Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “We do. I was just coming to fill you in.”

  Robert listened and asked questions for the next fifteen minutes. Satisfied he’d been fully briefed, he said, “This could be the break we need. With the Royal Seeker back under control of Hua Ho Holdings, we have a chance at figuring out why Jade was abducted in the first place.”

  “I understand the focus right now is on boarding that ship and gaining control. But has anyone thought about getting an investigative unit onboard, too?” Peter said. “There could be vital evidence, and if the investigation is not properly managed by experienced detectives, the evidence could be compromised for use in court, or even worse, completely destroyed.”

  Robert looked at Peter and nodded slowly. “Good point. I’ll mention that to Eu-meh. Maybe they can have one or two investigators board with the assault team.” Robert had his phone in his hand again.

  “I’m going to resume my walk with Diesel while you make your calls.”

  With the red pit bull close by his side, Peter strolled across the patio and then through the gardens surrounding the palace. Soon, the heat and humidity would render even a short, leisurely walk unbearable. Diesel already had his tongue hanging low as he panted.

  A gardener, a slim woman whose wrinkled face betrayed her age, watched Peter and Diesel approach. When they were separated by three paces, she clicked her tongue against her teeth. Diesel turned her way and tilted his head. She smiled, her eyes twinkling.

  “It’s okay,” Peter said, and Diesel approached, his head down and tail wagging from side to side. Laying her tools down, she leaned over and rubbed both sides of the canine’s blocky head, massaging his ears. He leaned into her and she ran a hand down his back, seemingly admiring his sleek coat and copper coloration. She said something in a tongue totally foreign to Peter, and yet he was certain Diesel understood her emotional energy and body language. She liked animals, and showed no fear of the pit bull.

  Abruptly, Diesel stiffened. The wagging motion of his tail ceased and he focused on something in the distance. The gardener and Peter both turned their heads, trying to see what had alerted the dog. In the distance, a palace guard was looking their way from within the dark shadows of a cloister. After a moment, the guard turned to leave, revealing a white bandage over the side of his head.

  “Diesel, come,” Peter said, the friendly exchange had ended, replaced with concern and urgency. He strode purposefully back to the guest apartment. He had to warn Robert.

  He pushed open the heavy carved-wood door. “Robert!” he called even as he was clearing the doorway.

  No response.

  “Robert? You here?”

  Peter stopped in the parlor and glanced up the stairs. The apartment was deathly quiet. He looked down at Diesel. The dog was as still as a statue—looking through the open doors into the billiard room, every muscle tensed and ready to propel the animal into action.

  “Heal,” Peter said, his voice soft. He edged forward through the parlor, Diesel shadowing each footstep. As he approached the billiard room, Robert stepped into view on the far side of the massive game table.

  “Are you alright?” Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, we have a problem. I saw one of the palace guards, and the side of his head was bandaged. I think—”

  The palace guard Peter had seen only minutes ago stepped into view, a Glock 17 pistol aimed at Robert. He closed the distance in two steps and placed the gun against Robert’s head.

  “Please, come in,” he said. His voice carried a hint of a British accent.

  Peter did as instructed. Diesel was edgy but remained by his side.

  “Just relax,” Peter said, his hands open and displayed in full view. Diesel issued a deep, throaty growl, causing the gunman to divert his eyes to the canine.

  “Get that dog out of here,” he said. “Or I’ll kill your friend and the dog.”

  Robert winced as the steel barrel was pushed harder against the base of his head, just below his ear. “Better do as he says.”

  “Diesel, come.” Peter gave a jerk of his head and the pit bull slowly walked out of the room. Peter closed the doors to the parlor.

  “I was going to warn you that one of the men who attacked us in London was here.”

  “Yeah, thanks. But I kinda figured that out,” Robert said.

  “So, how’s that ear? Healing well?”

  “Maybe I’ll slice off your ears; and your nose. How would you like that?”

