The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3)

by Chris Kuzneski

  If this had been a solo mission, Sarah would have reacted differently. She would have attacked the man, taking him out with a well-placed kick to the groin before continuing on like nothing had happened. As part of a team, though, she had to rethink her behavior. Everyone else was counting on her to stick to the plan, so she did what she was supposed to do.

  She ignored the guard and charged forward.

  She darted through the piles of building supplies, moving steadily toward the door at the opposite end of the hall. She could hear the guard give chase behind her. A moment later, his shouts were joined by a pair of new voices.

  Instead of one pursuer, she now had three.

  In her mind, this was actually a positive development.

  She was the fox and they were the hounds.

  She wanted all of them to give chase.

  ‘Talk to me,’ Cobb said from outside the museum.

  ‘Heading for the roof,’ was all she said as she ran under scaffolding and past abandoned cans of paint. The floor was covered with thick drop cloths and a series of wide planks that created an obvious walkway to the back stairs and the roof access.

  She heard at least one of the guards trip on something and crash to the floor behind her. The hallway echoed with Italian profanity and the clang of metal on marble.

  At the end of the hall, Sarah rushed up the last set of stairs to the welcome sight of an unbarred door. She barreled into it at full speed and the door popped open onto an improvised platform of plywood panels. She skidded to a halt as she tried to regain her bearings.

  ‘Where?’ she shouted, knowing the guards were gaining fast.

  ‘Straight ahead,’ Cobb replied calmly.

  Sarah could see a metal girder dangling from a steel cable attached to the arm of the construction crane she had noticed earlier. She knew Cobb was in the cab of the crane right now, preparing to lift her off the roof the moment her feet hit the girder.

  Sarah ran for the beam as the door swung open behind her.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled the lead guard.

  ‘Go!’ she shouted into her microphone.

  The six-foot beam began to spin as Cobb lifted it from the rooftop. Sarah leaped up and grabbed hold of the rough cable with her hands, her feet scrabbling for footing on the metal beneath. The lights of the surrounding city glinted off the river and reflected back up at her, allowing her to see the braided thread of the cable, but it was still a challenge to keep her grip and firm stance while the beam was spinning.

  The beam rose higher and higher into the night as Cobb swung it toward the river. A few seconds more and Sarah would have been suspended alone in the darkness, beyond the reach of the guards. But just as the beam cleared the edge of the roof, the closest of the trio launched himself out into space and tried to grab her. The guard missed her completely but somehow nabbed the edge of the I-beam, which tipped the girder down like an unbalanced scale.

  Suddenly, he was hanging on for his life.

  Holding the cable from the center of the beam, Sarah realized the poor guy was going to slide off the end and plunge nearly four stories to the pavement below. To stop that from happening, she quickly shifted her weight to the other end of the beam to stabilize it.

  Cobb pulled the beam and its two passengers higher, swinging them away from the building and toward the river. Sarah stood with her feet planted on the end of the beam while keeping both hands on the cable to steady herself. At the height of the beam’s arc, she could see past the road and over the retaining wall, clear down to the murky green Arno.

  As the I-beam swung out well over the river, Sarah caught sight of the black Zodiac that was waiting for her at the water’s edge. She was running out of time.

  She had to ditch her passenger.

  While still holding the cable with both hands, she simply pulled her feet off the beam. Without her counterweight, it tipped suddenly into a near-vertical position. The guard immediately lost his grip and plummeted forty feet into the dark water below. Had it been summer, the plunge would most likely have killed him; but Sarah knew that the spring run-off had swollen the river and made the water deep enough to break the man’s fall.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Cobb asked as he lowered the beam.

  ‘I’m fine. Just enjoying the ride.’

  The beam rocked violently until she used her feet to steady it.

  A few seconds later, she was bracing for impact.

  Five feet from the ground, she sprang away from the beam and toward the dock. She landed in a full crouch and rolled forward to dissipate the force of her fall. Behind her, the beam and cable smashed into the concrete wall that led up to the gallery. Not because Cobb had lost control – he simply didn’t have time for a smooth landing.

