Ninety seconds later, Tony’s snowmobile steered around the crossed posts and nosed into the bowl. He was in plain view of Pit Bull and his pals, who peered down from the opposing ridge. He angled the snowmobile toward the apex of the bowl and poured on the gas. The treads dug in, the machine leaped forward, and a rooster tail of powder trailed in his wake. Three sleds dropped down the other side and accelerated on an intersecting course.
The bowl was four football fields in length from cliff to apex. Tony was two-thirds of the way to the top when he entered the shadow of the outcrop that towered above it. His headlights pierced the darkness. The slope steepened, and he stood forward on the sled to keep from flipping backward. When he felt the snow loosen beneath the treads, he switched off his lights and made a ninety-degree turn to the left. The deep shadows hid the change in direction from his pursuers.
He dropped the first of the C-4 charges and accelerated across the top of the bowl. The three attack sleds continued toward his original position. But after three or four seconds, they turned back in his direction. They sped into the mountain’s shadow, and their silhouettes were replaced by three pairs of headlights.
Tony dropped the second package.
Then he faced the sled downhill and raced directly for the approaching headlights. He crouched low and opened the throttle to the max. He’d been tempted to bring along the assault rifle, but he knew if it came to a shoot-out, he and his friends would be done for. Instead, he brought a walkie-talkie. It was duct-taped to the handlebars. The talk button was locked in the ON position.
“Get ready!” He shouted the order to make sure Timmy would hear him over the rushing wind.
The handlebars vibrated. The speedometer indicated seventy mph. He shot through the oncoming trio faster than a stock-car driver past a checkered flag. Heads swiveled. He steered down the center of the bowl. When he broke from the shadow, four more sleds dropped from the ridge and took up the chase. They’d be on him in thirty seconds.
Then the helicopter popped up from the cliff ahead. It dipped its nose and flew directly at him. Its spotlight illuminated Tony like a Broadway star. Gunfire would follow any second.
“Now!” Tony shouted into the walkie-talkie.
The high-velocity plastic explosives blasted deep into the overloaded snowpack. It sounded like twin thunderclaps. The air trembled, the ground shook, and Tony’s heart climbed into his throat.
He angled the snowmobile toward the jump, checking the scene behind him in the jiggling side mirror.
It takes only a pebble to start an avalanche, which meant that two quarter-pound bricks of C-4 were more than overkill. Twin spouts of snow blasted into the air. The shock waves loosened the hardpack, and a thundering white tidal wave barreled down the mountain. It sounded like the deep rumble of a hundred bass drums.
Then a thousand.
The three snowmobiles chasing him were overwhelmed in seconds. Those on his right skidded into 180-degree turns. The helicopter veered away.
Tony’s sled hit the natural ramp, but this time around he was ready for it. He launched himself to one side as soon as the machine was airborne. He hit the snow and rolled. He was three feet outside the guardrail that encircled the crevasse. The sled’s sky-bound momentum ended abruptly. It vanished tailfirst into the abyss.
Tony scrambled over the guardrail. The ground shook, the air filled with snow crystals, and visibility dropped to inches. His hands searched desperately for what his eyes could no longer see. The roar intensified.
A yank on his ankle startled him.
“This way!” Marshall shouted.
Chapter 41
Swiss Alps
THEY WAITED FOUR hours before digging out of the snow. Tony figured that by then any of Victor’s men who had survived the avalanche would presume them dead. The lack of infrared signals on the chopper’s scope would have confirmed it.
They’d huddled on the shelf near the top of the cleft. The rope that Marshall had secured to the guardrail had provided access. When the mountain of snow rushed past overhead, a raging torrent had poured through the gap. But the huddled foursome had been spared the worst of it. Within seconds the opening above had clogged and their world had been plunged into silence.
And safety.
