by Dee Davis
With a yank, Khamis pulled her into the room, the pressure of his grip causing her to lose hold of the gun. It hit the floor with a metallic clang and spun out of sight under the bed. He ripped off her headset, neatly snapping it in two with his left hand. She pivoted against his weight, trying to unbalance him, but the bite of his gun against her side stopped her cold.
He swung her out to face him, his hand tight on her wrist, his expression so filled with loathing it made her flinch. "It seems, Ms. Pope, that we are destined to meet again."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BRIDGE WAS accessed by a spiral staircase that reminded Nigel of the kind often found in old English towers. Clearly designed for shorter men, he had to bend almost double to make the curves which, due to the narrow design, were all too bloody frequent.
At least he hadn't met anyone coming or going. In these tight quarters a bullet would no doubt rebound until it managed to bit everything moving. Above him he could see a circle of light—the opening hatch.
There had been an easier route, an open stairway that led both down below deck as well as to the bridge, but the chance of meeting someone had been much more likely, and until he got the lay of the land, he preferred to remain incognito.
At the moment, however, he was regretting the decision, the muscles in his neck aching in accord. He ducked even lower to pass through the hole that served as a doorway, emerging onto a small landing directly outside the bridge.
The hallway extended to the left with at least three doors opening off the passageway. From this vantage point he couldn't see if it dead-ended or turned toward some other part of the ship. A series of dim bare bulbs were placed at varying intervals along the way, doing little to alleviate the gloom. Best that he explore the remaining rooms, but for the moment his attention centered on the closed door to the bridge.
A window afforded a view of the room. Nigel drew his weapon and, after rechecking the tiny corridor, returned his attention to what was happening inside. The com center was off to his immediate left, the steady circle of the radar showing an empty sea.
As intended, their boat was too small to be picked up. And even if it had been, evidently no one on the freighter would be paying attention. The navigational equipment was dated but immaculately clean. Unlike the rest of the ship there was no rust present on the bridge. Several small computers and an internal communication system were banked underneath a wide expanse of window, the rain lashing against the glass making visibility almost nil.
Against the far wall, a man sat with a mug of coffee and a nautical chart. To his right, closer to the window, stood a bearded man in a black turtleneck and yellow slicker. Ahab. Or at least his embodiment on this vessel. There was a certain stance all captains adopted—shoulders square, spine rigid. It didn't matter whether it was a tiny scow or an aircraft carrier, the captain was always recognizable.
This one was talking on a two-way, and Nigel wanted to know what exactly he was discussing. After a quick glance down the still-empty passageway, Nigel carefully cracked the door open, thankful that there was no accompanying squeak.
The room hummed with equipment, but the captain's voice carried nicely. Nigel leaned in slightly so that he could hear.
"The package is on board, and we're almost clear of the harbor." He paused for a moment, listening to the reply. Nigel could hear the static from the radio, but couldn't make out the words.
"No, everything is fine. The storm is slowing us, but the delay shouldn't cause problems. We'll be clear soon. No worries."
Again the radio's static filled the room, but as before Nigel could only catch the odd word.
The captain's accent was not recognizable, his travels no doubt washing away any trace of origin. His hair was dark, his complexion somewhere between olive and black. Egyptian, maybe, but it was impossible to tell.
"I'll radio again in an hour when we've reached open water."
At least that confirmed the fact that they were leaving New York, the pertinent question of course being exactly where the hell they were headed. Their filed plans at the harbormaster's were for South America. But once on the open sea it was easy enough to divert to a secondary port as long as it was not the kind to question your arrival.
What he needed was a look at the charts. But how to accomplish the fact? He thought about trying to contact Gabe to see about Melissa, but resisted the urge. She'd only see it as him checking up on her, which he supposed to some degree was absolutely true. He glanced down at his watch, noting that they were all due to check-in in fifteen minutes anyway.
Better to maintain silence and figure out a way to get a peek at the charts.
Nigel could see a door just beyond the second man's head, the window indicating that it connected to an internal hallway. Since the command tower was small and roughly rectangular, it seemed entirely possible that this corridor led around to the second door. If that supposition held true, he should be able to see the charts. Waiting for a moment to be certain that the captain hadn't anything else relevant to say, Nigel carefully pulled the door closed, and began cautious navigation of the passageway.
The doors on his immediate right and left were closed and windowless. There was no light showing under either door, so with his Sig Sauer ready, he quickly checked both, one a secondary radio room, the other a storage closet. They were empty.
The final door was open, the darkened room revealing the captain's quarters. As scrupulously neat as the bridge, there was nothing there to affirm the presence of either the R-VX or Khamis. However, the captain's mention of the "package" seemed to point to a positive answer.
As he'd hoped, after the captain's room, the passageway made a ninety-degree turn to the right, the hallway devoid of doors or windows. Making quick work of the distance, he made a second right turn, this time into a corridor identical to the one where he had begun. There were two doors in addition to the one leading to the bridge, as well as an opening that probably led to a staircase like the one he'd used to gain access to the bridge.