  ‘That was fun,’ she said with a smile.

  But her amusement was short-lived.

  A shot suddenly erupted from the gallery, and a tuft of concrete ripped upward from the ground near her feet. A moment later, another shot rang out.

  And then another.

  And another.

  Just as she had hoped, most of the guards were now stuck on the roof. They couldn’t follow her over the edge, and they didn’t have time to race back down.

  ‘Jesus!’ she yelled as she ran for the Zodiac.

  ‘Keep going,’ McNutt said softly in her ear. He was perched in a tree across the river, following the action on the roof through the hi-tech scope he had attached to a WWII-era US M1 carbine. It was the only weapon he could find on short notice, but he assured her it was fine, considering the short distance between the museum and his hide.

  Sarah heard an echoing boom, followed by an explosion of terra cotta tiles on the roof behind her. The guards screamed in the night as they dove for cover.

  McNutt grinned. ‘Calm down, Luigi. It was just a warning shot.’

  Sarah continued to run. ‘Am I clear?’

  ‘For now,’ he answered.

  The wooden slats of the codex dug into her side as she cleared a low, decorative fence. The bystanders from earlier were nowhere to be found, scared off by the gunfire. The only person in sight was the guard from the beam. He was far downstream, breaststroking through the murky water for the shore.

  She hopped into the inflatable boat, started the motor, and tossed the lines away before pulling away from the dock and speeding toward the nearby Ponte Vecchio.

  ‘I’m at the piazza,’ Maggie said.

  ‘I’ll be there soon,’ Cobb assured her.

  Sarah raced the boat west on the algae-covered river. Behind her, the swimming security guard reached the shore. Meanwhile, his comrades from the Uffizi’s roof were nowhere to be seen. Most of them were headed back down to the ground level – and a few had decided to sit this one out. Three additional guards from the museum raced out of the building and sprinted down the long walkway to the river’s edge.

  Thirty feet from the Ponte Vecchio – Florence’s famous arched bridge – Sarah hunkered down in the belly of the craft, practically hidden from view. The bollards at both ends of the pedestrian bridge prevented vehicle traffic, so police cars were forced to continue on to the next one, which was several hundred feet down the river.

  The black Alfa Romeo with its flashing blue lights raced ahead and turned onto the Ponte Santa Trinità. Two carabinieri – military policemen – scrambled out of the car, wearing their traditional black uniforms with red piping. Both men rushed to the edge of the bridge, just in time to see Sarah’s boat zoom under the distant Ponte Vecchio.

  The carabinieri watched as the boat came rushing out from beneath it at a ridiculous speed.

  They could see her leopard-spotted coat in the belly of the boat.

  She showed no signs of stopping.

  So they raised their guns and opened fire.

  30

  The Ponte Vecchio (‘old bridge’ in Italian) spans the Arno at its narrowest point. The famous three-arched span is believed to date back to the Roman period and has always had a variety of vendo
rs, stalls, and tables along its length. Once known for its butcher shops, the bridge now features mostly high-end jewelers that cater to tourists.

  The ‘back shops’, as they are called, were added in the seventeenth century and consist of actual stores that were built out past the sides of the bridge to dangle over the river. Metal and wooden struts support their undersides like stanchions on an observation deck.

  Hidden in darkness, Sarah clung to one of them.

  Moments earlier, while concealed in the bridge’s shadows, she had tossed her coat on top of a duffel bag stuffed with newspaper before propelling herself at the bottom of the Ponte Vecchio. The Zodiac had continued at top speed toward the next bridge where the cops had mistaken the duffel bag as their suspect and had opened fire on the coat.

  It would take them a few minutes to realize their mistake.

  Meanwhile, Sarah grabbed one of the damp beams and started her climb. She pulled on the closest strut with her hands and pushed against the stone foundation with her feet until she reached the bottom of a back shop. There she found a crack and lodged her fingers in it while she adjusted her footing.

