Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  Beck smiled coldly at Mitchell. “Since my master isn’t here and my men are fiercely loyal to me, I can do whatever I want to you and your friend.”

  “Be a man and untie me,” said Jackson. “You can keep the pliers. That’s if you like having them shoved up your butt.”

  “No Mister Jackson, I think not,” replied Beck. “However, you are going to be the first one to go. I want Mitchell to watch as you are slowly taken apart, piece by bloody piece, until you beg me to end your life.”

  “Screw you,” replied Jackson defiantly.

  With a snarl on his lips, Mitchell tugged and pulled at his restraints. There was no way he was going to allow his friend to die.

  Beck looked over his shoulder and said something to his men. Mitchell could not catch what was said, but by the answering coarse laughter, he knew it was not good. Beck stepped over beside Jackson. “Perhaps we’ll start by pulling off your ears.”

  “No!” yelled Mitchell, furiously.

  Beck moved the pliers over to Jackson’s head. With a look that could kill, Jackson did not flinch. He was not going to give their tormentors the satisfaction.

  With a loud crack of splintering wood, the warehouse’s front doors ripped apart.

  Mitchell turned his head and was stunned to see a truck smash its way inside the building. Wood and metal flew everywhere as the vehicle, like a charging rhino, surged forward.

  A split-second later, the truck came to a screeching halt. Instantly, Yuri jumped from the truck and fired a burst into the nearest guard, before dropping down and throwing his grenade at the other men.

  “Nate, get down,” yelled Mitchell, as he threw himself to one side. He tumbled to the ground, still tied to his chair, as did Jackson.

  With a loud bang and a blinding flash of light, the stun grenade exploded, incapacitating three of Beck’s men.

  Yuri advanced with his weapon tight against his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate as he brought down the three men. He turned his sights on another who had dropped his saw and was running to pick up his submachine gun. With a quick burst, Yuri killed the man.

  He swung around and saw Mitchell and Jackson on the floor in their chairs, and two more men, both panicking, trying to get to the weapons they had foolishly laid on a table, far out of reach. “Don’t move!” yelled Yuri in English.

  One man hesitated, while the other, a blond-haired man, dropped to one knee, pulled out a concealed pistol, and fired at Yuri.

  Yuri dove for the ground, the bullet missing his head by mere millimeters. He rolled over and came up on one knee. He fired off a burst at the man who had shot at him; however, his aim was off. The man was already on his feet and running for another exit. Yuri stood just as the other German ran for his rifle sitting on the table. Yuri shot him. He swung his sights over and swore. The blond man had gotten away.

  “Untie my friends,” Yuri yelled at Petrenko, who was hiding under the dash of the truck. Yuri began to run. He did not want the man to get away. When he came to the exit, Yuri stopped and peered outside. There was no one there. He ran to the corner of the warehouse and warily popped his head out. With a curse on his lips, Yuri stepped out and watched impotently as an armored Hummer pulled away.

  He turned about and went back to join his comrades.

  Petrenko had already cut Jackson and Mitchell free. Both men stood there with looks of disbelief on their faces.

  “I take it you tracked us here using the transponder in Nate’s watch,” said Mitchell, as he shook Yuri’s hand.

  “Da, Captain. We talk later,” said Yuri. “This place will be swarming with guards and cops before too long. We must go.”

  Mitchell and Jackson jumped into the back of the truck while Yuri took the wheel. Petrenko was still shaking his head at the scene of carnage spread out on the floor of the warehouse. Stepping on the gas pedal, Yuri backed out of the hole they had made coming in. As soon as he was outside, he spun the wheel around and turned the vehicle so he was heading straight for the front gate. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a Jeep packed with guards moving to cut them off. Yuri jammed his foot down and kept going. He was stopping for nothing and no one.

  “You’re not going to ram them, are you?” asked Petrenko, his voice laced with fear.

  “It’s up to them,” replied Yuri.

  Like a pair of medieval knights, the two vehicles charged straight at one another. When they were less than twenty meters apart, the driver of the Jeep realized that Yuri was not going to blink. He swerved out of the way, missing the front grill of the truck by mere millimeters.