Marshall and Lacey had grabbed some additional gear from the ranger station—including hand warmers, snowshoes, and more rope, plus hand and foot ascenders to simplify the climb back up. They’d also brought a folding shovel. Tony used it now to burrow a forty-five-degree tunnel through the snowpack. When he broke the surface, he squinted against the brightness of the rising sun. The sky was clear and blue.
He popped his head over the lip and did a quick 360. The slide had contained itself within the bowl. There was no movement on either ridgeline.
“Looks clear,” he whispered to Marshall.
He pulled himself to the surface and brought the assault rifle to the ready position. He scanned for threats. When he was satisfied they were alone, he said, “Shoes first.”
Marshall passed up four sets of snowshoes. Tony donned a set. “Give me sixty seconds to get to the tree line. I’ll cover you from there.”
Tony made it there with time to spare. He breathed easier. It appeared as if their ruse had worked. Lacey was the first out of the tunnel. She donned her snowshoes as Timmy crawled out. By the time Marshall made it to the surface, she was crouched beside Tony in the trees.
“Boy, am I glad to be out of that hole!” she said.
“You and me both.”
Timmy appeared to be struggling with the buckles on his snowshoes. Marshall knelt down beside him to give him a hand.
Tony motioned toward the ranger station. “Why don’t you go on ahead and see if you can rustle us up some coffee or hot chocolate?”
“Sure,” she said. She hesitated a second. “Hey, I hope you’re not trying to stereotype me with that request.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. But keep your eyes peeled for a bagel and cream cheese while you’re at it.”
She harrumphed, winked, and trudged off. A minute later, Marshall and Timmy crested the ridge.
“Breakfast is thataway,” Tony said, motioning with his thumb.
Marshall grinned. Timmy breathed a sigh of relief. They made their way past him.
That’s when Tony noticed the flash of reflected sunlight from the overhang above the bowl.
He reacted instinctively. “Sniper!” he shouted, tackling his friends. They landed in a heap as the first round dug a fist-size chunk out of the tree in front of them.
“Run!” Tony shouted. He spun around and pulled the trigger even before the G36’s reflex sight came to bear on his target. He loosed three short bursts. The weapon’s effective range was eight hundred meters. The rocks above the overhang were only four hundred meters.
That was the good news.
But the tango was firing from an elevated position. And he likely had a scope. Tony triggered one more burst and dodged behind a tree. He felt the disturbance of air beside his ear before the sound of the rifle shot registered in his brain.
Dammit!
At least he’d drawn the fire away from his friends, he thought. He saw them stick to the trees as they ran a dodge-and-weave pattern toward the cabin.
Tony jerked around the side of the tree and triggered two more bursts into the rocks. He somersaulted forward to get behind the next tree. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. His bulk was bigger than the tree he now crouched behind.
That’s the bad n—
The bullet grazed his shoulder blade and impacted something solid in his backpack. It jackhammered him backward into the snow. His stomach leaped when he saw the clear sight line between him and the rocky ridge. He opened up on full auto.
The magazine clicked empty after two rounds.
He was a sittin’ duck. His shocked brain froze for the fraction of time that it took for the faces of his wife and kids to flash before him.
There wa
s a booming retort from behind him, and the stand of rocks surrounding the sniper exploded from the Howitzer’s 105mm round. Boulders and body parts flew into the air. The blast echoed between the alpine summits. Tony rolled onto his stomach and stared at the cannon platform behind him.
Lacey waved back.
Chapter 42
Isola di San Michele
“THE SHOOTING STOPPED,” Sarafina whispered. Ahmed nodded. He sat beside her in the cramped space. They each had an ear pressed against the panel. Alex sat cross-legged behind them.
“What’s going to happen?” Sarafina asked.
“Nothing good.”
“How long before they get us out?”
Ahmed remained silent.
“How long?” she insisted.
Ahmed pulled away from the door, and she turned to face him. Her grandfather’s flashlight was dim, but she could still see the grim expression on his face.
“You’re asking me questions,” he said softly. “But you already know the answers.”
Her eyes moistened, but she shook her head, refusing to allow her mind to go there. Neither spoke for several moments.
