macy exited the taxi – and jumped in shock as an explosion rattled the vehicle, a fireball boiling skywards from the pumping station. Beneath it, a forty-foot-long line of fire blasted out almost horizontally from the machinery, the force of the flame seething against a complex knot of pipes.

  Stikes and Sophia recoiled from the heat. The two fighting men were almost directly over the burning gas jet – which was acting like a blowtorch, slicing into the neighbouring pump’s pipework.

  ‘Time to leave, I think,’ said Sophia. She reached for the case – but Stikes was quicker. The former soldier snatched it up and opened it, moving as if to tip its contents over the guardrail.

  ‘Do we have a deal?’ he demanded. ‘Because if not, I’m going to throw these things into the fire and get the hell out of here before this whole place goes up!’

  Sophia gave him a sour look, then nodded. ‘We have a deal.’

  ‘Excellent. Then I’d appreciate a lift!’ He looked at the helicopter, which was already rising from an idle to takeoff revolutions as its pilot realised the danger.

  ‘Well, it does seem that I have a spare seat.’ She hurried up the steps with Stikes behind her, passing Mikkel’s body without a second glance.

  Racing through the open gate, Nina saw someone jump into the helicopter. A man, blond hair standing out in the firelight: Stikes? The brief glimpse wasn’t enough for her to be sure.

  Macy, behind her, looked fearfully around the compound. ‘Do you see Eddie or Kit?’

  Dismay filled Nina’s voice. ‘Oh, yeah. I see them.’

  ‘Where?’

  She pointed above the flame as she ran faster. ‘Take a guess!’

  The detonation had knocked both Eddie and Kit down – with the Indian landing on top. He threw another punch at Eddie’s face, knocking the Yorkshireman’s head back against the walkway’s grillework floor. Eddie’s grip slackened, and Kit managed to prise one of his hands off the SCAR. He struck at the Englishman’s face again, bloodying his mouth, then rolled back on to his haunches, pulling the gun with him.

  He turned the bulky weapon round, pointing it at the man who had been his friend—

  The conflict in his mind made him hesitate, just for a split second. He didn’t want to do this, but h
e had to – Eddie had deduced the truth of what happened to Mac, had seen him with Stikes and Sophia Blackwood. It was the only way to maintain his cover at Interpol and prevent anyone else from learning of his involvement with the Group.

  The only way, he told himself. Finger on the trigger—

  One of Eddie’s legs lashed upwards, striking the rifle just as it fired. Two shots exploded from the barrel, whipping just above his head – then the SCAR clicked impotently, its magazine empty.

  Eddie didn’t hear it; the gunshots, practically in his face, had left him deafened and half blind from the flash of the muzzle flame. But he could still see well enough to slam his other foot hard against Kit’s chest. Kit fell backwards, head smacking against the guardrail.