by Chris Allen
Morgan was bracing himself as best he could against the constant jarring when the vehicle came to a dead stop. He unfolded his knife and got ready.
He heard mumbling coming from the driver and passenger as the engine shut off. The two front doors opened. One slammed shut.
"Get the bags."
Morgan recognized the voice of the big Serb, barking orders at the younger one. In the background, he could hear the ocean crashing against the coast.
"What about him?" the young Serb asked. Yeah, what about me? Morgan mused.
"You can come back for that piece of shit later. We'll drop him out once we get in the air."
Morgan closed the knife and returned it to the inside of his boot, listening while the young guy pulled luggage from the back of the car. There was a definite hierarchy. Obviously, the older guy was too important to do any carrying.
Without knowing exactly where they were located or if anyone else had been left standing guard over the car, Morgan's best bet was to stay put and wait for the chance to make his move when they came back for him.
Chapter 31
"What the fuck is going on?" the big Serb demanded in Maltese from inside the entrance to the cave. He'd come to collect his package, but wasn't happy about the condition it was in.
He moved closer to Charly, who was sitting on a rock, her wrists and ankles bound with rope. The bruising around her eyes and mouth was obvious. He grabbed her face with his huge paw, coaxing her to stand and turn so he could see her features more clearly. His eyes wandered hungrily over her face and body. Charly squirmed, terrified of this new arrival.
"Did any of them fuck you?" he asked her in English, loudly enough for the men to hear, although concern for her was not his priority. Charly couldn't answer, her face still clamped in the big Serb's mitt. She shook her head. "But they tried," he said, reading the fire in her eyes. "Which one of you is in charge?" he said, returning to Maltese, still looking at her. Behind him, the three local hoods remained silent.
The big Serb released his grip on her and turned slowly around to face the men. The two lackeys had already withdrawn behind their boss, betraying him, instinctively backing toward the entrance to the cave to save their own skin - self-preservation obviously outweighed loyalty in this trio. The boss remained silent. Charly couldn't understand what had been asked but she could guess. She shrank against the wall at the back of the cave, trying to make herself invisible.
"All you had to do was babysit and keep her in pristine condition until we came to collect her," said the big Serb. He was moving toward the boss with the lazy self-assuredness of an alpha male about to mark his territory. His tone remained calm and level, never rising beyond conversation volume. "Nobody said anything about roughing her up or making her sleep on the floor like a dog or trying to fuck her. Now look at her. How am I supposed to explain this?" He reached the man. A monstrous hand leapt up from his side and slapped the boss across the side of his face. The impact nearly dropped him, half the size of the big Serb. "You were paid to do a job. You agreed to the conditions but you haven't delivered. What should I do?" Another slap, this time with the other hand to the opposite side of the face. This one sent the boss to the ground.
At the back of the cave, Charly had turned away and had covered her ears to shield herself from the inevitable.
"There's nothing wrong with the bitch," the boss spat insolently from the cave floor. "We kept her here so no-one would find her, just like we were told. So she got roughed up, so what? Who is she anyway?"
The big Serb's silence was more unnerving than hearing him speak. Unhurriedly, he moved just past the boss who remained on the floor, rubbing his face. The big Serb was looking out to sea, seemingly weighing something up. Then without another word, he turned around, grabbed the boss by the collar of his shirt, dragged him back out to the opening of the cave and hurled him head first over the precipice. The man was dead before he realized that he was about to be.
The big Serb walked back in to face the two cowering lackeys as if he'd just returned from taking a piss.
"Bring her down to the pier."
Chapter 32
Alex Morgan could hear footsteps approaching the car. He recognized the lazy shuffle of the young Serb. Twenty minutes had gone by and he felt like his legs would seize if he couldn't stretch them out soon. But he needed to be ready and finally it seemed like the time had come.
