“Color me impressed,” Noble said. “Text me the address and sit tight. I’m on my way.”
He made his way to the top deck, leaned against the railing, and watched the last of the light dwindle from the sky. If all went well, he could have Bati in police protection by midnight. After that he would instruct Burke to wire the entire sum of money into his mother’s account. Noble would be staying in Asia a couple days. He had loose ends to tie up.
The question of Ramos kept nagging him. The diplomat was bent, and Noble wanted to know how deep the corruption went. If he was involved in human trafficking, Noble was going to burn him right down to the ground.
It was dark by the time the ferry docked on the opposite shore. Across the harbor, the Hong Kong skyline reared into the heavens, a glimmering jewel-encrusted island of light so bright it blotted out the stars. Noble disembarked, found a cab, and told the driver to drop him three blocks from Hing Wah Street.
Sam had done well. She had picked a loop of road that looked across a hundred meters of dark water to a spit of land called Stonecutter’s Island. She was parked on the west side of the street in the shadow of a vacant factory, slouched in the front seat with her arms folded across her chest.
Stonecutter’s Island was a massive shipping yard where tankers loaded and unloaded. Freighters occupied the docks, and metal shipping containers, stacked three high, formed a silent city with narrow streets where all the residents were cheap export goods closed up inside windowless apartments. A forest of loading cranes towered over the city of boxes.
Noble rapped on the passenger window.
Sam gave a start, then unlocked the door.
He climbed in beside her.
“You snuck up on me,” she said.
“I’m real good at that.”
She eyed his baseball cap. “I didn’t take you for a Doctor Who fan.”
Noble remembered the hat, pulled it off his head, rolled down the window, and chucked it.
“What happened to Krakouer?”
“He got away.” Noble nodded to the island. “What have you got here?”
“See that small freighter? Look at the bow. You can just make out the front wheel of Tiger’s motorcycle.”
“Good work,” Noble told her. He sniffed. “It smells like coffee in here.”
“Oh look! The guard is coming around now,” Sam said.
He was a young street punk in a white undershirt with short-cropped hair. He had a black nylon strap over one shoulder. The waist-high gunwale blocked out his hands, but the strap would be connected to a gun.
“Tell me about him. Is it always the same guy? How often does he pass by? Does he take the same route every time?”
“It’s always the same man. He passed by twice before. I didn’t time how long it takes him to go around. Maybe ten minutes.” She winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You knocked this one out of the park.”
She tried to hide a smile and didn’t do a very good job. “So what now?” she asked. “Do we call the police?”
Noble snorted. “First they would send someone out to investigate, then they would waste hours in hostage negotiations. Bati’s best chance for survival is a fast take down.”
He pulled Krakouer’s .22 Walther from his pocket. “By the way, Krakouer wants to kill us both, and I’m pretty sure he knows about the ship. You might need this.”
He passed the weapon over to Sam.
She took it in both hands like it were made of glass.
“There is a bullet in the chamber,” Noble told her. “Just point and squeeze. If you see Krakouer, shoot first.”
He shrugged out of his windbreaker and pulled off his shirt. The effort hurt his bruised ribs, but he didn’t let it show. “I’m going for a swim. Your job is to keep an eye out. I’ll be climbing the anchor chain, so I won’t be able to see anyone on deck. If I’m on the chain and the guard comes back around, flash the headlights. Once I’m on board, I’ll signal when I’ve neutralized all the threats. When I give the signal, you bring the car around. Can you handle that?”
She placed the Walther in the cup holder. “What if something goes wrong?”
“If I don’t signal in thirty minutes then you can call the police.” He removed his shoes and socks and bundled his clothes in the floorboard of the car.
Sam reached across and grabbed his hand. Stress lines formed around her eyes. She held on like she was afraid to let go.
“Hey,” Noble said. He cupped her face in one hand. “This is what I came here for. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”
She swallowed hard. “I know.”