  A few feet away, she noticed a metal drainpipe held in place by thick metal anchors. She was confident that it could handle her weight. To reach it, she swung her legs back and forth like a gymnast on the uneven bars until she generated enough momentum to launch herself from the crack. She snagged the pipe with one hand, then started her ascent.

  Thirty seconds later, she was crouched on the roof of a back shop.

  ‘Halfway there,’ she said, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Roger that,’ said Cobb as he scrambled into position.

  No longer worried about blending in with the crowd at the museum, she tossed her scarf and brunette wig into the river before she pulled her skin-tight black pants from above her knees to below her ankles. Her matte-black bodysuit absorbed light, leaving no trace of reflection. To complete her outfit, she slipped on a pair of black gloves and pulled a hood and blank mask over her head.

  It wasn’t just black; it was actually blank.

  No eyes, no nose, and no mouth.

  The effect was beyond creepy.

  Still sheltered from view by the taller roof that covered the bridge itself, she ran on top of the back shops for forty feet, completely hidden from the oblivious police on the next bridge. But she knew as soon as she ascended to the main roof – which would give her access to the buildings to the south – she would stand out as a silhouette against the well-lit river. Her outfit would help for a while, but she figured someone would eventually spot her.

  Sarah climbed the next drainpipe to the main roof before sprinting all the way to the end of the bridge. In the distance she could hear shouting, but she didn’t know if she had been seen. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the slippery terra cotta tiles under her feet. It was like running on ice. She could do it, but she had to be perfect or she would go flying. Roof tiles shot out from under her feet like flicked marbles, skidding down the slope of the roof and into the river below.

  Just before she hit the end of the span, a spotlight from the squad car on the distant bridge illuminated her sprint. The military policemen who had fired at her coat had finally realized that they had been duped, and that didn’t sit well with their Italian machismo. Instead of radioing in her position, they tried to hit her with a lucky shot.

  Cobb spoke in her ear. ‘The police have blocked off the bridge. We have to keep going to get across to you. We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ was all Sarah replied as she grabbed the next drainpipe. This one took her off the roof and up the side of the tallest building on the south end of the bridge.

  As she made her way up, she heard a shot.

  Five feet away, a tile shattered, the fragments scattering in all directions.

  She kept her cool and scrambled over the edge of the roof. The next rooftop was fifteen feet lower than her current position and six feet away. She ran down the slope of the roof and jumped over the gap to the next building. Then it was over the rise of that roof and down a drainpipe on the other side before her feet hit the solid ground of a narrow alleyway.

  Dressed in black, she was virtually invisible in the shadows.

  After that, she ran as fast as she could, hoping to conceal herself in the maze of alleys between the Ponte Vecchio and the next nearest bridge on the south of the river. She was aiming for the Boboli Gardens, a scenic park filled with sculptures and trees and plenty of places to hide.

  She heard the shrill piercing of a hand-held whistle and realized her getaway wouldn’t be that clean. Police or Uffizi guards, she didn’t know which, had followed her across the Ponte Vecchio and spotted her landing in the alleyway. She didn’t have time to look back, but she guessed she was hearing no more than two sets of footsteps chasing her.

  ‘Ummm … maybe a distraction?’ she said as she ran, turning the corner and opting for Via de’ Bardi. She knew she could make better time on the asphalt than on the older cobbled lanes.

  ‘Josh is approaching your position,’ Garcia said. He was monitoring the chase from the CCTV cameras in the area. Eighty feet later, Sarah darted right into another alleyway, this one leading toward the gardens.

  ‘They’re almost on you,’ McNutt said. His voice was soft, as if he was afraid of being overheard. ‘On my mark, you leap high like you’re an Olympic hurdler. Understand?’

  ‘Yep,’ was all she could muster between breaths.

  The security guards were less than ten feet behind her now. She was in great shape, but they were actually gaining on her.