The first door led to another storage room, the second to smaller quarters probably reserved for the radioman. Thankfully, both were unoccupied. Moving quickly but still quietly, Nigel headed for the door to the bridge, then crouched beneath the window, ears straining for anything that would indicate one or both of the men were leaving.
There was nothing but the quiet hum of the ship and the soft babble of their conversation. Inching up slowly, Nigel peered over the bottom edge of the window. The captain had moved across to the computer bank, apparently plotting his course.
The table was less than three feet away, the man at the charts sitting in profile. If Nigel took the time he needed to focus on the maps, he'd risk being seen. Better to hold his position and wait for the man to move.
Five minutes went by, the men inside each absorbed in their separate tasks. Then the captain turned to the second man and said something involving the words "computer" and "bullshit." Nigel contained a smile, delighted as the chart man responded by pushing away from the table and going over to the computer bank, ostensibly to show the captain how exactly it was done.
With both men turned away from him, Nigel popped up for a steady look. The chart was still far enough away that he couldn't see detail, but he recognized the line of the coast. The Arabian Sea. Not at all what he'd expected. Of course, for all Nigel knew, the man could merely be studying navigational charts, the one on the table nothing more than his latest assignment.
Still, considering whom they were tracking, it wasn't a fact he could ignore. Both Pakistan and Iran provided access to Afghanistan, which if intel was to be believed was the base of Khamis's operations.
Perhaps they were tracking their way home. But where the hell were they going to leave the package?
Nigel knew he'd seen enough. Best not to risk any more exposure. He checked his watch—nine more minutes until check-in. Maybe another quick search of the captain's quarters would yield something.
He
crouched again and moved quietly away from the door, then turned to head back down the corridor. Before he had taken two steps, he felt the hard cylinder of a muzzle in his back.
"Move and you die." This time the accent was clearly Arabic.
"I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU before in my life." Strictly speaking, that wasn't exactly the truth. Melissa had seen his picture now on more than one occasion, but she had no clear memory of ever meeting the man live and in person, despite Madison's conjecture.
"How typical of an American to forget." He spat the title out as if it were a curse, his fingers digging into the skin at her wrist. "You gave my children candy."
An image of children crowding around her as she stepped out of her jeep flashed through her mind, the memory bittersweet. Their hopeful faces still sometimes haunted her dreams. "Where?" She knew the answer, but she needed to keep him talking, find the moment when she could break free and dive for her gun. With any luck Gabe had heard the struggle, or at least the snap of the headset. He'd alert the others. And then hopefully they'd be-on their way.
Still, she wasn't about to sit idly and wait.
"In Afghanistan." The pain in his eyes was palpable, and Melissa's stomach clenched in response. "At the camp. You claimed to be there to interview our forces, but in fact, you were a spy. And because of you, my wife and my children are dead."
She wanted to retort, to say something to throw him off guard, but there was truth in his words, and she fought against a rising sense of guilt.
"Your people talk of the atrocities of terror, but think nothing of killing women and children with the drop of a bomb."
Reflexively Melissa lifted her chin. "Your camp was a training ground for killers. Men and women—even children—who gave no value to human life. Not even their own. In my opinion any death is one too many, especially a child's. But sometimes there are no alternatives."
"There are always alternatives." His grip had tightened to the point that she feared he would snap the bones, but she resisted the urge to cry out. She would not bend before this man.
"And did you consider those alternatives when you blew up a busload of innocent people?"
"What I did was for a higher cause." The fire in his eyes didn't flicker for a moment. The man was as deluded as they came, and despite the horror of his loss, he was her enemy. She'd do well to remember the fact.
"All's fair in war for your side, but not ours? Is that it?"
The blow came as a total surprise, the butt of his gun glancing off her cheekbone, the result a nauseating wave of dizziness. She stumbled, but he jerked her upright, the skin on the inside of her wrist tearing with the motion. Pain transmitted from nerve ending to nerve ending and she spit blood, fighting to regain control of her senses.
"You will remember that I have the upper hand. Your barbs have no effect other than to bring about your own pain."
"Is that why you didn't kill me with the poison?" The words were out before she had time to think about it. "To cause me more pain? And here I thought you meant me to die." She dared a look out the door, hoping against hope to see Nigel or Gabe riding to the rescue.
The doorway was empty.
"Had I attempted to kill you, Ms. Pope, you can be certain that you would be dead." His words echoed Payton's earlier pronouncement. Had it only been this morning? "Kirov was the one who poisoned you. It was he who fumbled the task. The man was a fool."
"So you killed him." Melissa's head had cleared, although her cheek still throbbed and her wrist burned where he held her.
Khamis shrugged. "He was no longer useful."
"And you say I have no respect for human life."
"He was not a child. And he knew the dangers of the game he played."
"So he deserved to die?"
"He was ruled by greed. My children were innocents."
"So were the people on that bus. I take it you're not big on an eye for an eye."
"Make no mistake, Ms. Pope." He twisted her arm, drawing her close. "It is what I live for."