He extracted his hand from hers, opened the door, and climbed out of the car wearing only his pants with the .45 pistol tucked in his waistband. The cracked asphalt was cold against his bare feet. A gentle breeze cooled the sweat on his bare chest. He did a few calisthenics. This was hardly the first time he had stormed a tanker, but it was the first time he had done it by himself. He wondered briefly where the other members of his old team were right now. He wished they were here with him instead.
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Noble reminded himself. His mother was fond of that little ditty.
He scaled a chain-link fence and scrambled over slick rocks to the lapping waves of Victoria Harbor. The outside temperature was eighty-degrees Fahrenheit. The water felt ten degrees cooler. It would have been a pleasant swim under different circumstances. Noble waded out until he was waist deep and then dove head first into the waves.
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Noble cut through the water with long easy strokes. He covered the distance in five minutes. It wasn’t an Olympic swim by far, but not bad for a thirty-two-year-old who was recently used as a punching bag.
The metal skin of the freighter groaned against rotting wood pylons. Waves lapped against the hull. Noble could hear the deep rumble of the engines below deck. He took hold of the anchor chain, found the submerged portion with his feet, and pulled himself hand over hand. His soggy trousers rained salt water, but his weapon was secure in his waistband.
He had almost reached the top when headlights flashed across the harbor. Noble stopped and hugged the chain. He strained to hear, hoping to catch the soft pad of feet as the guard passed by, but saw the man instead.
The tough stood near the stern with his forearms propped on the railing, peering across the water at Sam’s rental. If he looked to his left, he would see Noble hanging from the anchor chain. Even a small movement might catch the guard’s peripheral vision.
Noble’s fingers began to tremble at the effort of holding onto the thick metal links. Noble reminded himself to breathe. After what felt like ten agonizing minutes, the lookout finally resumed his course. Noble waited until the sound of his footsteps passed by overhead and then scrambled up the chain and over the gunwale.
The forward deck had two large anchor hoists and a collection of cables slowly turning to rust. The pilothouse was a tall metal structure, like a saltine can turned on end, painted red and encircled by a metal catwalk. The paint was old and flaking. The catwalk looked ready to collapse. The guard rounded the corner on the starboard side, ducking his head to avoid knocking it against the overhang. He had a walkie-talkie in his left hand and a compact submachine gun in his right.
Noble paused long enough to roll up his wet pant legs and then padded after the guard. A fire axe hung next to the pilothouse door. Noble carefully lifted the axe off the hooks and turned the corner.
The guard strolled along the deck like a man out for a breath of fresh air. Climbing the anchor chain had been a waste of time and effort. This guy wasn’t expecting any trouble. Noble could have walked right up the gangplank.
He turned the axe in his grip and attacked with the flat side, aiming for the soft spot above the hipbone and below the ribcage. The impact ruptured the man’s kidney. He crumpled to the deck without uttering a sound.
Noble set the axe aside, flipped the dead man over, and found
a MAC-10 submachine gun. The weapon wasn’t much bigger than a handgun but fully automatic and chambered in 9 millimeter with a thirty-two-round magazine. It was notoriously inaccurate at long ranges, but inside the close confines of the ship, the little automatic would be deadly. Noble eased back the bolt, found a bullet in the chamber, and felt a whole lot better about his chances.
The guard didn’t match any of the photos of Tsang’s mercenaries. He was a low-level enforcer. His only job was using the radio if anyone approached.
Noble tossed the radio over the side. It hit the water like a stone. He could have dropped the body overboard as well, but the splash would be audible even below deck.
Armed with the MAC-10, Noble located the nearest hatch and pressed his ear against the cold metal. It was like putting a conch shell to his ear. He heard the steady thrum of the electric that powered the ship’s lights and ventilation but nothing else. He pulled the door lever. The bolt disengaged with a loud thock. Noble winced. The hatch swung open on tired old hinges. Stairs led down into darkness. Each riser was lit by a miniscule safety bulb. He aimed the MAC-10 at the bottom of the steps and waited.