  Up ahead, the men at the front gate went to draw their pistols, but were hit from behind by Yuri’s black-market comrades, knocking them both out cold. A couple of seconds later, the truck hit the front gate doing sixty kilometers an hour, easily ripping it open. Yuri spun the wheel around. The tires underneath the speeding vehicle squealed in protest at the sharp turn. In the back, Mitchell and Jackson had to hang on to whatever they could to prevent themselves from being thrown out onto the road.

  With a loud screech, the truck came to a sliding halt at the rented SUV. Yuri reached behind him, opened a small window and yelled, “Everyone out, now!”

  Mitchell and Jackson scrambled out of the back and jumped down onto the ground. “I’m glad you can fly better than you can drive,” said Jackson.

  “So am I,” replied Yuri. “Hurry, get in the back of SUV.”

  Everyone piled in. Petrenko took the wheel and looked over at Yuri.

  “Drive,” said Yuri, pointing down the road.

  “Where?” demanded Petrenko.

  “Anywhere but here. Head for east side of the city. My contact lives in that neighborhood. Perhaps we can lose ourselves in there for a few hours.”

  Petrenko nodded his head and floored the gas.

  Mitchell sat forward in his seat. “Yuri, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but you do have a plan…right?”

  “Da, I’m just making it up as I go along,” replied Yuri.

  Jackson grinned. He looked over at Mitchell and said, “He’s picking up all your bad habits.”

  “Only the good ones,” countered Mitchell as the SUV sped around a corner, barely missing a speeding police car going the other way.

  “Looks like the cavalry has arrived,” said Jackson.

  “Yeah, I just hope that they don’t come looking for us. We’d be tied up in red tape for months. We don’t have our passports, and we left six dead Germans back in that warehouse. The sooner we vanish, and let Donaldson deal with the authorities on our behalf, the better.”

  33

  Polaris Headquarters

  The mood in Donaldson office was euphoric. Jen, Fahimah, and Donaldson had all gathered together to wait for Mitchell’s call, which was due any second.

  After renting a couple of rooms in a less-than-reputable hotel that was recommended to them by Yuri’s contact, Mitchell had sent a quick text message to Donaldson. He wrote that they were safe and would be contacting them within the hour.

  Donaldson’s phone rang. He picked it up, and spoke for a few seconds before putting the speaker on so everyone in the room could hear.

  “Go ahead, Ryan,” said Donaldson.

  “Hello up there,” said Mitchell, cheerily.

  Jen leaned forward. “Ryan Mitchell, you scared the living daylights out of me. Don’t you do that again or you’ll have to answer to me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Mitchell. For the next few minutes, Mitchell described what had happened to them from the time the Germans came ashore on the island, all the way up to their escape from the warehouse. He paused for a second and then asked, “Fahimah, could you dig up some photos of the key personnel who run Hyperborea Shipping?”

  “Sure, it shouldn’t be too hard to find their pictures,” said Fahimah. “I can forward them to Yuri’s laptop. I’ll also send you everything I’ve been able to find out about the company. There isn’t much to go on. It seems to be a reputable organiza
tion with offices in Chile, Argentina, and Germany.”

  “Thanks for all of that. However, if my suspicions are correct, the man who interrogated us is directly or indirectly connected to the company.”

  Donaldson said, “Ryan, I was contacted by the FBI. It would appear that you and Nate have made Chile’s most-wanted list. You’re both wanted in connection with the murder of six Chilean nationals.”

  “I can assure you that they were German, not Chilean citizens, and if Yuri had not come when he did, both Nate and I would be dead.”

  “It would appear that the men you are dealing with have considerable pull with the local police. I’ll call the FBI back and explain everything to them. Hopefully, they can set things straight. However, if they can’t, you’re all going to have to find a way out of the country. If the police get their hands on you, I can’t say when we’ll see you again.”

  Mitchell said, “Mike, we’re not done here. The treasure is here, somewhere. The man who spoke to us all but confirmed that they had it and had no intention of giving it back to its rightful owners. I, for one, don’t want to walk away. Not now.”