She pressed her ear against the panel. The wood felt cool. She closed her eyes and listened. When they’d first entered, she’d heard her mother shout, “Don’t shoot!” But the thick door and their location deep in the storage room made it impossible to discern the faint sounds Sarafina had heard since. All she knew for sure was that the shooting was over. But what did that mean? She stifled a sob.
Ahmed whispered to her. “It smells like something died in here.”
She screwed her face into a question mark. “W-what?” He seemed to be studying her. That’s when she realized his words were intended as a distraction. She appreciated the effort, but he could’ve picked a better topic. “Don’t remind me,” she said.
“There are dead people buried all around us.”
“You said that before. Grandfather told you to show respect.”
“It’s like we’re in a coffin.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“Did you ever read ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ by Edgar Allan Poe?”
“You’re sick.”
“What? Creepy is the new cool, right? And this place is definitely creepy.” He still had the folded knife in his hand. His fingers absently rolled it over and over again against his palm. It was one of his tells.
Somehow the sight of it calmed her. He’d risen above his own fears in order to soothe hers.
“Alex doesn’t seem to think it’s so creepy,” she said.
Ahmed turned to follow her gaze. Alex had his back to them. He held his tablet face-out in front of him. The glow from its display illuminated the wooden slats in the back wall. They were discolored with age. One of them had a trio of wormholes in it. There was a tiny pile of dirt on the floor beneath them.
An abrupt roar came from the storeroom. The door trembled. The trio jumped.
“What was that?” Sarafina asked.
“Shhh,” Ahmed said. “Listen!”
It began as a distant but constant rumble. It quickly grew in intensity, and it felt as if the air was being sucked from the room. There were sounds of breaking glass and the smell of wine. The temperature rose.
Dear God!
“Fire!” Ahmed said.
“Out!” Sarafina screamed. Her hand went to the recessed pocket over the door.
“No!” Ahmed shouted, grabbing her hand. He placed it against the door. “Feel.”
The door was warm under her touch.
“The fire’s in the storeroom,” he said. “We’ll never get through.”
Her first instinct was to embrace Alex. She turned toward him. His attention was still on the wall behind him. The palm of one hand hovered over a slit between two of the slats. She placed her hand beside his and felt a flow of air.
“Ahmed!” she said urgently.
But he was already one step ahead of her. He edged forward, flicked open his knife, and plunged it into the center of the wall. The five-inch blade sank to its hilt in the dry-rotted wood. He pulled the knife out, and a thick stream of dirt spilled into the room. He thrust again, higher on the wall. This time no soil rushed from the gash.
“Yes!” he said, jabbing the knife like an ice pick against the wall. Each impact dug a new hole. Wafts of cool, earthy air crept from the shadows beyond. He poked holes in a widening circular pattern.
The door at their backs felt like an open oven. Sweat poured from Sarafina’s brow.
Ahmed widened a few of the holes with levered twists of the knife. The aged wood crumbled under the assault. When several of the holes converged into a fist-size opening, he dropped the knife and began to wrench pieces away with his hands. Parts of it came away easily. Others did not. When the opening was about eight inches wide, Sarafina aimed the flashlight within.
It was more of an oblong depression than it was a tunnel. It appeared to be about eighteen inches wide and a foot high at its center. She shivered at the prospect of crawling through it. The weak beam penetrated only five or six feet, but the rush of cool air filled her with hope.
“We can do this,” she said.
Ahmed nodded and continued tugging on the wood.
She handed Alex the flashlight and moved in to help. Alex aimed the light at the opening. She grabbed the jagged edge of a slat and pulled with all her might. The wood resisted. She shrieked in frustration and brought her other hand to bear. The weakened wood cracked, and she tugged it loose. The opening in the wall widened. They kept at it. Both of their hands bled.
Steam began to rise from the inside surface of the storage room door. The flames could eat through any second. Ahmed grunted as he yanked on another slat. It ripped free. More of it came away from the wall than he’d expected, and a soccer ball–size chunk of earth fell from behind it. He kicked it aside.