Something was not right. Leaving an untrained goon on the deck was bad enough. A mercenary leader like Henries, with combat experience, would never leave stairs unguarded. It was a natural choke point and easy to defend. Either Noble was walking into a trap, or the mercenaries were not here, which meant Bati was not here either.
He high-stepped over the raised sill and crept down the stairs. A long, narrow corridor ran the length of the vessel. Dim overhead lights added to the sinister feel. Closed hatches lined the cramped passage. White paint flaked from the metal doors, revealing patches of rust below the surface.
His training told him to clear the rooms one by one, to be sure all the threats were in front of him instead of behind him, but the rusting hinges would make too much noise. And he was a sitting duck in the middle of the hallway. He moved on bare feet to the first intersection and checked the corners. Both ended in dark cubbyholes crammed with pipes and valves. Either would have been excellent for an ambush. It was another sign that Bati was somewhere else.
He continued along the corridor. He passed two more unguarded intersections and then the hall ended at a hatch, which opened onto a large room. A huge turbine filled the space. The air smelled like burning oil. The rhythmic beat of the engine reverberated off the steel walls. Someone was moving around on the other side of the turbine. There was a light source back there, and a body crossed in front of it throwing a shadow.
Noble took cover behind a thick metal pipe. He peered through gaps in machinery. A fat man with a Beretta stuffed in the waistband of his trousers rounded the corner. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He lifted his radio, pressed the transmit button, and spoke in Cantonese.
He waited. His brow pinched. He cast a brooding look at the ceiling like he could see through it to the deck above. He tried the radio again and got no answer. He shook his head and started toward the front of the ship.
Noble pressed back into the shadows. When the fat man passed his hiding place, he stepped out and cracked him over the head with the MAC-10. The fat man went down on one knee. Noble hit him twice more. He fell with a heavy thud on the metal floor.
Noble took the fat man’s Beretta. He was a firm believer in victory through superior firepower, but he had no place to put another weapon. He ejected the magazine and the round from the chamber. The bullet bounced across the floor. He secreted the handgun and the magazine behind different parts of the engine works and left the unconscious man on the ground.
At the rear of the turbine room, another stair led deeper into the bowels of the freighter. Noble paused at the top. The ripe stink of unwashed bodies and human excrement drifted up from below. He could hear movement and someone speaking Cantonese. Too bad his interpreter sat in the car.
He lay down on his belly and peeked through the gap between the risers.
Cages, constructed of shipping pallets and chicken wire, were stacked two high and ran the length of the hold. Three or four women were crowded into each kennel. The Triads had a brutally efficient operation going. Noble had seen similar outfits before. Asian girls would be packed onto a boat and shipped to Western Europe or America where they would be forced to work in massage parlors, which acted as legal fronts for prostitution. Once the Asian girls were offloaded in the West, the kennels would be filled back up with white girls who would then be ferried to various ports in the Middle East and Asia.
This particular shipment must have just arrived because the cages were full of white faces.
Tiger Tsang and two of his enforcers were busy serving supper. Tiger steered a trolley piled high with dented cans of beef stew. One man worked a can opener and another man pushed a can into each cage through a small opening. The women had to fight for their supper. The weak and sick didn’t bother. Tiger chomped his gum and looked bored.
The enforcers both carried firepower. The one passing out cold stew had a fully automatic AK47 slung over his shoulder. The other man had a pump-action shotgun, but he needed both hands to operate the can opener so the weapon lay on the trolley within easy reach. Tiger did not appear to be armed. He either considered himself too high up the food chain to do his own gun work, or he was concealing.
They were moving away from the stairs, with their backs to Noble. Using speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence, this fight could be over before it started. A few well-placed bursts from the MAC-10 would take all three down.
Before Noble could put his plan into action, one of the girls spotted his head between the steps. Her eyes opened wide. She pointed and squealed. She was too young to know any better. Tiger turned to look at the girl, then at the stairs. Noble pulled his head up but not fast enough.