Despite her attempt at bravado a shudder rippled through her, and Khamis smiled, enjoying her fear. Then in her peripheral vision she saw movement. Someone outside the door.
Gabe.
He motioned silence, then stepped back again into the shadows.
"Then why don't you just end it now?" She forced herself to meet Khamis's eyes, to keep his attention away from the doorway.
"There are greater rewards, are there not?" His smile was icy, his eyes even more frigid, and again Melissa shuddered.
Gabe appeared in the doorway again, this time motioning Melissa to move so that he had a clear shot at Khamis.
She shifted her weight, attempting to throw the man off balance, to force him to pivot toward the right, but he was much bigger and her efforts only resulted in his tightening his grip.
"Be still," he whispered, his eyes fixed over her shoulder. The locker. It was reflecting the door. Khamis knew that Gabe was there. She opened her mouth to warn him, but before she could utter a sound, bullets were flying.
Khamis dropped to the ground, pulling her with him, his weight pinning her to the floor. Transferring his weight to free his gun hand, he got off another shot just as Gabe appeared in the doorway, his shot ricocheting off the locker.
Gabe's eyes widened for an instant and then he stumbled to his knees, blood blossoming on his shirt. Melissa swallowed a scream, bile rising in her throat, watching helplessly as Gabe fell forward, unmoving.
"Is he the only one?" Khamis's voice was ragged in her ear as he jerked her back to an upright position, pulling her across the room as he retrieved Gabe's gun.
She fought for breath, fought for words. No way in hell would she give up Nigel and Sam, but this man was an expert and she was afraid that he would recognize her lie.
"I asked you a question." Again he backhanded her, but this time the blow missed her cheek, glancing off her ear. The violence settled her quandary—she'd lie like a pro or the in the effort.
"There's no one else. This was a reconnaissance mission. We didn't expect to find you here. We were just looking for the R-VX."
She couldn't tell whether he bought her half-truth or not, but at least for the moment there were no more questions. She swallowed against another wave of despair, trying not to think of Madison and the baby. Gabe had died because of her. And now Madison would pay the price.
"Come," Khamis ordered, pushing forward, forcing her to step over Gabe's body. "We will leave your friend to the rats, no?"
Tears flooded her eyes and she fought the emotion. If she was going to get out of this alive, she couldn't think about Gabe. Not now. She had to concentrate on other things. Like Nigel. Oh, dear God, she prayed, please let nothing happen to Nigel.
NIGEL EYED THE three men in front of him, one holding a gun. They'd taken away his communication gear and his weapon, but for the moment at least they seemed more concerned with what to do with him than actually watching him.
So far he hadn't learned a whole hell of a lot, except that apparently the two others deferred to the captain in making decisions. And he in turn seemed intent on taking Nigel to someone else with even more authority. Most of their conversation was in an Arabic dialect he didn't recognize although there was also a smattering of English, mostly idiomatic, which meant they all probably spoke the language.
The man who'd caught him unawares had spoken his commands in English, and Nigel had heard the captain speaking fluent English on the radio. Nevertheless, for the moment at least, they seemed to be more interested in keeping then-thoughts private. He was standing by the table, only a few feet from the door, but they were standing only a little ahead of him, and he didn't like his chances should he try to run.
Better to try and even the odds a bit. Best he could tell, there was only the one man with a gun, and interestingly enough, he'd pocketed Nigel's rather than giving it to one of his comrades. Nigel could feel the metal of the tiny derringer he kept strapped to his ankle. It had belonged to
his father, one of the few things the old man had ever given him. Fortunately the sailors had been far too interested in discussing where he came from to perform a thorough search.
All he had to do now was figure out a way to retrieve it without anyone noticing. If he could take out the gunman, he could probably nail the other two before they had time to scramble for their guns. But all of it depended on safely retrieving the derringer.
There was no sign of any of the others. Nor had the jab-bering sailors given any indication that they had discovered anyone else. Hopefully Melissa was having better luck. Actually, luck played no part in it. He should have been more careful. There was really no excuse for not having noticed the man before it was too late.
But then there was no point wasting time regretting what couldn't be changed. Better to concentrate on getting the hell out of here. Keeping his eyes on the arguing men, he backed up slowly until he felt the table against his legs. Moving slightly to the left he managed to get his fingers on the edge of one of the charts, and with a shove, he pushed it onto the floor, the rustle of paper drawing the eyes of his captors.
Waving his hands apologetically, he leaned down to retrieve it, his back to the men, and in seconds managed to palm the little gun. Turning with his best blank expression, he extended the map toward the gunman.
The man shook the gun, motioning Nigel to return the chart to the table, which he did with an exaggerated sense of concern. The captain eyed him curiously, looking for something out of place, but evidently he passed inspection because the man turned back to his friends.
The gunman, however, was not so quick to give up, his focus on Nigel's face. "Sit over there." He motioned with the gun to a chair near the other door, and Nigel shrugged his agreement. Three steps into crossing the room, he heard the gunman's voice as he rejoined the conversation.
