Silver

by Brian January

  The Sikorsky’s main rotor was already spinning, the wash from its four blades tugging at Turner’s clothes. His lips twitched as he hefted both rifles, his fingers curling into the trigger guards.

  His eyes locked on Morgana. “Been nice knowing you. It was sweet while it lasted.”

  But Morgana had kept the cutlass. April’s hand slashed down, too fast to follow, yanking the sword from its sheath and sending it hurtling at Turner—

  Flame spurted from the barrel of the colonel’s QBZ-95. The cutlass disintegrated in a shower of steel fragments.

  It was the break Skarda had been waiting for. Before Turner could adjust his aim, the captives leapt for cover behind a bulwark of big boulders.

  Swearing loudly, the colonel ran toward the boulders, blasting out a fusillade of bullets with both rifles, cratering the rocks with pockmarks and sending stone chips flying until the hammers clicked on empty chambers.

  The abrupt silence was all April needed. Vaulting out of hiding, she hit the ground running directly at Turner, hearing Morgana’s boots thudding at her heels.

  But the colonel was more nimble than he looked. Breaking into a sprint, he raced for the Sikorsky and hauled himself in, slamming the fuselage door shut behind him. The chopper lifted off, clattering away to the north.

  By now Skarda had staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth in pain as he came up behind them. He was keeping a wary eye on Morgana.

  Swinging around, she caught his expression and laughed. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. What do you say we team up and go after this turkey?”

  He flicked a glance at April, but her expression was neutral. But he knew what she was thinking.

  “You’re asking us to trust you?” he asked.

  Again she laughed, bright and loud. “On most days, no. But today it’s a different story. Now I want revenge. I give you my word—I’ll help you get the silver back and you can have it. All I want is Turner. Fair enough?”

  Skarda glanced at April. Her head moved fractionally.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  ___

  In the black gulf of the pit, Krell’s eyes snapped open. Consciousness returned with full force. He looked up, seeing the dull reflected glow of the burning napalm limning the rim above. It was enough illumination to allow him to see that he was stretched out on his back on a broad mantle of rock that jutted out from the pit’s vertical wall. It had broken his fall. Saved his life.

  Levering himself to a sitting position, he paid no attention to the searing bolts of pain that his nerves were sending screaming into his brain. He got to his feet and studied the wall. Pits in the rock and protrusions of limestone would provide some hand-and-footholds. The rest he could dig out with his knife.

  Thrusting the toe of his boot into the nearest hollow, he grabbed a little ledge of stone above his head and pulled himself up.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Mediterranean Sea, West of Crete

  THEY waited until the moon rose.

  The electric boats skimmed over the flat sea with no noise, their wakes barely disturbing the water. Ahead of their position, Skarda could see the clumped bank of clouds the formed the rim of the horizon and nothing more.

  He glanced over at April. Her face was set in grim lines, her long, dark hair flying in the wind.

  Through Candy Man they’d found out where Turner had taken the Sikorsky. He’d hacked into the helicopter’s GPS system, tracking its flight path to a point due west of Crete, 26.3 miles into the open sea. A ship, obviously. Skarda knew that past the twenty-four mile mark any oceangoing vessel would enter international waters, making it safe from boarding or legal prosecution, except from the country whose flag it was flying. Turner would have registered his ship under a flag of convenience from a country which would simply look the other way.

  From her seat next to Makris in the pilot’s seat, Morgana looked back and pointed. “There it is.”

  Straining his eyes, Skarda could make out the tiny black object in the distance that was Turner’s ship. April was already checking the weapons they’d brought: the Barrett REC7’s, two M4 carbines with attached 40mm grenade launchers, Sig Sauer pistols, and timer mines. And for April, a Barrett XM500 sniper rifle for long-range work. Altogether they had a crew of eight: the four in Skarda’s boat and four more in a second boat that was speeding off to his right.

  He leaned forward to Morgana. “You’re sure radar’s not a problem?”

  She grinned, her silver eyes catching moonlight. “He’ll have it on, all right, but we’re just too small to make a blip. But he’ll have lookouts stationed.”

  They sped closer. Bringing up her binoculars, Morgana surveyed the ship. “It looks like an oceanographic research ship. Helipad on the stern. The Sikorsky’s there.” She paused for a second. “There’s a guy with a rifle at the stern rail. He’s not even looking in this direction.”

  She turned to April. “Think you can get him?”

  With a solemn nod April opened the case containing the XM500 and expertly assembled the rifle. When she’d locked the scope into the Picatinny rail, she fitted the stock snugly against her shoulder, adjusted the rear sight, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  Through the binoculars Morgana saw the man on the stern throw his hands into the air and topple over the rail. “Got him!” she said, grinning. “I’m glad I’m on your side!”