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The next few seconds were utter chaos. Noble had lost the element of surprise. He pushed himself off the floor, charged down the first three steps, and leveled the MAC-10 over the railing. Tiger shouted to his men while the screams of terrified women reverberated around the hold.
The thug with the AK47 dropped the tin can he was holding—it hit the floor with a splat—and he swung his weapon into action. Noble centered the front site on the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The little automatic burped. Empty shell casings leapt in a tidy arc from the ejection port. Three rounds punched through the thug’s chest, driving him backward. Two more ricocheted off the floor.
Instead of falling down, Mr. AK47 triggered a burst of automatic fire. The slugs impacted the underside of the stairs with heavy metallic splats. Noble felt a round bounce off the step directly beneath his right foot. The vibration traveled through the metal riser, sprinted up his leg and into his guts, letting him know how close he had come to getting his foot shot off. He returned fire. This time Mr. AK47 sat down hard.
The other gorilla threw down the can opener and snatched the shotgun off the rolling cart. He thrust the weapon in the direction of the steps and jerked the trigger. The shotgun boomed. The steel pellets pinged off the wall a meter to Noble’s left.
He must have gotten his weapon training from the movies. He thought aiming was unnecessary. Hollywood made out like shotguns were honest-to-god death rays and all you needed to do was casually wave the mighty carnage machine in the general vicinity of the target. In reality, the spread on a shotgun is only about the size of a dinner plate. Even a small error at a distance of twenty yards would result in a wide miss.
What Mr. Shotgun lacked in skill he made up for with enthusiasm. He racked and fired twice more, peppering the bulkhead with buckshot both times.
A sharp sting on Noble’s left shoulder blade told him one of the pellets had ricocheted off the metal wall and lodged in his back. Pain and fear dumped adrenaline into his system. His heart thrummed against the wall of his chest. Blood pounded in his ears. He ignored the instinct to check and see how bad he had been hit; there would be time for that later. He sighted on Mr. Sh
otgun and pressed the trigger three times.
Half a dozen slugs stitched the gorilla’s chest, throwing him against the cages. He racked the shotgun in an effort to return fire, but his strength failed. He sank to one knee, tried to use the weapon as a crutch, then collapsed on top of it.
When bullets started flying, Tiger had ducked his head and disappeared between a row of cages like an alley cat slinking away at the first sign of danger. His hired muscle lay dead. Spent gunpowder gathered in smoky blue halos around lamps fixed to the ceiling. The women caterwauled and beat on their cages, begging for rescue.
Noble was moving as soon as Mr. Shotgun hit the floor. He could hear the voices of his Fort Bragg instructors in his head telling him to shoot and move. It was a concept drilled into combat troops from day one. He reached the bottom of the stairs and followed the starboard bulkhead.
Tiger was hiding somewhere among the maze of chicken wire cages. Noble had to assume he was armed. He was scared and desperate, and that made him dangerous. Noble slipped the MAC-10 on its strap over his right shoulder and drew the .45 pistol from his waistband. He wanted to limit the chances of the girls catching stray bullets. The semiautomatic pistol was more accurate.
He moved along the outside row of cages, peeking through chicken wire—past limbs and eager faces—looking for Tiger’s silk shirt. The girls made his job harder. They clutched the octagonal wire and pleaded with him in a half dozen languages. Noble could barely make out the words. Between the girls and his buzzing eardrums, he wouldn’t hear Tiger until it was too late. But that worked both ways; Tiger’s ears had to be ringing just as bad.
Movement on the port side caught his attention. He cleared the center aisle and then darted across. When he reached the far side, he checked forward and aft. No sign of Tiger.
A gun thundered behind him. The bullet missed Noble and shattered a girl’s elbow. Blood painted the wall like graffiti. She wailed and clutched her ruined arm. Noble sprinted the length of the hold. Tiger chased him with a hail of lead. Bullets hissed and snapped, killing one girl. The side of her head exploded in a red mist. Noble dodged left between the stacks. Tiger stopped shooting. Noble emerged on the center aisle in time to see Tiger running for the stairs.
Noble Man Page 18
