Hidden inside was the vehicle that would take him to safety; not a boat, but a Cessna Skyhawk floatplane, the little white-and-yellow aircraft perched on a set of rails down which it would slide into the channel. From there, he would turn west while his attackers were distracted by the boats at the island’s northeastern end, taking off as soon as he reached open ocean. He would leave Colombian airspace within fifteen minutes. By the time the authorities in Panama had been alerted, he would have already reached a safe house, where he would change identities before sneaking out of the country.
He descended a ladder to the cave floor and put the bag containing his belongings in the cockpit before starting the pre-flight checks for the plane’s short voyage.
Eddie found himself in a broad hall, paintings on the walls. No sign of anybody, but he was still cautious, moving quietly.
Shimmering reflected ripples through one door told him that the room beyond opened out on to the infinity pool; an open arch to his right led into what was apparently a lounge, a bar visible through the doorway. He edged towards it. As he approached, he picked up a smell, faint but distinctive: chlorinated water. The girls from the pool?
Back against the wall, he moved closer, listening for movement inside the room . . .
Something crunched under his foot.
Rock salt, almost invisible where it had been scattered over the pale marble. A simple but effective warning system.
He backed up—
Boom!
A hole almost a foot across was blown through the wall just in front of him, spraying him with fragmented plaster and wood. He stumbled in shock, slipping on the hard floor and landing on his backside – as a second hole exploded right above his head. ‘Shit!’ he yelled, scrambling backwards.
The shooter had anticipated his retreat, another two holes bursting open behind him.
He slithered round, rock salt digging into his palms, and launched himself like a sprinter past the archway.
His brief glance into the room told him plenty. He had expected to see a gunman, but it was actually two gunwomen, the topless water babes from the pool, blasting away at him – Jesus, with AA-12s – as he hurtled past the entrance. One woman was behind the bar, the other beside a couch. Shotgun fire ripped more holes out of the wall in his wake. There was a mahogany door at the end of the hall – wherever it led, it had to be safer than this—
He passed a second open archway and reached the door.
Locked!
Both AA-12s swung to track him—
He dived into the lounge, slamming against the back of a leather armchair. Shots shredded the expensive piece of furniture as the women kept firing. Eddie had instinctively been counting shots – each AA-12’s drum magazine held twenty rounds, and they were rapidly chewing through them, but they would reduce his cover to matchwood long before they ran dry. He needed something more solid.
A granite desk, between him and the killer bimbos. Not ideal, but all he had—
The armchair thumped against him under the force of another shot. Eddie pushed hard at the disintegrating seat, sliding it across the room. Another round blew off an entire corner of the backrest. He kept pushing – then grabbed the chair’s base and bowled it at the dark-haired woman as he rolled under the table and strained to tip it on its side. It crashed down with a bang.
The brunette shrieked and leapt away as the tumbling chair bounced past her. The blonde behind the bar kept firing. The granite slab took the impact – but Eddie, pressed against it, still felt as though he was being kicked in the back with each shot.
‘Go round it and shoot him!’ the blonde yelled. Another shot – and the granite cracked, a plate-sized chunk barely missing Eddie as he jerked sideways.
A slap of feet as the brunette moved. He was running out of time—
The quickest of glances through the broken section of desk revealed a fishtank set into the wall behind the blonde. He grabbed the hunk of granite and hurled it with all his strength.
The blonde ducked as the stone flew over her and hit the glass – which shattered, bursting outwards. She was knocked down by the deluge, shards and marine life hitting her near-naked body.
Eddie was already running. If he could disarm her before she recovered . . .
A horrific scream filled the room. He dived as the blonde’s AA-12 barked again and again, her finger clenched on the trigger and firing off its remaining rounds on full auto. Shredded debris spat across the room. The screaming continued, Eddie wondering what the hell was happening. Maybe she was really fish-phobic . . .
He got his answer as he scrambled behind the bar. Clamped to the woman’s right breast was a small octopus, patterns on its body pulsing furiously as it bit her again and again.
The shotgun clicked, the drum empty. The blonde’s movements were already weakening as the deadly paralytic flowed through her system, her screams fading to choked gurgles.
‘Sylvie!’ shrieked the dark-haired woman in genuine anguish. She swung her AA-12 at the bar and fired. ‘You bastard, you killed her!’
Bottles and glasses exploded above Eddie. ‘Jesus!’ Ricocheting pellets rained down on him like embers.
The firing stopped. Twenty rounds gone. Eddie vaulted the bar. The woman was still uselessly pulling the trigger, in her anger only belatedly realising she was out of ammo. She tried to club Eddie with the shotgun, but he easily dodged the blow. There was a time and place for chivalry, but this wasn’t it: he punched her in the face, knocking her down on the couch.