  Within minutes the electric boats had reached the stern of the research vessel undetected. Scrambling onto the bow, Morgana tossed a padded grappling hook and line onto the rail above. Then, slinging on her Scorpion and shouldering a collapsible metal scaling ladder, she graped the line and hauled herself up to the deck, where she unfurled the ladder. One by one the others climbed aboard.

  Crouching in the black shadows of the helipad, Skarda surveyed the deck. A hundred and fifty feet away the superstructure and navigation deck were black hulks, outlined by silvery-blue moonlight. Most of the deck space was crammed with winches, steel drums, metal crates, and, near his position, an elevator crane that looked like a gigantic pointing finger. On both port and starboard sides aisles ran the length of the ship between the gunwales and the equipment.

  Lowering herself beside him, April pointed ahead. A shape was emerging from a dense mass of shadows cast by two big crates: a second sentry. Makris ran forward in a low crouch, then raised his compressed air rifle and shot the man with a hypodermic dart. He slumped against the crate and fell forward on his face, the rifle clattering out of his grasp.

  The way seemed clear. Cautiously they padded forward towards the superstructure. Trickles of sweat broke out between Skarda’s shoulder blades. On the bright moonlit deck he was feeling exposed, the back of his neck tingling as though he could sense the crosshairs of a rifle scope centering on his unprotected skin. A jolt of agony stabbed through his thigh. In Izmir a doctor had patched his wound, but physically he was ravaged, driving himself forward on pure adrenaline. He clenched his teeth and pushed ahead.

  April had moved past him now, taking the lead, with Morgana and Makris off to the left. The other four men trailed behind, spread out over the deck, their rifles at the ready. Suddenly she stopped. In his peripheral vision, Skarda spotted movement. He wheeled, snapping up the M4. Muzzle flashes erupted from behind the drum of a storage winch. Triggering off a burst, he hit the deck and rolled as bullets hammered against the plating where he’d just been standing, spanging off a crate behind him. One of Morgana’s men cried out and fell, hit by a ricochet.

  Makris let loose with his Scorpion. Skarda got a glimpse of the gunman scurrying away toward the superstructure, dodging from cover to cover. By this time more men had appeared, boiling out of hatchways and running behind the railing of the navigation deck, their rifles thundering. Bullets smacked and whined all around Skarda as he ran aft in a dodging crouch and ducked out of sight behind the base of the elevator crane.

  Yanking forward the barrel of his grenade launcher, he inserted a 40mm grenade, then aimed and fi
red. The center of the navigation deck catwalk blew to pieces, taking a running man with it. Windows shattered, spewing fragments of glass over the deck.

  Shoving to his feet, he sprinted forward, the M4’s muzzle weaving back and forth in wide arc, spitting out a stream of bullets. Off to his left a grenade from April’s rifle exploded with a sharp bang. Men’s screams were loud in his ears. Slugs whined over his head, spanging off metal.

  So far he’d made it about halfway across the deck toward the superstructure. From the corner of his eye he could see Morgana and Makris firing from the shelter of a bulky piece of machinery. Makris’ shoulder and left flank were dark with blood. April was in front of him now, crouching in the shadowed side of bulky metal crate. Darting out into the open, he crouch-ran to her side. Blood was flowing from superficial cuts on her face and arms.

  Together they inserted grenades. Then, erupting out from each side of the crate, they fired in unison at the superstructure. The explosions boomed. A door blew off its hinges and went flying end-over-end into the sea. Glass shattered, tinkling against metal.

  Then abrupt silence.

  A freshening wind caught the curls of black smoke, feathering them to tatters. Wincing, Skarda rose to his full height, moving forward cautiously. In less than a minute he and April had reconnoitered the deck, finding only dead bodies.

  That left whoever was still inside the superstructure.

  Quickly they returned to Morgana and Makris. The Greek had been hit by two slugs on his left deltoid muscle and flank. His shirt was soaked with blood and his face ash-white. He needed to get to a hospital immediately.

  Skarda pulled antibacterial solution and Vet-Wrap from his pack and handed them to Morgana. “We’re going after Turner.”

  Bloodlust burned in her eyes. “I’ll be there in a second.”

  Makris’ head moved, his eyes darting behind their backs. “Turner,” he said in a husky whisper.

  Skarda whipped around, seeing the colonel and another man running aft on the port side next to the helipad.

  April leapt forward, with Skarda at her heels. By now the men had climbed into the cockpit and the Sikorsky’s rotor blades were rotating. He could see Turner inside the plexiglass canopy, yelling at his companion, who had jumped into the pilot’s seat.

  The chopper rocked a bit, then lifted off, its nose pointed at the superstructure. Skarda fed a grenade into the magazine. The Sikorsky was rising above them now, fifteen feet over the deck, its rotors blasting them with their downdraft.

  He fired.

  A split-second later the Sikorsky’s tail boom exploded in a shower of sizzling metal shrapnel, the rotor snapping apart into pieces, the severed blades flying through the air like buzzsaws. He leapt aside as one of the blade stubs whirled down to bury itself in the deck at his feet, twanging like a plucked guitar string.