  “Ryan, I called General O’Reilly and told him what’s going on. He’s concerned about your safety. However, he left the final decision to push on with you.”

  “After Fahimah sends those pictures, I’ll talk it over with Nate and Yuri and get back to you.”

  “Sounds fair,” replied Donaldson.

  “Enough about us. What is going on back there?”

  Jen spoke. “I received some interesting information on the manifest for U-1309. It would appear that the ring you found did belong to a man listed as being a member of the crew. What’s even more amazing is that I think I may have found a living survivor.”

  “Good Lord, where?” asked Mitchell.

  “Saint Augustine, Florida,” replied Jen. “His name is Max Doring. He is eighty-eight years old and currently resides in a retirement home.”

  “Jen, there could be hundreds if not thousands of men living in the State with that name,” pointed out Mitchell. “What makes you believe that he is from the U-1309?”

  “Two things. First, his age is spot-on for someone who would have served in the war. Secondly, he wrote a book in the nineteen-seventies that told the story of the submarine’s last mission and how it came to be hidden in a secret submarine base in the South Atlantic. Unfortunately, his book wasn’t too well-received when it came out. Academics scoffed at his tale, calling it delusional. Aside from the secret-Nazi-Antarctic-base conspiracy theorists who use his book to push their ideas on the Web, Mister Doring’s book has all but vanished.”

  “It may be a wild-goose chase, but I think you should pay the man a visit,” suggested Mitchell. “If there’s even the slightest chance that he can help us, I think we should take it.”

  Jen looked over at Donaldson. He smiled and nodded his head. “I’ll fly down there later today,” said Jen, smiling.

  Mitchell’s voice became serious. “Mike, what is going on with Sam and Gordon?”

  “Sam called a couple of hours ago,” said Donaldson. “She said that they are waiting at the RCMP headquarters in Calgary for a flight to Lisbon. It would appear that the Portuguese government is sending a jet to pick them up.”

  “I hate to say it, but I think that General Alexander is dead and that they are all flying into danger.”

  Fahimah asked, “Ryan, what makes you think that the general is dead?”

  “The German who interrogated us said that Alexander hasn’t been seen in days. Also, he said that the general is not at the NATO conference in Italy he was supposed to be attending. I suggest you try and get a hold of him; if you can’t, I doubt that you ever will.”

  “Should we tell Mrs. Milos?” asked Jen.

  “I would if I were in your shoes,” replied Mitchell.

  “I’ll make the call,” Donaldson said, reluctantly.

  “Okay then, I think that covers everything,” Mitchell said. “I’ll pass on the news to Nate and Yuri, and wait for the info from Fahimah.”

  Jen got close to the speaker. “Take care of yourself, Ryan.”

  “I will,” he replied.

  Donaldson hung up the phone. “Okay. I’ll deal with Mrs. Milos while you two ladies get to work.”

  “I’ll give you a copy of my travel itinerary when I have it all sorted out,” said Jen.

  “And I’ll CC you on all the info I send Ryan,” announced Fahimah to Donaldson.

  With a sinking feeling in his chest, Donaldson picked up the phone and called Alexander’s cell phone. After a couple of rings, it went to voice mail. He left a quick message then ended the call. Donaldson knew there could more a dozen or more reasons why the general had not answered his phone. He sat back and looked over at the clock on the wall. He decided to wait a couple of hours and then try again. If he did not get through, he knew he had no other recourse than to phone Mrs. Milos and pass on their suspicions. It was a call he was not looking forward to making.

  Ten thousand kilometers away, Jackson sat on the edge of his bed with a look of disbelief on his face. “What do you mean, the cops think we did it?”

  “Mike said the FBI told him that we’re responsible for the deaths of six Chilean civilians,” replied Mitchell.

  Petrenko, sitting at the small table in the hotel room, grumbled to himself.

  “What are we going to do?” Yuri asked.