  “No, thank you, I’d rather not.” Peter was edging closer, passing between the bar and the billiard table. The gunman was slowly rotating his position, being mindful to stay behind Robert.

  “What do you want?” Peter asked.

  “You’re both coming with me.”

  “Well,” Peter said. One hand was close by his side, his fingers crawling along the bar. Peter hoped the tool he was seeking had not been put away. “You’re going to have a hard time moving both of us out of here without people seeing what you’re doing. I mean, two men walking across the palace grounds at gunpoint probably isn’t a regular occurrence. Surely it’s going to attract attention.”

  The gunman’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be thinking about this comment. Perspiration dappled his face and threatened to roll off his forehead.

  There! Peter’s fingers touched the corkscrew. “It’s me you want,” Peter said. “Let him go, and I won’t cause any problems.”

  “Don’t be crazy, Peter.”

  Peter persisted, continuing to creep forward, the corkscrew out of sight, palmed against his thigh. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but this is going to end badly if you don’t calm down and put the gun away.”

  The gunman snorted a laugh. “It’s going to be real bad for you when I cut up your face.”

  Peter was just about at the end of the pool table. He suddenly raised his free hand to distract the assailant, and hooked the corkscrew on his back pocket. “You guys really messed up in London, right? Is that what this is about? Your boss needs answers, and I’m just the guy.”

  Sliding his feet, he continued to close the distance. “Why did you take Jade?”

  “I’m not answering your questions,” he sneered.

  Peter raised his hands and stopped in front of Robert. Taking the bait, the assailant shoved Robert aside with surprising strength, and then placed the gun against Peter’s chest.

  “On your knees bodyguard. Hands on your head, fingers locked together. Now! Or I put a bullet in your friend.”

  Robert followed the orders, already feeling the discomfort radiating from his knees pressing against the hard stone floor.

  Peter glanced down at the gun. He understood that one pull of the trigger would send a 9mm bullet blasting through his chest and out his back. Even if by some chance the bullet missed his heart—a miracle given the placement of the muzzle—he would bleed out within a minute. If the notion concerned Peter, it didn’t show.

  “You know,” Peter said, as he held his hands open at his side. He looked directly into the man’s eyes: They were cold and devoid of emotion. They were the eyes of a killer. Peter had looked into eyes just like those many times before, and he knew he wouldn’t talk him down. “You really aren’t very smart. You lost control of this situation when I entered the room. And now it’s worse.”

  “You talk a lot, but don’t have much to say.” He spat the words out.

  Peter took a half step closer, forcing his assailant to bend his elbow in order to keep the pistol leveled on Peter. “Who do you work for? Obviously, you’re not loyal to the Sultan. How much are they paying you?”

  “Enough!” he twisted the gun barrel into Peter’s sternum.

  “If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me why you kidnapped Jade. What is she to your boss? She’s just a kid.”

  He leaned his face close to Peter’s, and began to speak. “I said—”

  Ufff! He rammed the corkscrew into the gunman’s abdomen, just below the rib cage where the flesh is soft
and unprotected. At the same instant, with his other hand he knocked the Glock to the side.

  Boom! The report of the shot was deafening in the confined space. Peter winced, favoring his right side. Still, he twisted the corkscrew and pushed harder. The gunman’s eyes bulged, and his mouth hung agape. The pistol appeared to be a heavy weight, holding his arm down.

  “Here’s some advice,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “When you have a gun, never allow your adversary within arm’s reach.”

  From only inches away, the gunman looked at Peter, his eyes wide in confusion and fear. Robert scrambled from his knees and yanked the man backwards, wrapping a meaty hand around the Glock, ensuring it remained pointed at the floor as he twisted it from the dying hand.

  Peter released the corkscrew, and ran a hand over his side, just above his hip. It felt wet. He moved to the bar and found a white napkin which he pressed against the wound.

  Robert laid the man on the floor and removed the spare magazines from his belt. His unfocused eyes were already losing their gloss.

