Ilya followed him out. “This might be a good time to cut your losses and leave. I have friends who can get you out of the country.”
“I have no intention of living my life a poor man on the run.” He crossed to the starboard side, taking the stairs up. At the top, there was a short open deck leading to the open second bridge, where Gianni was sitting in the captain’s chair, facing forward.
He spun around as they walked in. “Something wrong?”
“Fargo’s out there somewhere.”
“So we let him come aboard, and boom!” Gianni held up the remote. “Charges set on the hull, just like you asked.”
“Careful,” Ilya said, taking the remote from him.
“I’m not an idiot. No batteries.” He nodded to a black bag on the bench seat. “They’re in there.”
“Change of plans,” Adrian told him. “We’re moving the boat.”
Gianni’s gaze shifted from Adrian to Ilya, then back. “So we’re not blowing up the boat?”
“Not yet. We need to find Fargo.”
“He’s not dead?”
Adrian slammed his fist on the console, causing Gianni to jump in his seat.
He took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the overwhelming anger and frustration that boiled up each time he thought of how Fargo had managed to escape. “No. He’s not dead. He’s either already on board, or planning a way to accomplish it.” Looking out, they had an almost unobstructed, 360-degree view of the sea. He saw something move in the water on the starboard side, a few feet in front of their speedboat. The sun’s reflection prevented him from seeing much more than a quick, dark blur. He decided it was too small to be Fargo.
Adrian’s gaze lit on the remote that Ilya had returned to the console. He picked it up, then found the batteries inside Gianni’s bag. While he might not share Ilya’s confidence, there was one thing he knew with a certainty. Fargo was going to attempt a rescue. And when he did, Adrian would be ready.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
For Sam, killing the two divers, and switching out the oxygen tanks, had been the easy part. Getting up onto the Odysseus without being seen was proving to be a lot more difficult. He and Nikos had been just about to board when Adrian and Ilya suddenly emerged from the cabin, both heading up the stairs to the upper bridge.
Waiting until he heard talking on the upper bridge, Sam signaled to Nikos that he was going up. The older man hesitated, then nodded, slipping down into the water to complete the task Sam had given him.
Sam knew his reluctance. The fact that Kyril’s men had attacked them and rigged the Odysseus to explode told him that, bomb or no bomb, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill all of them. Sam wasn’t sure how many archeologists were on board, but on a vessel this size, he guessed at least four, not to mention Manos and Denéa. There was no way that Sam was going to leave any of them behind.
When Nikos swam off, Sam reached up, grasped on to the platform’s edge, pulling himself high enough to see over the top. Seeing it was clear, he hauled himself onto the platform, leaving a trail of water as he crossed the deck and opened the door. A broad-shouldered man seated at the table, his attention on the screen of his phone, looked up, saw Sam charging toward him. He stood so fast, his chair flew to the floor. As he reached for his holstered weapon, Sam grabbed his shoulder, pulled him forward, and drove his fist into the guard’s jaw.
Just Sam’s luck, the man was a southpaw, bringing in an uppercut. Sam was pushed back. Stunned, he regrouped, then threw a right hook. Sam moved in and struck him again, caught him as he stumbled back and swung him around, slamming the gunman’s head against the counter. He wavered, his unfocused gaze rolling sideward as he crumpled to the ground.
Sam kneeled next to him, taking his gun, then pulling off the man’s belt, using it to bind his hands behind his back. Gun in hand, Sam rose, headed into a passageway, then took the stairs down, opening doors until he found Manos, Denéa, and two government archeologists tied up in one of the cabins. “How many gunmen?” Sam asked, setting the pistol on the floor, then drawing his dive knife to cut their ties.
“Seven total,” one of the archeologists said. “Two were already with us, pretending to be journalists, researching shipwrecks. Gianni and . . . Piers.”
His coworker nodded. “Five came aboard from the speedboat. They put us all down here.”
“What about the Asteri?” Sam asked Manos as he cut his ties.
“They forced us here. I only saw two of them suiting up.”
“I already met up with those two.”
Denéa rubbed at her wrists. “Where’s Remi and Dimitris?”
“I’m not sure. Yet,” Sam said, helping her to her feet.
Once they were free, he gave Manos the gun, then freed the other four archeologists in the next cabin over. “Can you get to the front hatch?”
One of the archeologists nodded. “Yes, but if anyone’s on the upper bridge, how are we going to get out without them seeing?”
“I’ll create a distraction. If you can make it to the Asteri, cut the lines and go.”