  “For now, nothing,” Mitchell replied. “Fahimah will be sending some info to your computer within the hour. After that, we’ll have to decide what we want to do. Hopefully, in the meantime, your friends don’t sell us out to the cops.”

  “Honor among thieves. There’s a novel concept,” said Jackson.

  “If anyone has a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  No one said a word.

  Mitchell looked over at Yuri. “Very well, since the cops are only looking for Nate and me, might I suggest that you and Mister Petrenko head out and buy us some food.”

  “I second that,” added Jackson.

  Yuri stood. “I’ll go on my own. Petrenko can stay here.”

  Mitchell detected a bit of frost in Yuri’s voice. Perhaps he did not trust the Russian agent. Mitchell decided that he would have to keep a close eye on him from now on.

  Yuri handed Mitchell his laptop. “In case I’m not back before Fahimah sends her message.”

  “Password?”

  Yuri smirked. “Goofy, all in upper-case.”

  34

  Punta Arenas

  “That’s him,” said Mitchell, pointing at the image on the laptop.

  “Are you sure?” asked Fahimah on the other end of the phone.

  Mitchell looked at Jackson, who nodded his head firmly.

  “Oh, we’re one hundred percent sure,” replied Mitchell. “I’ll never forget that face.”

  “Karl August, chief executive officer of Hyperborea Shipping,” explained Fahimah. “Born in Santiago, Chile, Mister August was educated abroad in Germany and Switzerland. He has a master’s degree in economics from the University of Zurich. According to the blurb on the Web, he has worked for Hyperborea Shipping for close to twenty-five years.”

  “I think we can now safely assume that treasure is hidden somewhere in a location belonging to either Hyperborea Shipping or Herr August,” said Mitchell. “Can you send us anything you find on both the company and the man? I doubt they would have been so foolish to have hidden it in a major city. Focus your search in the countryside. The remoter, the better.”

  “Will do,” replied Fahimah. “I’ll do some digging and get back to you as soon as I find something.”

  “Thanks,” Mitchell said, ending the call.

  The door to their hotel room opened. Yuri stepped inside, carrying a couple of bags of groceries. Jackson jumped up and helped Yuri with the food. “What…no donuts?” griped Jackson.

  “No, down here they have churritos,” replied Yuri.

  “What is it?” Jackson aske
d, eyeing the snack.

  “It’s a kind of corn chip,” said Mitchell. “Trust me, it won’t kill you.”

  Jackson ripped open the packet and tried one. He shrugged, sat down and kept nibbling the chips.

  ` “What did I miss?” Yuri asked as he handed Mitchell a bottle of water.

  “We’ve identified the man who interrogated us back in the warehouse,” answered Mitchell. “Fahimah is looking for possible locations where the treasure could be stored. One thing is for sure, we can’t stay here.”

  “Da, I already thought of that. I made a call to my contact and asked him to make two new passports for you two. They should be ready within the hour.”

  “That’s fast,” observed Petrenko.

  “When I promised him double his asking price, he said he would deliver the passports himself,” said Yuri.

  “How much did that set you back?” Jackson asked.

  Yuri smiled. “Nothing. I used Petrenko’s account to pay for them.”

  “You what?” blurted out Petrenko.

  “I memorized your account number,” responded Yuri. “You don’t think I was going to pay for things myself?”

  Petrenko swore under his breath.

  Mitchell looked at Yuri. “We can’t go driving around in your rental car anymore. Someone may have seen it near the warehouse. Can you get us another vehicle? Preferably one with legit plates on it.”

  Yuri shook his head and reached for his phone.

  Just over an hour later, Fahimah called.

  “Ryan, I have just emailed to you a list of possible hiding spots. Mister August lives in Santiago. However, he also owns a cottage outside of the city, as well as another home in San Felipe, north of the capital. As for Hyperborea, they have a number of warehouses in Concepcion, Tocopilla, and Valparaiso. They also have a number of offices spread throughout the country. However, none of them stand out. If I were you, I’d not waste my time with the shipping company. If August has the treasure, I’m willing to bet that it’s hidden somewhere near his two other residences.”