“Keep the attaché case between us,” he ordered. “I’ll carry it if you want.”
She was clutching it with both arms. “Just . . . stay close. Please.”
“I’m right here,” he said. “I’m not going to let go of you.”
“Thank you.”
It was their lengthiest conversation since leaving California, and Ken knew from the sudden sheen of tears in Savannah’s eyes that he wasn’t doing her any big favors by being kind.
“How’re your feet holding up in those stupid-ass shoes?” he asked. “They weren’t exactly designed for running through airports.”
“I’m fine.” She was a terrible liar. Her feet had to hurt like hell.
Ken was tired and hungry and jet-lagged and grubby from spending over twenty-four hours in the same clothes—she had to be feeling ten times worse because she wasn’t used to it. But damn, she refused to complain.
“Do you think . . .” she asked haltingly, gazing at him with those eyes. “Would it be okay if we, like, started over? I mean, here we are, halfway around the world, and you wouldn’t really have come all this way if at least a part of you didn’t want—”
“Miss Savannah von Hopf?”
The man who was blocking their path was large with a capital ARG. His suit was tailor-made and obviously expensive. Even Ken—who didn’t give a damn about clothes—could tell it had cost big bucks.
The rest of the crowd managed to flow around the big man, but he and Savannah were temporarily trapped. The giant held up a sign that said VON HOFP. “I am here to take you to your uncle,” he said in heavily accented English. He wasn’t Indonesian. Ken guessed Russian.
“You spelled her name wrong,” he pointed out.
“How did you even know which flight I’d be on?” Savannah—who wanted to start over—wondered.
Good fricking question. One he should’ve thought of himself, if he hadn’t been thinking with his dick, the part of him that was enthusiastic about the possibilities of “starting over” with Savannah.
“Thanks, pal,” Ken told the best-dressed driver in the entire world—yeah, right, this guy was a chauffeur. And yeah, like hell they were going to go even two feet with him. “But we’ll get our own ride to the hotel. Why don’t you go pick up Mister von Hopf and tell him we want to meet him there? I’m sure he’ll understand our need to be cautious.”
Large looked at him. “Who are you?”
“A friend of the family,” Ken said. “Who the hell are you?”
“I want to go with him,” Savannah said.
What the . . . ? Ken turned to look at her. It was the weirdest freaking thing—she’d gone completely pale. “Oh no you don’t.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
This was just perfect. What happened to Can we start over? “What did I tell you in San Diego?”
“I want to get this over with.” Savannah wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“You do it my way,” Ken reminded her, “or I’m outta here. I was serious about that.”
“Okay,” she said with the weirdest freaking smile he’d ever seen. “That’s okay. It’s . . . it’s great, actually. Great. And . . . and . . . if you hurry, you can probably even catch the next flight back to Hong Kong.”
She sounded as if she desperately wanted to get rid of him. She sounded . . .
Ken realized far too late that Large Guy wasn’t alone. There was another man standing directly behind Savannah.
He was carrying a coat over his arm—a coat, in tropical Jakarta. It was a time-honored but none-too-original way to conceal a weapon—in this case, some kind of big-barreled Dirty Harry-sized handgun he was jabbing hard into Savannah’s side.
“So good-bye,” Savannah told Ken. “I definitely don’t want to do this your way, so yes, you should just go home.”
Holy shit, she was trying to protect him from the bad men with the guns. She was trying to send him away so he wouldn’t be hurt, while she went off to meet her unhappy fate.
If Coat Man had been holding one of the usual cheap shit popguns native to most third-world countries, Ken would have put himself between Savannah and the barrel while he disarmed the two sons of bitches.
But that elephant gun wouldn’t just blow a hole in him if the guy’s trigger finger accidentally slipped. The bullet would go right through Ken and it would make a big hole in Savannah, too. And neither of them would get back up, not ever again.
“Okay,” Ken said easily. “Let’s do it your way, babe. Let’s go with this gentleman.”
Surely there’d be an opportunity between here and the parking lot to get that weapon into his hand and to regain control of the situation. Two guys, one weapon? Even if Large was carrying, these punks were amateurs. It’d still be a breeze.
Savannah, however, was determined to make it as difficult as possible. “There’s a man behind me, Kenny,” she said from between clenched teeth, “and he’s got a gun on me.”
No shit, Sherlock. “Yes, I knew that, thanks. And now, unfortunately, he knows that I know it, too.”
“Go away,” she said.
“And don’t call me Kenny,” he added.
“Please come with me,” Large said. “Both of you.”
Savannah turned to face the Russian, suddenly fierce. “This has nothing to do with him.”
Him being Kenny. Jesus. This was why she wanted him to come along, wasn’t it? To protect her? Did she really think, then, that he’d run at the first little sign of trouble?