  Inside the cockpit, the pilot fought for control. But without the tail rotor, the chopper yawed and pitched, its nose dropping, the forward momentum of the main rotor blades driving it toward the deck—

  Toward the looming metal hook of the elevator crane—

  With a loud snap and the sound of tortured metal screeching, the chopper struck the big crane, its belly ripped wide open from tail to nose. The heavy load of silver tumbled out to spew all over the deck, carrying Turner along with it, his arms flailing wildly. Bright streaks of neosamarium winked in the moonlight.

  The colonel smacked against the deck back-first, the lower half of his body buried under hundreds of pounds of silver.

  With an ear-splitting roar the Sikorsky’s nose crashed into a crate and then the chopper was lurching over on its side, pinwheeling around in a half-circle, shedding a trail of debris, before it smashed against the starboard bulwark, its nose and cockpit crushing like an eggshell. Bright red blood sprayed across the plexiglass fragments like flung paint.

  Aviation fuel gushed out, then a lick of flame. A second later the flames erupted into a wall of fire and the Sikorsky exploded into an orange fireball, the shattered fuselage lifting up off the deck before crashing down again. Gouts of black smoke billowed up into the night sky.

  Morgana ran up, her silver eyes frosting over as she saw Turner.

  His shoulders were shaking and he was squirming in desperation, as if he thought he could wriggle free from the prison of silver that pinned him in place.

  His eyes found hers. They were angry, distorted by unbounded greed. Blood leaked from his mouth, trickling down his chin. “It’s mine,” he said in a voice that was a harsh rasp. “The silver’s mine—“

  Morgana shook her head. “No,” she said. She glanced over at Skarda and April. “It’s theirs.”

  Her cutlass flashed.

  Turner’s head leapt from his shoulders and rolled onto the deck.

  THIRTY-THREE

  London

  KRELL pulled open the vault door, activating the overhead lamps.

  Huddled in a ball in the far corner, Solomon sat in a pool of his own waste. Krell’s nose wrinkled at the stench.

  Slowly the older man lifted his head and stared, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Help me,” he said. His voice was a whispered croak. “Please—“

  Krell flicked a glance at the priceless treasures lining the walls.

  All his now.

  He lifted his Glock and fired.

  ___

  Pushing open the study door, Krell froze in place.

  April was sitting behind Solomon’s desk, her black eyes unreadable. In her left hand was the Webley, aimed directly at Krell’s heart.

  For a millisecond something like a smirk flashed across the tall man’s face and was gone. The revolver was useless. Solomon didn’t know the first thing about guns and had never even cleaned it.

  He started forward across the Persian rug.

  April pulled the trigger.

  The hammer clicked on a misfire.

  A thought flashed into Krell’s consciousness. Something was wrong.

  And then it came to him.

  The woman was right-handed.

  She knew the pistol wouldn’t fire. It was a distraction.

  Swift and fluid as a striking snake, April’s free hand was already moving. A Fusion Fulcrum streaked toward Krell—

  But his brain had warned him in time. With deliberate casualness he reached out and grabbed the knife by the hilt in mid-flight.

  His leaden eyes bored into hers.

  But the throw was another feint. Her hand was moving again. The WASP knife was a blur of black before its blade drove deep into Krell’s left thigh, injecting its deadly blast of CO2.

  With a hiss of expanding gas his leg swelled up into a grotesque balloon of flesh, ripping apart the fabric of his pants, before exploding into a shower of gory strips, tearing the entire leg from his hip.

  He didn’t make a sound as his back slammed against the carpet.

  Getting to her feet, she moved out from behind the desk and stood over him, looking down with impassive eyes.

  He met her gaze. No pain showed in his eyes, no emotion at all.

  Blood gushed from the grisly stump where his leg had been. He would be dead within a minute.

  She turned and walked out of the room.

  EPILOGUE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Agia Galini

  APRIL was sitting on the sun-drenched beach, looking out to sea, when Skarda came up and lowered himself down beside her. A strong breeze was whipping her dark hair, fanning it across her arms and knees which she had drawn up close to her chest.

  He glanced over at her profile. Her face looked like it had been carved from a block of wood.

  “I’m going to set up a foundation in Nathaniel’s name,” he said. “They can find people to continue the cave excavations here.”

  She made no movement. But after a while she said, “I’m going to go to Montana for a few days. Can you handle everything here okay?”

  She’d spent her childhood wandering alone in the cottonwood and
aspen forests of the Bitterroot Range in southern Montana. Now she needed time alone to grieve and he knew that would be the best place for her to do it, in the private world of her past and her people.

  “Sure,” he answered. “No problem.”

  For a while she continued to stare out to sea. Then she turned and focused on him. “We all need to live now, Park. Live while we can.”

  She wasn’t just referring to Nathaniel. He knew what she meant.

  Sarah.