He grabbed her by the throat. ‘Where’s de Quesada?’
‘Fuck you!’ she spat.
He squeezed harder. ‘Where is he?’
‘Go fuck yourself!’ Eddie pulled back his fist, then thought better of it and released her, hurrying back to the bar. With a brief chill of revulsion, he took hold of the octopus by its body and plucked it off Sylvie’s breast. It squirmed, suckers clinging to his skin. The little monster writhing angrily, he went back to the couch. The other woman struggled upright; he pushed her down again and held the octopus just above her face.
Tentacles lashed out and stuck to her, the creature’s venom-filled beak snapping less than an inch from her cheek. She shrieked. ‘Tell me where he is, or I’ll let it bite you!’ Eddie shouted.
‘In there!’ she wailed, pointing at some shelves behind the bar. ‘He’s in there!’
She was too terrified to lie, Eddie decided. He pulled the octopus away and tossed it across the room into the tank’s remaining water – then punched the woman again, knocking her out. ‘Sucker,’ he said as he went to the shelves.
Close up, they were revealed as a disguised door, the sharp stench of melted plastic coming from inside. No way to know if de Quesada was armed and waiting within. He yanked it open, ready to dive—
The room was empty. Smoke belched from the smouldering remains of a computer, a hole burned right through it. Thermite; de Quesada had been in here to destroy anything compromising on his hard drive.
He wasn’t here now, though. But he was sure the woman hadn’t lied – and why would she and her friend have been defending an empty room?
A panel not quite flush with the wall, a cord attached . . .
He pulled it. The panel swung outwards, revealing a rocky passage leading downwards.
The coughing grind of an engine came from somewhere far below.
‘Oh, you are not doing a fucking runner after all this,’ Eddie growled, ducking through the opening.
Nina also heard the noise. Eddie had been right – the drug lord was using his own men as a decoy while he escaped in a hidden boat.
Only it wasn’t a boat that slid down the rails, but a light aircraft, riding on elongated pontoons. It reached the water’s edge, a brief snarl of power to the propeller pulling it into the channel. A door opened and the pilot clambered along a pontoon to detach the runner that had guided it down the tracks.
Even from high above, Nina recognised him. De Quesada.
Des
cending through the narrow tunnel, Eddie dropped on to a ledge. He was high up in a large cave, its mouth opening into the channel. A glance through a wide crack in the rock revealed the source of the noise: a floatplane bobbing on the water outside. De Quesada ducked beneath the rear fuselage and hopped from one float to the other, crouching to unfasten something from it. As soon as the drug lord finished whatever he was doing, he would be able to escape.
He had to be stopped.
A piece of equipment was bolted to the rock wall – an electric winch, hooked to a painted tarpaulin that had been pulled away from the cave mouth. Eddie checked the rope. Brightly coloured marine line, strong and hard-wearing.
He looked back outside. De Quesada was returning to the cockpit.
Eddie unhooked the rope from the tarp, then switched on the winch, reversing it to unspool the line. He looked back through the opening. Below, the Colombian climbed into the plane. ‘Come on, come on!’ he snarled, tugging at the rope. He needed more slack—
The engine revved. Out of time.
Pulling the line after him, Eddie leapt from the crevice, aiming to land on the fuselage—
The rope pulled tight, stopping him short. He hit the wing’s trailing edge and fell backwards, landing hard on the tail of the port pontoon.
De Quesada, startled by the unexpected impact, turned and saw the stowaway. He jammed the throttle forward, the propeller screaming to full power as he steered the plane down the channel.
Eddie flailed, about to slip off the float . . .
His foot caught the rearmost strut connecting the pontoon to the bottom of the fuselage. He used the tenuous hold as leverage to sit up. The winch was still unspooling the rope – there was just enough slack for him to reach the support.
He lunged, clanking the hook on to the strut—
The line went taut again with a whipcrack. The plane jolted, but didn’t slow – it was now unwinding the rope from the winch reel. Eddie dropped to keep his head clear of it. If his plan worked, when the line ran out it would either bring the plane to a stop, or rip out the strut, making it too dangerous for de Quesada to risk taking off.
The Skyhawk headed for the open ocean beyond the cliffs on each side. It picked up speed—
The reel reached its end.
For an instant it held . . . then the entire winch was torn from the wall, flying out of the crack and splashing down in the water.
The plane lurched, pitching Eddie into the sea.
Churning wake filled his nostrils, choking him. The Cessna surged away. He kicked, trying to get his head above the surface.
Something brushed his legs.
The rope—
A loop closed round his ankle, the weight of the winch pulling it tight – and he was dragged along by the plane, bouncing helplessly through the waves.
28
Nina watched in horror as her husband was hauled along behind the floatplane. The Seahawk accelerated, but was still a long way short of its sixty-four knot takeoff speed in the confined channel.
