The lights of every room were also turned on, and country-western music blasted from a radio.
His team of twenty men had converged on the cabin along the road and through the forest after his advance scout radioed that he had shot holes in the radiator of the occupant's car. Kung Chong was certain that all paths of escape were cut off and that no one had passed through his cordon. Whoever was living in the cabin had to be there. And yet Kung Chong sensed all was not going according to plan.
Throwing light around a darkened building usually indicated an ambush by people waiting to open fire inside. The brightly lit yard canceled the use of night glasses. But this situation was different. The illuminated interior rooms and the loud music puzzled Kung Chong. Total surprise seemed out of the question. Until his men could gain the relative safety of the cabin walls and break through the doors, they were sitting ducks to anyone with automatic weapons as they rushed across the yard. He moved from position to position around the cabin, peering through the windows with a pair of binoculars, observing a solitary man who sat at a table in the kitchen, the only room unrecorded by interior surveillance cameras. He wore a baseball cap and reading glasses and was bent over the table seemingly reading a book. A cabin ablaze with lights. The radio turned up at full volume. A man fully dressed and reading a book at five-thirty in the morning? Kung Chong sniffed the air and smelled a setup.
He sent for one of his men who carried a sniper rifle with a scope and a long suppressor on the muzzle. “You see the man sitting in the kitchen?” he asked quietly.
The sniper nodded silently.
“Shoot him.”
Anything less than a hundred yards was child's play. A good shot with a handgun could have hit the target. The sniper ignored the scope and sighted in on the man seated at the table with the gun's iron sights. The shot sounded like the quick clap of hands followed by a tinkle of glass. Kung Chong peered through his binoculars. The bullet had made a small hole in the windowpane, but the figure remained upright at the table as if nothing had happened.
“You fool,” he growled. “You failed to hit him.”
The sniper shook his head. “At this distance it is impossible to miss.”
“Shoot again.”
The sniper shrugged, lined up the shot and pulled the trigger. The man at the table remained immobile. “Either the target is already dead or he is in a coma. I struck him above the bridge of the nose. See the hole for yourself.”
Kung Chong focused his glasses on the face of the man in the kitchen. There was a neat round hole above the bridge of the nose above the reading glasses, and it wasn't bleeding.
“Curse that devil!” Kung Chong snarled. No stealth. No orders quietly issued over his radio. He shouted wildly across the clearing in front of the cabin, “Move in! Move in!”
Men dressed in black materialized from the shadows cast by the trees and ran across the yard, past the car and burst through the front door of the cabin. They spread through the rooms like a flood, weapons at the ready, poised to shoot at the first hint of resistance. Kung Chong was the fifth man into the living room. He rushed past his men and burst into the kitchen.
“What manner of devil is he?” Kung Chong muttered as he picked up the dummy sitting in the chair and threw it on the floor. The baseball hat fell away and the reading glasses shattered, revealing a crude face hurriedly molded out of wet newspaper and painted sloppily with vegetable dyes.
Kung Chong's second in command came up to him. “The cabin is empty. No sign of our quarry.”
His lips pressed together in a thin line as he nodded, not surprised by the report. He touched the transmit button on his radio and spoke a name. Lo Han's voice responded immediately.
“Report.”
“He has escaped,” said Kung Chong simply.
There was a moment's pause, then Lo Han said irritably, “How is it possible he sidestepped your men?”
“No one larger than a rat could have slipped through the cordon. He cannot be far away.”
“Most odd. Not in the cabin, not in the forest, where could he have gone?”
Kung Chong stared out the window at the boathouse that was being searched by his men. “The lake,” he answered. “He can only be on the lake.”
He skirted the dummy lying on the floor and ran out the back door across the porch and onto the dock. He shoved aside his men and stepped inside the boathouse. The sailboat was hanging in its cradle, the kayaks and canoe still in their wall racks. He stood numb, aware of the enormity of his blunder, the incredible ease with which he had been deceived. He should have known, at least guessed, how the man in the cabin had slipped through his fingers.
The old boat, the Chris-Craft runabout that Kung Chong had observed earlier after a personal search of the cabin and boathouse, was missing.
Nearly two miles away, it was a sight to stir the blood of those fortunate people who lived in the past. The beautifully designed mahogany hull, contoured in what old-timers called a tumble-home stern, curved gracefully from the transom forward to the engine compartment, which sat between the forward and aft cockpits. Weighted down with twelve adults and two children packed into its dual cockpits, the sixty-seven-year-old 125-horsepower Chrysler marine engine lifted the bow and thrust the boat over the water at nearly thirty miles an hour, casting twin sheets of water to the sides and leaving a rooster tail in her wake. Pitt sat behind the wheel of the Foleys' 1933 Chris-Craft runabout with the little Chinese boy on his lap as the boat planed over the waters of the Orion River toward Grapevine Bay.