Ken took her elbow and moved her forward. “I can take these guys,” he breathed into her ear. “Just . . . don’t say anything else. Please.”
“But—”
He squeezed her elbow and she fell silent, thank God. All she needed to do was let slip the fact that he was a U.S. Navy SEAL, and she’d be on her own. The SEALs had a reputation for kicking terrorist ass in this corner of the ocean. There would be no “evil warlord” scenario, no tying him up, no taking him prisoner if the truth came out. No, guys like these were so scared of SEALs, he’d have a bullet in his head so fast, he wouldn’t know what hit him.
Large led the way, and as they moved, Ken realized there were three additional guys, also carrying coats, moving through the crowd with them.
Shit. Five to one wasn’t going to be quite so easy.
And the goatfuck factor went to an eleven on a scale of one to ten as Large led them not to the parking area, but rather to a fricking heliport, where a twin engine Puma was ready to fly.
Okay. Okay. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as it looked. So what if they were flown to some desert isle and held for ransom. He did, after all, have one of his tracking devices in the pocket of his shirt.
As soon as he turned up missing, Johnny or Sam or Cosmo or someone who knew him would eventually go to his house and check his laptop and see that he was broadcasting a steady signal from Middle-of-Freaking-Nowhere, Indonesia—provided there was cell phone satellite access in the area. And if there wasn’t, well, his pals could bring in some temporary sat towers and, presto, he’d be found. At which point, if he hadn’t already managed to escape from whatever bush-league bamboo and vine hut he and Savannah were being held in, the SEALs would come and liberate them.
Of course, he was assuming these guys really were terrorists of some kind. It was possible that this helo would land on the lawn of some fancy estate, and Savannah’s Uncle Alex would stroll out to meet them, Piña Coladas in both hands.
“This is the money, no? I will take it now,” Large announced, reaching for Savannah’s briefcase.
“I don’t think so.” Ken stepped between them, and all the coats came off. A pair of Uzis and one HK MP5 that he itched to get his hands on all came into view, leveled at him. But it was the Magnum .44 still aimed at Savannah that stopped him cold.
Large motioned for Savannah to hand over the case, and she surrendered it quickly.
“Okay,” Ken said. “Here’s how a kidnapping works. You get the money, you let the hostag
es go. Simple. Basic. Easy even for stupid shits like you to understand. You have the money now, so now you need to—”
Wham.
Large hit him. In the back of the head with the metal briefcase. Jesus, that rang his chimes. He didn’t see it coming, didn’t brace, and the force from the blow sent him down to the pavement, onto his hands and knees.
He realized, as he was down there staring at his four hands, that the fact that he wasn’t braced was probably what kept it from being a knockout blow. As it was, it just hurt like fucking hell and—big pain in the ass—made him dizzy, too.
Savannah scrambled down to the pavement next to him, no doubt tearing the knees out of her fancy pantyhose.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Kenny . . .”
“I’m okay,” he managed to say. “Skull’s pretty thick.” He just needed another minute down here to get his eyes back into focus.
“Please,” she said, touching his face. Her hands were cool despite the sun’s heat. “Don’t do anything else to make them angry.”
“Can’t help it,” he said. “It’s that asshole thing again. It’s in my genes.”
She actually laughed. But it turned into a shriek as Large hauled her back to her feet.
That got Ken very vertical very quickly, too. He shook off the last of the dizziness. “Keep your fucking hands off her!”
And that got him the butt of the HK submachine gun right smack in the kidneys. That searing pain came with the bonus of knowing he was going to pee traces of blood for the next day or so. But the pain was nothing he couldn’t handle.
He’d had the shit beaten out of him enough times in his life—thanks, Dad—to know that he could win a fight with just about anyone simply by staying on his feet longer. By ignoring the pain and pushing himself off the ground when another man would’ve stayed down.
But he wasn’t fighting one man here. There were five of them. And if he got himself killed now, in the first few minutes of this funfest, Savannah would be left all alone.
She was looking as if she were ready to jump into the fray, to fight alongside of him. That wasn’t good.
Besides, after tossing her into the helo, Large was keeping his fucking hands to himself. So Ken shut his mouth and climbed into the open sliding door after her.
“You okay?” he asked, pulling her down next to him on the corrugated metal floor. There weren’t any seats. This was a cargo helo. In fact, it was filled with small crates. Large had wedged the briefcase in between one of the stacks and the farthest bulkhead from the open door.
She nodded, all big blue eyes. “Are you?”
“I’ll live.”
“Kenny, I’m so sorry I got you involved in—”
“Shh,” he said. “Savannah, don’t talk. Just zip it completely, okay?”
“But—”
He looked at her, and she cut herself off. But only for a second.
“If you get a chance to escape, please go,” she said as quickly as possible. “Get yourself to safety. You can always come back for me.”