  “You okay?” Robert asked.

  “Looks like the bullet just nicked me.”

  “Let me see.” Peter removed the napkin. Fortunately, the bleeding had already slowed. “You’ll live, but we still need to get a bandage over that or you’ll be oozing blood all night.” Robert opened cabinet doors looking for a first aid kit. After quickly searching half the bar, he found a box with bandages, gauze pads, and tape. He applied a dressing to Peter’s side with ample tape to hold it in place, and then passed a bottled of acetaminophen.

  “That gunshot had to have been heard,” Robert said. “Won’t be long before real guards show up.”

  Peter swallowed several pills and glanced around the room. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

  Chapter 21

  Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei

  August 25

  The gunshot and sound of shattered glass comingled and became one, immediately followed by the tinkling of hundreds of glass fragments on the stone floor.

  Peter and Robert fell to the tiles as more bullets streamed through the remnants of glass and lead came that had once adorned the French doors. Chunks of wood were blasted from the billiard table. Other rounds found the stacks of books on the far wall.

  Two figures were in the patio garden, converging on the shattered glass doors. They were both wearing uniforms of the palace guard. Sitting with his back against a leg of the once-beautiful game table, Robert raised the Glock and fired off a rapid succession of four shots. Peter watch as the two guards collapsed under the fire.

  A shot came from the parlor, quickly followed by a scream. Aaahh! Before Peter or Robert had time to react, the double doors burst open and another palace guard crashed through the opening, landing on his back. Diesel was on top of the gunman, his jaws locked around his right arm. A Glock pistol fell out of his hand and skidded a short distance away. He was attempting to reach it with his left hand, but Diesel wasn’t giving any quarter. The pit bull was shaking his head, furthering the lacerations on the man’s arm.

  Peter rose and rushed to aid his companion. He scooped up the pistol, just inches from the guard’s reach, and trained it on the man. “Enough!” Peter ordered, the rapid movement sending burning pain through his side. Diesel released his victim and slowly backed away, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the guard.

  Only after Diesel broke off did Peter see the bandages on the right arm. The dog had torn into a fresh wound, perhaps one made only a few days ago by a steak knife slashing across the arm.

  The billiard room fell into silence, save for the groaning of the guard. He placed his left hand over the ragged tear. Blood slowly seeped between his fingers.

  “You were in London, weren’t you?” Peter said, looking down at the man.

  His question was answered with a look of malevolence.

  “Of course you were. Well, I know you’re not loyal to the Sultan…”

  “What do you know?” came the gruff reply.

  “I’m rather certain the Sultan will not be pleased to know some of his trusted palace guards kidnapped his niece.”

  “You have no idea what has been set in motion, or the reach of power. You’ll never leave here alive—never.”

  “Yeah, whatever you say. I’ve heard it all before.” Peter turned to check Diesel for wounds. He squatted and laid the Glock on the floor, then ran his hands along both sides of his canine. They came back clean, no blood.

  Suddenly, Diesel leapt over Peter’s shoulder. He twisted his body to see. Diesel was latched onto the guard’s left wrist, the hand holding a short, curved blade—a karambit. It hooked inward, reminding Peter of a talon or claw. With teeth crushing the man’s wrist, the karambit was useless. Despite the wounds on his right arm, he was desperately slugging Diesel with his free fist.

  Peter reached around, trying to locate the Glock. The fist was pummeling the canine’s side. Still, he wouldn’t slacken his bite.

  Boom! Smoke wafted from the muzzle of the pistol in Robert’s hand. As the guard stopped moving, Diesel sensed the fight was over. He released and returned to Peter’s side. Blood pooled where the man’s head rested on the stone tiles.

  Again, Peter ran his hand over Diesel, only this time the dog whimpered a little when the hand brushed over the ribs that had been pummeled. “Is he okay?” Robert asked.

  Peter tilted his head to the side. “Bruised his ribs. I don’t think any are cracked.”