Morgan knew the young Serb would expect to find him still bound and gagged, possibly even semiconscious, when he returned, so surprise was all Morgan had on his side. What he had against him was that having been trussed up for a couple of hours, despite his wrists and ankles now being freed, his body had cramped through lack of movement within the confined space. That, coupled with the position he'd be forced to attack from and the uncertainty of whether or not the guy would be armed or arrive with backup, meant his odds weren't great.
The languid footfalls drew closer and closer, each one sliding into a crunch against the gravel surface of the unsealed road. Listening carefully for others, Morgan was satisfied that the guy was alone. Good. He braced. A dozen possible scenarios flashed through his mind. Morgan squinted his eyes to reduce the sudden impact of the sun's glare upon his vision.
A key slid into the trunk's lock and turned.
Despite his precaution, the intensity of the sunlight burst into what for the past two hours had been a pitch-black void. The glare was overwhelming. But there was no time for adjustment - the threat was immediate. All he could do was react to the silhouette as the trunk opened.
In a brazen move, Morgan's left hand shot up, grabbed the young Serb's wrist and wrenched the arm inward, tipping the man over his center of gravity. At the same time, he launched his other hand for the shirt collar and, grabbing a handful, pulled the man inward hard, smashing the young Serb's face against the straight metal edge of the trunk's open lid. Morgan repeated the move twice more, splitting the Serb wide open across the bridge of the nose.
Morgan exploded from the trunk, kicking the Serb out of the way. The two of them fell in a crumpled heap. Morgan rolled onto his back, finally clear of the confined space. His legs felt like jelly as blood rushed back to them.
The back of the young Serb's head hit the ground first. Dazed, blood streaming down his face, no clue what had just happened, he turned over onto all fours to get up. A kick from Morgan's brown suede boot connected with the side of his head. Unconscious, the man slumped face first into the graveled road.
Morgan stood over him and breathed in a deep, precious lungful of fresh sea air. He spun the Serb onto his back and found his own gun, the SIG Sauer P226, tucked into the waistband of the guy's jeans. Retrieving it, he checked it was still loaded, grabbed the spare magazines that had also been pilfered and re-equipped the paddle holster and mag pouches on his belt. Rummaging through the pockets again he found his sat phone. He tapped in his security code and was relieved to find the thing still operating. He immediately called Intrepid HQ, got through to the 24/7 operations room, gave his designation number four three - and waited to be patched through to the chief of staff.
"Alex, it's Mila," came the no-nonsense reply. "Chief of staff is still on leave. Tell me what's going on.
"OK, Mila," he began, knowing the conversation would be recorded. "Here we go ..."
Morgan gave her the headlines of everything that had occurred to date, speaking quickly to get as much across as he could within limited time: his inspection of the boat; the blank ammunition he'd found onboard; the captain and the policeman; the address of the house he'd followed them to; the Serbs; and the urgent need, he stressed, to get local law enforcement to him ASAP.
"I'm on the west coast of Gozo island, on the southern end of a large bay." He looked around, trying to get his bearings and recall his memory of the key features of Gozo. "I think it's called—"
"Dwejra Bay, the Azure Window," Mila replied. "I've just pulled it up on Google maps. OK, what do you need?"
"Wait a minute," Morgan said, hearing the piercing scream of a woman in distress, audible above the crashing of the sea along the coast.
He ran to the edge of a small cliff and then, as he strained to get a fix on her location, the splutter of an engine being coaxed to life drew his attention to the water's edge far below.
"Gotta go:" he said. "Get whatever coverage you can to track an aircraft: seaplane, yellow and white with the letters HF on the tail; about to take off from this location. And send some cops. Out."
Chapter 33
The seaplane, a de Havilland DHC-3 Turbine Single Otter, was one of a fleet normally hired out for charter flights around the islands of Malta. But today the fleet would be operating minus one. The aircraft had been commandeered, unlawfully, and a new pilot, one more familiar with illicit sorties across borders than tourist joy flights, sat at the controls. The actual owner/operator was lying dead in the Harbour Flight office on the Valletta waterfront with a 9mm slug from a Russian-made Stenchkin automatic buried in his skull.