“Not without you,” Denéa said.
“I’ll be fine. Especially if I know that all of you are safe.”
The others followed the head archeologist to the hatch, but Manos looked back at Sam. “I’ll go with you.”
“Someone’s going to need to man the Asteri. You know it better than they do.”
“The gun?”
“Take it. Just in case.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Sam said. “Remi and Dimitris are probably on the Asteri. Now get going.”
“But—”
“Do it. Remi will know it’s the right thing to do. Trust me.”
Manos nodded, then followed the others into the passageway.
As they were opening the door that led to the front hatch, Sam headed back up the stairs. At the top, he saw the man he’d battled with crawling along the floor toward the door. Sam dragged him back, and knocked him upside the head. At the door, he stopped to listen, surprised when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the upper bridge. That distraction was going to be a bit sooner than he’d planned.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Sam ducked around the corner along the port-side passageway, pressed himself against the wall, waiting.
“Gianni. There’s water on the deck. Fargo’s here.”
Sam stepped out, seeing Ilya and a younger man at the bottom of the stairs. Gianni, Sam presumed.
Ilya calmly pointed a gun at Sam. “Check him for weapons.”
Gianni made a wide berth around Sam, finding the knife in its sheath. He pulled it out, pointing his own gun at Sam as Ilya moved closer. Ilya, holstering his weapon, gripped Sam’s left arm. Gianni, still holding his gun, took the right. As they led him to the rear deck, Sam raised both elbows, and in a one-two motion, he stepped in and struck the gun from Gianni’s hand, then rammed his elbow into Ilya’s throat. Ilya staggered back, trying to breathe. Gianni reached for the fallen weapon, but Sam kicked it away. The pistol went spinning across the deck, banked off a dive tank compressor, then disappeared down the port-side passageway. Gianni immediately gave chase. Sam followed, hoping to get to him before he saw the escaping archeologists. He grabbed Gianni by the collar, dragged him around, then flung him against the air tanks lined up in a rack. The canisters clattered to the floor, rolling in all directions. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Ilya drawing his own gun. Sam pivoted, kicked his leg out, whipped it back, slamming his foot against Ilya’s wrist. The gun went flying.
Gianni charged Sam, spinning him around. Ilya jumped on Sam’s back, crooked his arm around Sam’s neck in a carotid hold. Gianni, shoulder down, moved in again. Sam reached up, grasped Ilya’s arm, using it to carry his weight, then lifted both feet, driving them into Gianni’s gut. Stunned, the man faltered back, trippin
g over a loose tank and into the tank rack.
Adrian Kyril, obviously hearing the commotion, hurried down the stairs, then stopped about midway. “Kill him,” he shouted.
Unable to dislodge Ilya’s stocky arm, Sam dropped to the deck, then pulled forward, using the momentum to fling the much larger man over his head. Ilya landed on Gianni. As Ilya struggled to get to his feet, Sam hefted up a nearby dive tank, bashing it against his temple. Ilya collapsed.
Adrian looked at the two fallen men, then Sam. He drew his own gun.
Sam, still holding the tank, pivoted and swung it at Adrian, knocking the weapon from his grasp.
“I’ll kill you,” Adrian said.
“It’s over,” Sam replied. “Do us both a favor and give it up.”
The man’s dark eyes darted about, then relaxed into a triumphant stare.
In the second it took Sam to turn, Gianni reached over, grabbed Sam’s ankles, pulling sharply. Sam lost his balance, his temple hitting the deck as he fell. A bit light-headed, he opened his eyes, looking down the passageway, and saw Manos helping Denéa over the railing of the Odysseus onto the Asteri.
But they were going the wrong direction. And it wasn’t Denéa at all. It was Remi. He shook his head, looked again, seeing nothing. By the time the dizziness passed, Ilya had struggled to his feet.
“Yes,” Kyril said. “It’s over.”
Ilya wiped the blood from his cut lip, glaring at Fargo. “I’m looking forward to killing you.”
“Not yet.” Kyril held up a hand, gloating as he looked down from his perch on the stairs. “I want him to know exactly what happened to his wife.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked. His gaze landed on one of the fallen air tanks near his feet.
“She’s dead. This is what I took from her right before Fayez killed her.”
Sam took in a deep breath. He focused, seeing the gold coin that Nikos had given to Remi. “You took it? Or she gave it to you?”
“Does it make a difference? She’s dead, and you’re next.”