After explaining his latest plot to Julia, Pitt had quickly put two of the elderly Chinese men to work siphoning gas out of the car's tank and transferring it into the tank of the runabout. Because the big Chrysler marine engine had not turned over for several months, Pitt also replaced the battery with the one from his car. With Julia Lee translating, he instructed the senior citizens to take the paddles from the kayaks and canoe, and demonstrated the proper method of propelling the runabout without undue splashing noises. Considering the fatigue of the elderly immigrants and drawback of working in the dark, the enterprise went surprisingly smoothly.
Suddenly Pitt turned and rushed out of the boathouse.
“Where are you going?” shouted Julia.
“I almost forgot my best pal,” he yelled back, running across the dock to the cabin. He was back in two minutes with a small bundle under one arm wrapped in a towel.
“That's your best pal?” asked Julia.
“I never leave home without him,” he said.
Without further explanation he began helping everyone in the boat. When the drawn and hollow-eyed immigrants were stuffed into the confined dual cockpits, Pitt opened the boat-house door and whispered the order for everyone to paddle. They had hardly traveled little more than a quarter of a mile, staying along the shoreline in the shadows, when the weary Chinese began giving up from the effects of exposure and exhaustion. Pitt continued stroking until the runabout was at last caught in the current of the river. Only then did he lay his paddle aside and catch his breath for a few moments. Luck was with them; they had yet to be discovered. He waited until they had drifted down the river out of earshot of the lake before he tried to start up the engine. He primed the twin carburetors Foley had installed to update the intake manifold. Then he made a wish on every star in sight and pushed the starter button on the dashboard.
The big, straight-eight Chrysler turned over slowly until the oil circulated, and then increased its revolutions. After grinding away for several seconds, Pitt disengaged the starter. As he primed the carburetors again he could have sworn that everyone in the boat was holding his breath. On the next attempt a pair of cylinders popped to life, then another pair until the engine was hitting on all eight. Pitt pushed the floor lever into forward and let the boat move only on the engine's idle speed. He steered with the little Chinese boy sitting in his lap. Still no shouts from the shore, no searchlight stabbing across the lake. He looked back at the cabin.
He could see tiny figures appearing out of the forest and running into the lights he'd left on.
The first rays of the sun were spreading over the mountains to the east when Pitt turned to Julia, who was sitting beside him, her arms clasped around the young girl. He looked over at her, seeing her face in the light for the first time, shocked at the punishment inflicted on what must have been delicate features, and fully appreciating her courage and stamina in surviving her ordeal.
Cold anger suddenly overwhelmed him. “My God, those bastards really worked you over.”
“I haven't looked in a mirror, but I suspect I won't be showing my face hi public for a while,” she said gamely.
“If your superiors at INS give out medals, you'd rate a chestfull.”
“A certificate of merit in my file is the best I can hope for.”
“Tell everybody to hold on tight,” he advised her. “We're coming into rapids.”
“After we reach the mouth of the river, what then?” she asked.
“According to my calculations, any place on a map called Grapevine Bay must have grapes and grapes mean vineyards and vineyards mean people. The more, the merrier. Shang's mad dogs wouldn't dare attack us with a hundred U.S. citizens looking on.”
“I'd better call the INS field agents again and alert them to the fact that we've left the area and give them our destination.”
“A good idea,” said Pitt, pushing the throttle forward to its stop with one hand while handing her the phone with the other. “They can concentrate their forces on the retreat instead of worrying about us at the cabin.”
“Did you hear from your NUMA people?” Julia shouted above the increased roar of the exhaust.
“They're supposed to meet and pick me up after we reach Grapevine Bay.”
“Do they use little open aircraft painted yellow?”
He shook his head. “NUMA leases executive jets and helicopters with turquoise color schemes. Why do you ask?”
Julia tapped Pitt on the shoulder and pointed over the stern at a yellow ultralight that was chasing them down the river. “If they're not friends, they must be foes.”
PlTT TOOK A FAST LOOK OVER HIS SHOULDER AT THE AIRCRAFT rapidly closing over the wake of the Chris-Craft. He recognized it as an ultra-light, a pusher-engined, high-winged monoplane with tricycle landing gear and tandem seats for two people. The pilot sat forward, out in the open, with his passenger behind and slightly elevated. The airframe consisted of aluminum tubing braced with thin cable. Propelled by a lightweight, reduction-drive, fifty-horsepower engine, it could move fast. Pitt guessed it was capable of 120 miles an hour.
The pilot was flying directly over the middle of the river no more than forty feet off the water. He was good, Pitt admitted. The air currents swirled through the narrow canyon in a series of strong wind gusts, but the pilot compensated and kept the ultralight on a straight and level course. He was coming after the runabout intentionally and purposefully, like someone who knew exactly what he was about to do. There was no hesitation and no uncertainty about who was going to end up the loser in the coming unequal contest. God knows Pitt had no doubts, not when he saw a man strapped in the seat behind the pilot holding a stubby machine pistol in his hands.
“Force everyone to get down as low as they can,” Pitt ordered Julia.
She spoke in Chinese, passing on Pitt's command, but the runabout's passengers were already so overcrowded in the small cockpits they had no place to go. All they could do was settle as low as humanly possible in the leather seats and duck their heads.
“Oh, dear lord,” gasped Julia. “There are two more of them about a mile behind the first.”