The DHC-3 was moored next to a long concrete pier. It was out of the way, rarely used and reached far into the water from the end of a narrow dirt track that wound back up into the cliffs.
On the pier the big Serb stood lazily smoking and talking familiarly with a man who obviously spent most of his gangster downtime in a gym. He stood only 5 feet 6 inches but was a ball of steroid-induced muscle mass. His head was completely bald and he wore a thick, dark goatee. His skintight, sleeveless T-shirt suggested he liked the way he looked, too. Muscles had flown in with the seaplane from Valletta and, on the big Serb's orders, was responsible for hijacking it, along with taking care of the loose ends at the Harbour Flight office. The Stechkin was in a dodgy shoulder holster buried under his right armpit.
The big Serb and Muscles watched with detached amusement as the two local lackeys continued their efforts to manhandle Charly aboard. It was a struggle - she was fighting them all the way. The big Serb was boasting about the captured cop they'd brought all the way up from Lija in the trunk. He was impatient to show off his new prisoner.
He laughed. "We'll drop the piece of shit onto the cliffs once we're airborne"
Meanwhile, even with wrists and ankles bound, Charly bucked, squirmed and twisted with all she had to make it as difficult as she could for them. But, despite her fierce, unwavering resistance, they managed to get her up the short ladder, shoving her unceremoniously into the plane. In a last-ditch effort to summon help before she was closed up inside the plane, Charly let out a blood-curdling scream. Muscles stepped across and pushed the lackeys aside. Charly looked up into his eyes, paralyzed with shock; recognition written all over her horrified face.
"You!" she cried. "But, you were—" Before she could finish, Muscles back-handed her across the side of the neck. The expert blow concussed her, buying the lackeys enough time to tie her into a seat.
"Hey, who the fuck is that up there watching us?" It was the pilot, troubled, pointing urgently toward the cliff top above them. He'd stepped out of the aircraft to do his routine checks before takeoff and happened to look up to where the young Serb had disappeared to collect the other prisoner from the car. "That doesn't look like your guy?"
The big Serb turned around with his usual economy and realized that the man standing at the top of the cliff was not his young offsider. It was the prisoner.
In the instant that the big Serb's eyes locked onto him, Morgan disappeared from view.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he spat; the cigarette tumbled from his lips. "You two untie us," he barked at the lackeys and, stabbing a finger at the pilot, said, "And you get this fucking thing in the air!"
*
Sprinting back from the cliff's edge, Morgan tore the car keys from the trunk and dived into the driver's seat. It was an old Peugeot and took its time to start.
"Come on! Come on!" he ordered and the old car coughed into action. He pumped the gas, revving the engine to life, wrenched the gearshift into first, stamped on the accelerator and threw the car into a tight U-turn around the comatose body of the young Serb. Gravel and dust sprayed from the spinning tires. The Peugeot fishtailed wildly on the loose rocky surface of the dirt road until the Intrepid agent tore the wheel back around, straightened the car and hurled it down the hillside. His eyes were fixed on the pier.
In the distance the sun was already hanging heavily in the sky, slipping toward the horizon. Dusk. He had less than an hour of daylight left, if that.
Chapter 34
Aboard the seaplane, the big Serb bellowed at the pilot to take off.
"I can't. We're still tied up!" the pilot replied from the cockpit. "Those two assholes—"
"What the fuck?" the big Serb fumed impatiently. He punched the seat in front of him in frustration and then spun toward Muscles. "Sort those motherfuck-ers out!" he barked in Serbian, spit spraying from his mouth.
Muscles sprang from his seat, threw open the back door of the aircraft, clambered down onto the float and, with the Stechkin in hand, roared at the two lackeys on the pier to get the mooring ropes untied.