It had to be stopped. But how?
The waterway narrowed just before its end . . .
She ran back to the trucks and scrambled into the lead SUV. The key was in the ignition; she turned it, the big V8 roaring in response. Into drive, apply the gas—
The Expedition surged forward, flattening bushes and saplings as Nina turned to follow the plane. A small tree tumbled with a crack of shattering wood – and she was at the cliff, the drop looming. She swerved to drive along it, the right front wheel thumping over the ragged edge before finding solid ground. Craning her neck, she saw the floatplane was ahead of her – with Eddie skittering in its wake.
She accelerated. Past thirty – and gaining. The Expedition crashed over rocks and roots, slamming her against the door. Ignoring the pain, Nina stayed focused on the cliff ahead – and the plane below. She was almost level with the aircraft. Forty, and the 4×4 was airborne for a moment as it hit a bump, smashing down more shrubs as it landed.
Past the plane, but the end of the channel was just ahead—
Nina opened the door and jammed the steering wheel hard to the right as she threw herself out.
The Expedition shot over the edge and plunged towards the water.
De Quesada adjusted the rudder to keep the Cessna in the centre of the channel. The cliffs were far enough apart to accommodate the Skyhawk’s ten metre wingspan, but after having someone jump on his plane, he didn’t need any more close calls—
An SUV fell from the sky directly ahead and hit the water with a colossal eruption of spray.
‘Mierda!’ he shrieked, yanking back the throttle and applying full rudder to swing round it. But the vehicle was buried nose-down in the mud beneath the shallow water, blocking his escape route.
The only way out was back the way he had come. Keeping the rudder hard over, he reapplied power in pulses, swinging the plane around to reverse course.
A man was in the water, directly in his path.
Eddie gasped for breath, shaking water from his eyes. The rope was still looped round his leg, coils bobbing on the surface around him. He reached down to untangle it, looking for the plane.
It was powering towards him.
Nina had crashed through a stand of bushes to a soft, if messy, splashdown in a glutinous pool of mud. Bruised, face cut, she dragged herself from the mire and staggered to the cliff edge.
Her plan had worked. She had blocked the exit from the narrow canyon, forcing the plane to stop . . . but it had turned round and was now heading straight for Eddie.
It accelerated, about to mow him down—
Eddie abandoned his attempt to untangle himself and dropped underwater, kicking downwards. The float’s keel bashed against his foot as it passed just inches above him in the shallow channel.
He surfaced, heart pounding – then realised the danger was far from over as the colourful line skimmed sinuously past him, still hooked to the strut. He grabbed the rope as it jerked into motion, friction burning his palms.
But at least now he wasn’t a helpless dead weight. He pulled himself along the rope towards the float.
Something yanked hard on his entangled leg – the winch. It had sunk when the plane stopped, and was now being towed along behind again. Eddie grimaced, but kept reeling himself in. He was almost level with the Cessna’s tail, the float just feet away.
The cave passed by to his left, the channel ahead curving round the island. Over the engine’s roar he heard gunshots echoing from the cliffs.
Despite the best efforts of Probst and his team, two of the bodyguards had reached a speedboat and started it. The cops concentrated their fire on the vessel as it moved from the jetty - but this allowed another two thugs to reach the bottom of the path and find cover, shooting back.
Kit ducked as bullets smacked into the cliff in front of him. He wiped away grit and opened his eyes – to see the floatplane approaching.
Probst spotted it too. ‘De Quesada, it must be!’ He swung round his rifle and opened fire.
‘No!’ said Kit, batting the weapon upwards. ‘You’ll hit Eddie!’ He pointed at the man who had just pulled himself on to one of the floats.
Probst swore in German, then shouted to the others: ‘Don’t shoot the plane! Chase is aboard!’
‘He’ll get away!’ Cruz protested.
Kit looked out to sea. The Coast Guard vessel was coming in at speed. ‘Forget the speedboats – tell them to block him before he can take off!’
Clinging to the float, Eddie winced as bullets struck the plane - then the barrage stopped. Hoping that meant he had been seen, he hooked an elbow round the diagonal brace connecting the float to the wing and freed his leg from the rope. It whipped away as he released it, the heavy winch still acting like an anchor.
He saw the jetty ahead, one of the speedboats moving away.
Into the plane’s path.
De Quesada had seen it too. The engine note rose, the wing flaps clunking to their fu
ll extent as he tried to give the plane as much lift as possible.
Eddie moved forward and briefly raised his head to glance into the cabin. He was surprised to see the khipu in a plastic bag on the passenger seat, but was more interested in the drug lord. The Colombian was concentrating on getting the plane into the air.
He advanced again, reaching for the door handle . . .
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