“Zip,” he said. “It.”
“Promise me.”
“Fuck, no!” He couldn’t believe her.
“But you’ll be able to get away.” The woman would not shut up. “You’re a S—”
SEAL. He kissed her. She had been about to announce to a helo filled with terrorists that he was a SEAL. So he shut her up the only way he knew was guaranteed to work—by covering her mouth with his own.
He just kissed the shit out of her as the helo blades started turning, creating a wash of sound that you had to shout to be heard over. And then, as they lifted into the sky, he brought his mouth right up to her ear, so no one could read his lips. “If they find out I’m . . . what I am, they’ll kill me. Don’t even let it slip that I’m in the Navy, do you understand? Or I’m dead.”
Savannah nodded. She was trembling. He would’ve liked to have thought it was the kiss that had put her into such a state, but he suspected it was the result of the potential threat to his life.
He was the one shaken by that kiss.
Ken looked out the open door. As far as he could tell, they were heading northeast. They were already away from Jakarta, out over the ocean.
He looked around the helo again, noting that the gunman with the HK MP5 machine gun—the one he wanted to get his hands on—was sitting too far away. Even the two Uzis were well out of reach.
He focused his attention on the briefcase, and then on the helo itself.
There was another sliding door on the opposite side of the bird, but it was closed. He looked closer. It was closed but not locked, and possibly not even latched. It wouldn’t take much to push it open.
There they sat, in silence, traveling over the open expanse of the ocean, for well over an hour. Savannah clung to his hand.
Finally, the appearance of an island dead ahead set off a flood of discussion in Russian. Unlike his friend, Johnny Nilsson, Ken wasn’t any kind of a languages expert.
But he did speak enough of what he called “survival Russian” to get the gist of what they were saying. First they would drop the Americans, and then they would make the delivery. Then they would all go back to Jakarta and have dinner with someone named Otto who was either Large’s brother or his cactus. Ken was betting they were brothers.
Savannah had had enough. “Where’s my uncle?” she shouted over the roar at Mr. Large. “Has he been kidnapped? Is that what this is about?”
“Actually, I don’t know where he is,” Large shouted back. “He missed an important meeting and . . . I took it upon myself to regain some of my losses. I make a good imitation of Alexi’s voice over the telephone, no?”
“You called me?” She was stunned.
“ ‘Hello, Savannah,’ “ Large shouted. “ ‘This is Alex. I’m sorry reception is so bad . . .’ Alexi was gone, but he’d kindly left his palm pilot in his hotel room. He’d spoken of you most fondly, so I knew you were the one to call to deliver the funds.”
“Oh, my God,” Savannah breathed. “What have I done?”
This whole thing was just a scam, a con job. Chances were Savannah’s Uncle Alex was already swimming with the fishies. Ken guessed this was a botched kidnapping. And with the kidnappee suddenly deceased, Large and company had had to get creative to get their ransom money. They’d struck paydirt by calling Savannah.
“You got the money,” Ken shouted. “You got what you wanted. Why drag us all the way out here?”
“Because it’s not just about money,” Large shouted back. “It’s about maintaining the necessary respect.”
Oh, fuck. Those were not the words Ken had hoped to hear. The kind of respect Large was referring to was maintained through intimidation and fear. Through making examples of the poor suckers—or the poor suckers’ nieces and family friends—who crossed him. Death was looking to be a real option here.
They were flying over the island now, heading over the lush jungle, climbing steadily in altitude as they headed farther into the interior.
Savannah was silent, shocked by the realization that she’d come so willingly into danger. Ken doubted that she’d made the connection that he had—that her uncle was probably dead, and unless they did something, unless they took action, they themselves had literally minutes left to live.
Ken estimated and counted the number of paces it would take him to cross the helo. To get to the guy with the HK MP5 machine gun. To get to Large. To get to the attaché case. To get to the handle of the closed helo door.
They flew for close to another hour in silence, until Large once again barked out an order in Russian.
“This is far enough. Give us sufficient—”
Ken didn’t know the last word. It had something to do with flying. Ken had learned his Russian by painstakingly drumming vocabulary into his head. Apparently the chapter on flying hadn’t took.
But the pilot sent the helo pretty much straight up, higher into the air. And Ken remembered. The word was altitude. Give
us sufficient altitude.
Sufficient altitude for what?
And just like that, Ken knew.
Holy fuck. Drop the Americans meant drop the Americans. As in push them out of the helo at hundreds of feet above the jungle floor.
Unless he suddenly sprouted wings and learned to fly, he and Savannah were in serious trouble.
The missionaries’ boat had an air mattress and a canopy across the bow to keep out the sun.
Or any prying eyes.
Jones couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this nervous. Or this aroused. It was not a good combination.
Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control Page 17