*
At that moment, Alex Morgan was hurtling down the ancient fisherman's track, skidding, braking and accelerating all the way. He saw nothing but the seaplane and every inch and bend in the road that lay between him and Charlotte-Rose Fleming. His mind focused only on negotiating the car as fast as humanly possible along half a mile of dangerously narrow dirt road. There was nothing on either side but cliffs until a last-minute drop down to the pier. He had no idea what he would do when he got there or even if the plane would still be alongside. But he could see it. His objective was within reach. He knew she was onboard and nothing was going to stop him getting to her.
With sweat pouring from his brow and fierce determination chiseled across mission-hardened features, Morgan's limbs were in a state of automatic reflex, expertly responding to his subliminal instructions, manipulating gearshift, steering wheel and pedals to hurtle the aging vehicle down the rollercoaster ride of bends, sweeps and dips. At every perilous left and right turn, the Peugeot came close to careening over the edge. If it did, Morgan would plummet to a god-awful end among the rocks and crashing waves that were the hallmark of the Gozo coastline. But he couldn't think about that. If it happened, it happened. His eyes were locked onto the seaplane with the precision and singular purpose of a state-of-the-art guidance system in a surface-to-air missile.
*
At the controls, the pilot was anxious. He didn't know who the crazy bastard in the car was but he'd picked up enough listening to the Serbs to know he was Interpol or Europol or something. The pilot had his own reasons for not wanting to get caught: he was as desperate to get airborne as his clients. He brought the de Havilland up to maximum revs, ready to power off but the rope was jammed at the mooring and two pairs of inexperienced hands were making a dog's breakfast of it. He slid open his window.
"Come on, you assholes! Cast us off!"
Hearing the pilot, Muscles knew that two was just making matters worse - both pairs of hands were a mess of red rope. He saw the Peugeot gaining ground, rapidly - a long trail of white dust billowed in the car's wake as it screamed down the hill toward them at breakneck speed. The cop had only two or three turns left and he'd be on the direct approach to the pier. Fuck! With that, Muscles turned back to the lackeys, took aim with the Stechkin and fired. A round hit the closest one straight through the side of the chest. He toppled into the water, dead.
Stunned, the remaining lackey looked up. All he could see was the barrel of the automatic trained directly on him from backdoor of the aircraft.
In seconds, he'd unraveled the chaos and jumped into the water, clear of the firing line.
The plane was finally set free.
Chapter 35
With a fierce burst of power, the 750-shaft-horsepower PT-6 engine of the DHC-3 responded to the release like a thoroughbred breaking away from the starting gate. The propeller bit into the wind and tore the seaplane clear wit
h a jolt. Still leaning from the rear door, the unexpected forward thrust forced Muscles to grapple for a hold, but he missed. Dropping the gun, he fell clumsily down into the ladder, struts and tension cables that connected the port-side float to the fuselage. The pilot was oblivious, focused only on getting airborne. The big Serb didn't notice either. His eyes were fixed solely upon the looming image of the Peugeot, his Peugeot, racing toward them.
Morgan was perfectly aligned. The nose of the car pointed straight for the long concrete pier that ran along the port side of the seaplane. He was so close he could hear the de Havilland's propeller whining as the pilot headed from the bay to the open sea. Designed for short take off and landing, the seaplane needed only 200 yards of clear water to get in the air and Morgan could see it would be a matter of seconds before the pilot would be lined up. If they took off, he would miss his only chance to reach Charly.
Morgan stamped on the gas and the Peugeot charged forward, shuddering and bouncing across the rough dirt track, hungrily grabbing at the final 30 yards, tossing each aside, one by one, until the tires gratefully reached the long flat surface of the pier.
In the cockpit, the pilot was determined to take off. A strong headwind came straight toward the coast, perfectly lined up across the nose of the aircraft. Facing into the wind would give him more lift and reduce the distance he'd require to get into the air. He set the flaps and checked the instrument panel. Oil pressure and temperature gauges read green. He lined up. Ready. He took the aircraft to full throttle. The airspeed indicator came to life: 35 knots. Keeping the long finger of the pier to his left, the pilot pumped the pedals to keep her straight, increasing speed all the way.