  Must be soccer players, she thought.

  As she approached an alley on her left, she heard McNutt’s voice.

  ‘Now!’ he blurted.

  She leaped like a track star, and as she did she saw McNutt tumbling below her. A slim black case was strapped to his back, and his aluminum crutch went flailing.

  The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

  To the pursuing guards, the suspect had just knocked over a crippled man, who tumbled to the ground with a shriek of pain. Worse still, they ran headlong into the crash so they had no time or space to avoid him. They collided with him at full speed: arms, legs, and crutch all tangled in a frenzied dance of calamity.

  McNutt grunted and groaned but did not speak – words would reveal that he was not Italian. The guards rapidly disentangled themselves, blurting apologies in their native tongue before darting off down the lane. But the damage was done. The suspect’s lead was too great now.

  Of course, Sarah didn’t know that.

  After taking one for the team, McNutt decided to have some fun with her. ‘Sarah! It didn’t work! They’re gaining fast! Oh my God, run faster!’

  ‘What?’ she blurted. ‘Where are they? I don’t see them.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Garcia said as he stared at his CCTV feed.

  ‘Sweet lord, they must have wings. They’re actually flying!’

  ‘They’re airborne?’ Garcia shouted, his voice filled with confused panic. ‘How are they airborne?’

  McNutt started to laugh. ‘I’m just kidding! I got you both. April Fools!’

  ‘April Fools?’ Sarah shouted. ‘I’m running for my life, and you’re pulling a prank?’

  ‘That’s the best time to pull one. No way you expected it.’

  ‘I know I didn’t,’ Garcia said, laughing. ‘That was awesome!’

  Still smiling, McNutt grabbed his crutch and limped down the alley even though he didn’t really need the support anymore. He’d brought it mostly for camouflage. People tended to avert their eyes from injured and disabled people. The crutch made him nearly invisible.

  ‘Josh,’ Garcia said. ‘End of the alley, turn left.’

  A few minutes later, a car slowed next to him. He tossed the crutch and the bag with the rifle into the trunk and slammed it shut. Then he slipped into the back seat next to Sarah, who was wearing a white blouse over her black catsui
t. She smiled at him sweetly, and then punched him in the arm as hard as she could.

  ‘That’s for messing with me,’ she said.

  He laughed it off. It was totally worth it.

  As the car drove back toward the Ponte Vecchio, they passed the Uffizi security guards, walking dejectedly along the side of the road.

  They didn’t give the attractive blonde more than a glance.

  The brunette they were after had escaped.

  31

  Thursday, April 3

  Hong Kong International Airport

  People’s Republic of China

  The team arrived in China on the private jet after a grueling fifteen-hour trip across Europe and Asia, made two hours longer by a refueling stop in Bahrain. They had all slept in varying amounts on the way over, but none of them felt well rested when Papineau handed their passports to the customs officer. The man barely glanced at the documents before stamping them and handing them back – not that anyone was surprised.

  Papineau had connections all over the world.

  ‘What’s first?’ asked McNutt, who had convinced the team it would be much easier to procure weapons in the smuggler’s haven of Hong Kong than mainland China.

  ‘We check into our hotel and try to sleep,’ Cobb said. ‘Tomorrow we pick up our supplies. Tomorrow night we fly to Beijing. So get some rest tonight.’

  Papineau nodded his approval. ‘I am relieved to hear you say that. I think we could all do with some time off.’

  During their long flight, Maggie had translated the journal that they had acquired from the gallery. The guard’s notes painted a detailed picture of his torture sessions with Marco Polo, but nothing in his narrative stood out except for a reference to ‘a crumbling barrier that stretched across the land for as far as the eye could see.’

  To a layman, the description would seem trivial.

  Thankfully, Maggie understood its true importance.

  Many of Polo’s harshest critics believed his tales of the Far East were fabricated because he never mentioned the Great Wall in any of his writings, but this quote would change everything. Finally, there was evidence that would silence his skeptics forever.