“I wish you hadn't told me,” said Pitt, hunched over the steering wheel, willing the runabout to go faster. “They're not about to let us escape and spread the gospel about their shady operation.”
The lead ultralight roared so low over the speeding Chris-Craft, the draft from its propeller blades whirled a cloud of spray that dampened the occupants of the boat. Pitt expected to hear gunshots, see holes appear in the smoothly varnished mahogany, but the aircraft passed on without attacking. It pulled up sharply, its tricycle landing wheels missing the runabout's windshield by no more than five feet.
Kung Chong sat strapped into the rear seat of the ultralight bringing up the rear and gazed with smug satisfaction at the speeding runabout below. He spoke into the transmitter attached to his crash helmet. “We have the boat in sight,” he reported.
“Have you commenced your attack?” asked Lo Han from the mobile security vehicle.
“Not yet. The lead plane reports our quarry is not alone.”
“As we suspected, there were two of them.”
“Not two,” said Kung Chong. “More like ten or twelve. The boat appears crowded with old people and young children.”
“The devil must have found a family camping along the river and forced them into the boat to act as hostages. Our adversary, it seems, will stop at nothing to preserve his life.”
Kung Chong raised a pair of binoculars with one hand and peered at the passengers huddled in the dual cockpits. “I believe we have an unforeseen problem, Lo Han.”
“We've had nothing but problems for the past twelve hours. What is it now?”
“I can't be certain, but it appears the occupants of the boat are immigrants.”
“Impossible, the only aliens brought ashore are either confined, on their way inland or dead.”
“I could be mistaken.”
“Let's hope you are,” said Lo Han. “Can you fly close enough to identify their nationality?” asked Lo Han.
“For what purpose? For me to eliminate the devil responsible for the destruction of Qin Shang's yacht and the infiltration into the alien holding cells, those who are with him must die too. What difference if they are Chinese or American?”
“You are right, Kung Chong,” acknowledged Lo Han. “Do whatever you must to protect the enterprise.”
“I shall give orders to launch the attack.”
“Be certain there are no spectators in the vicinity.”
“The river is clear of recreational craft, and the shorelines are empty of people.”
“Very well, but keep a sharp eye. We cannot afford eyewitnesses.”
“As you command,” said Kung Chong. “But time is running out. If we do not destroy the boat and those in it within the next few minutes, all opportunity will be lost.”
“Why didn't he fire?” asked Julia, squinting against the glare from the morning sun on the surface of the river.
“A hitch in their assassination plans. They thought I worked alone. He's reporting to his boss that I'm loaded to the gunwales with passengers.”
“How far to Grapevine Bay?”
“A good twelve or thirteen miles.”
“Can't we pull onto shore and take cover in the trees and rocks?”
“Not a practical idea,” he said. “All they'd have to do is land in the nearest clearing and hunt us down. The river is our only chance, slim as it is. You and the others keep your heads down. Let them wonder where I picked up a load of passengers. If they're looking closely they'll spot the folds on your eyelids and realize you're not the descendants of European ancestry on a picnic.”
The venerable Chris-Craft covered another two miles of river before the lead ultralight dipped low over the river and increased speed, its nose aimed menacingly at the runabout. “No more peaceful intentions,” said Pitt calmly. “He means business this time. How good are you with a handgun?”
“My qualifying scores on the range are higher than most of the male agents I know,” she said as matter-of-factly as if she was describing her latest hairdo.
He took the bundle from under his seat, unwrapped the towel and handed her his old automatic pistol. “Ever shoot a Colt forty-five?”
“No,” she answered. “When required, most of us at INS pack a Beretta forty-caliber automatic.”
“Here are two spare clips. Don't waste you
r shells firing at the engine or fuel tank. As a target, it's too small to hit on an aircraft passing overhead at more than fifty miles an hour. Aim for the pilot and the gunner. One good body shot and they'll either crash or head for home.”
She took the .45, twisted around in the seat so she was facing backward, flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer. “He's almost on us,” she warned Pitt.
“The pilot will roll and come over us slightly off to one side, giving his gunner a clear shot downward,” Pitt said coolly. “The instant he lines us up in his sights, shout out which side he's passing, left or right, so I can zigzag under him.”
Without questioning Pitt's instructions, Julia gripped the old Colt with both hands, raised the barrel and lined up the sights on the two men perched in front of the wings and engine as it soared down the river. Her face showed more concentration than fear as her finger tightened on the trigger.
“On your left!” she called out.
Pitt threw the runabout in a sharp turn to the left, staying with the ultralight. He heard the quiet staccato burp of an automatic weapon with a suppressor on its muzzle, mingled with the loud thunder of the old Colt, and saw bullets lace the water only three feet alongside the hull as he cut under the ultralight, using its underside to mask the runabout from the gunner's view.
As the ultralight shot ahead, Pitt saw no trace of injury to the pilot or copilot. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. “You missed!” he snapped.
“I could have sworn I scored,” she snapped back furiously.
“Ever hear of a deflection shot?” Pitt lectured her. “You've got to lead a moving target. Haven't you ever hunted ducks?”
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