“That’s good enough,” Sarafina said, measuring the width of the opening against Ahmed’s shoulders. The hole was about thirty inches above the floor. “I’ll go first. Then Alex.”
“That won’t work,” Ahmed said, taking the flashlight from the child. “If there’s more digging to be done, I’m going to have to handle it.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He pocketed the knife, pushed the flashlight ahead of him, and pulled himself into the opening. The beam of light led the way as he wiggled forward. He stopped when his ankles were still suspended in the room. Sarafina wiped sweat from her eyes as she strained to see past him. The dim light reflected on a tangle of white roots a few feet ahead of him.
“There’s debris in here,” Ahmed said over his shoulder. His voice sounded hollow in the tunnel. “But it’s nothing to worry about.” He scooted forward and said, “Okay, Alex. Your turn.”
Her little brother tucked the slim tablet in its holster. He reached his arms and head into the opening, and she boosted him the rest of the way. His shirt was soggy with perspiration, but he’d never complained. He crawled forward on all fours but was forced to stop after a couple feet.
She stuck her head into the space. “What’s going on?”
Ahmed seemed to be wrestling with something. “Some of this”—he grunted as he pulled something free—“stuff is embedded in the dirt. I’m working to clear it!”
The door at her back radiated waves of heat. The room was like a sauna. The exposed skin on her face and arms stung. An amber glow formed around the perimeter of the door, and smoke leaked into the space.
“Hurry!” she shouted.
“Almost there!”
Suddenly, the entire surface of the door seemed to blacken at once. A crack formed up its center. A thin flame licked the wood. In the half heartbeat that followed, the oxygen-starved flames drove through the crack and jumped to the ceiling. Shadows were cast aside, and the chunk of earth on the floor was revealed as a dirt-encrusted skull.
Primal panic electrified Sarafina. She dove into the tunnel. “Move!” she screamed. But the boys had already sensed the dang
er. Alex was several feet ahead of her and moving fast. There was a bright flash behind her, and heat singed her ankles. She scampered forward, clawing with her hands, pushing with her feet, and praying with every ounce of her being. She passed the pile of bones that Ahmed had dislodged. It was a rib cage. Remnants of rotted pine dotted the walls. The tunnel shifted every six or seven feet. More bones, scraps of clothing, an iron cross.
The guttural moan she heard was her own—prompted by the realization that the burrow they uncovered had been formed from rotted-out coffins.
The shaft twisted left. Then right. She followed on Alex’s heels. Finally, she heard a splash up ahead. Ahmed’s voice echoed. “Come on. We’re clear!”
They’d dropped into a sewer tunnel that ran the length of the island. Heading north, they climbed the first exit ladder they came across and found themselves in a maintenance shed near the docks. Moonlight shone through the sole window. It cast a pale glow on the space. There was a workbench, a tool chest, and several shovels. But it was the twenty-four-pack of bottled water that drew her attention. She ripped open the shrink-wrap and they drank their fill. With a moistened rag, she wiped Alex’s hands and face. Then she did the same for herself and passed the cloth to Ahmed.
The view through the window stretched across the lagoon. It was around 10:00 p.m. Boats crisscrossed the water. The lights of the ancient city glowed in the distance. Ahmed put his back to a wall and slid to his butt on the concrete floor. Alex sat beside him. He unholstered his tablet and flipped through images until he found the one he wanted. It was a photo of their mother. Sarafina snuggled next to him. She wrapped an arm around her brother and pulled him close.
“She’s okay,” she said. “So is Grandfather.” She prayed it was true.
Alex nodded.
“I’ve thought about it,” Ahmed said. “Those men came for Jake. They wanted him alive, remember? When they didn’t find him, they would have taken Mother and Grandpa Mario as leverage. That means they won’t be harmed. If they’d have found us, we would have been held hostage as well.”
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