  “We have to get outta here. Grab the extra mags from his belt.”

  Each armed with a Glock 17 pistol tucked within his waistband, and shirt pulled out to cover the handgrip, Robert and Peter casually walked out the front door of the apartment, Diesel close by Peter’s side.

  “Now what?” Peter asked without turning his head toward Robert.

  “We go to a safe house.”

  “You have a safe house here?”

  “I do. My apartment.”

  Peter spun his head. “You think these people are idiots? They’re probably already searching your apartment.”

  “Nope, not likely.”

  “How can you be so certain? It didn’t take long for them to mount an attack on us. And we’re inside the palace grounds!”

  “The apartment is not in my name, and the alias is buried deep. Plus, I don’t actually live there.”

  Boom! Boom! The two men ran for the cover of a cluster of palm trees. Bullets split the air all around them, but none connected. As they came to a rest, the gunfire became more precise. Bullets were cutting into the trunks, but so far none had penetrated through.

  “You have a plan B?” Peter said.

  Robert was surveying the grounds. Behind them were more trees and clusters of dense foliage. Beyond that, the entrance to the palace.

  “Nothing elegant,” he replied.

  Peter sank lower and pulled Diesel in tight as another barrage impacted the palm trunks. “We don’t have the luxury of being choosy.”

  Robert shrugged. “We go that way.” He motioned with his chin. “Use the available cover and exit through the gate. Then we hail a taxi.”

  “Oh. Sure. Why not?”

  “Look, those guards will kill us if we stay here. So, unless you have a better idea?”

  Peter exhaled deeply. “You think they’re all gunning for us?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Can Eu-meh help?”

  “Once we escape—“

  “You mean if we escape.”

  “We hold up in my safe house while I contact Eu-meh. She could be in danger, too.”

  Peter ran over the different scenarios in his mind. None of the options were good. “You win. Plan B it is.”

  Robert nodded. “Angle for the closest cover. I’ll draw their fire until you get there. When I hear you fire off two rounds, I’ll be running for your position while you cover me.”

  Peter nodded. “Ready when you are.”

  “Good luck.” Robert eased around the bas
e of the trees and fired off in the direction he believed the attackers were located. Immediately, gunfire was returned, the muzzle flashes revealing the shooters’ locations.

  Peter and Diesel were up and running. In four seconds they reached another grouping of palm trees, and Peter tumbled to a stop on the far side. He raised the Glock at the same time he came up to a kneeling position. Ahead, Robert was still shooting at a measured pace of about one round a second.

  “Clear!” Peter yelled, and he began firing his Glock. The distance was long for a pistol, just shy of 100 yards, he estimated. Still, Peter knew from experience that it took an incredible amount of will power to remain calm and focused when being shot at, even if the shooter was unlikely to hit the target.

  In a flash, Robert was running. He moved quickly for a big man, and could have made a respectable tryout performance for professional football. Seeing what was taking place, the palace guards began to abandon their positions and fan out to the sides to get a clear angle on their targets. As they moved away from cover, they became easier marks to hit. Peter tracked one guard and fired. Boom! Boom! Boom! After the third shot, the guard stumbled and fell forward, his rifle skittering across the ground.

  After the last shot, the slide locked open on Peter’s Glock. He ejected the spent magazine and rammed home a full load. Just then, Robert slid in and rolled over, bringing his gun to bear.

  When the palace guards left the cover of the cloisters, they became easier targets, although the distance was still challenging. Robert was firing aimed shots from the base of a palm tree at the running guards. Two fell to his gunfire, giving Peter needed cover to make his dash.

  Peter looked over his shoulder and spied a large fountain not too far away. He pushed to his feet and sprinted. Off to the side, motion attracted his attention. He turned his head without breaking stride and saw a golf cart angling his way. It looked like one of the grounds-keeper machines, used for moving plants, tools, and insulated containers of drinking water around the large property.