Sam glanced at the passageway, seeing Remi just a few feet away on the port-side deck. She smiled, waving at him, her foot on Gianni’s gun. Either she was the most amazing hallucination he’d ever seen, or she was very much alive.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
In the second it took Sam to decide he really did see his wife, he heard the Asteri rumbling to life.
“What’s that?” Adrian asked.
“That,” Sam said, “is the sound of hostages who didn’t quite cooperate, like you hoped.”
“After them!” Adrian ordered.
Before anyone could make a move, the Asteri motored full-speed ahead. They all turned toward the speedboat. It was no longer tethered to the Odysseus, and was, thanks to Nikos, adrift.
“You did this!” Adrian Kyril said, his gaze landing on Sam.
“To be fair,” Sam replied, “I had help.”
Ilya turned to Kyril as he pulled a small remote from his pocket. “What are you doing?”
“What should have been done a long time ago.”
Ilya pointed his weapon at Kyril. “I’m not going to die for you, Adrian. I’ll kill you before I let that happen.”
As Sam kicked the air tank, the clatter drawing everyone’s attention, Remi slid the pistol toward Sam. He caught it, dropped and rolled over, shooting Ilya in the head. Gianni reached for Ilya’s fallen gun. Sam turned, and shot him square in the chest, then aimed at Adrian.
Holding the remote, Adrian gave a triumphant smile. “You really think you can shoot me before I press this?”
“You sure you want to do that? You’re on board and there’s nowhere for you to go.”
“I’ll die happy, knowing I’m taking you with me.”
He gripped the remote, then pressed the button.
Nothing happened. He pressed it once more, whacked the device against his hand, then tried pressing it again.
“I doubt it’s the batteries,” Sam said as he shifted his legs, then stood. “Something tells me it’s those two divers you sent down after us. I’m guessing they probably weren’t expecting us to live. Otherwise they’d have done a better job hiding those IEDs we found attached to the hull.”
The color drained from Adrian’s face as Remi stepped around the corner. He glanced at the two dead men on the deck, then glared at Sam, his jaw ticking. “I’ll see you in hell.”
“Probably not. But I’ll definitely see you in court. Nothing will make me happier than knowing you’re spending the rest of your life locked in a prison cell.”
Sam handed the pistol to Remi, then walked over to Kyril, dragging him down the stairs.
EPILOGUE
Sam had to admit that the feeling of satisfaction on seeing Adrian Kyril taken into custody was well worth the lump on his head, bruised jaw, and sore ribs. After days of police interviews, he and Remi were both grateful when it finally ended.
With Adrian Kyril and his surviving gunman being held without bail, the archeologists and the Fourni crew could finally begin the task of identification, mapping, and recovery of the artifacts.
A week later, they began in earnest. One of the archeologists who recovered the plate that Sam had used to fend off the spears, bemoaned the fact that there was a dent in it.
“It’s a small dent,” Sam said. “You’d think they’d be happy about all the gold coins they’ve uncovered so far. I’ll try to be more careful next time.” He put his arm around Remi’s shoulders. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to head back to California. I was thinking we could do with a little vacation. I know a great spot where we can go camping.”
She turned and looked up at Sam. “Any particular reason?”
“Does there need to be a reason?” He tucked his finger beneath her chin, then kissed her. “I happen to know where there’s a bottle of Greek wine chilled to the perfect temperature. And the perfect location. A cliff top overlooking the Pacific Ocean.”
“Sam, that’s not camping. That’s our home.”
“But . . . I know where there’s a tent and a sleeping bag with zippers.”
“You kept them?”
He took Remi in his arms, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, then gave her a kiss.
“Of course I kept them.”
She smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “That’s what I love about you, Sam Fargo. A true romantic.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Clive Cussler was the author of more than eighty books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt®, NUMA® Files, Oregon® Files, Isaac Bell®, and Sam and Remi Fargo®. His life nearly paralleled that of his hero Dirk Pitt. Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous shipwrecks, he and his NUMA crew of volunteers discovered and surveyed more than seventy-five lost ships of historic significance, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley, which was raised in 2000 with much publicity. Like Pitt, Cussler collected classic automobiles. His collection featured more than one hundred examples of custom coachwork. Cussler passed away in February 2020. Robin Burcell spent nearly three decades working in California law enforcement as a police officer, detective, hostage negotiator, and FBI-trained forensic artist. She is the author of ten novels, and coauthor with Cussler of the Sam and Remi Fargo novels Pirate, The Romanov Ransom, The Gray Ghost, and The Oracle. She lives in Lodi, California.
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