From now on, everything had to happen with absolute precision. Hagen left the server room and hurried toward the central wing, where Ossana was being held—another useful piece of information that Shelley had supplied. As he moved, he kept a watchful eye on his phone’s display, which showed a countdown. A few seconds later, the hallway around him went dark: Noah had cut off the power supply to the entire complex. It would take a minute for the emergency generators to kick in. Until that happened, the electronic security gates and prison doors were running on batteries, and Noah could use that short window of opportunity to unlock the doors to the individual cells.
Hagen reached Ossana’s cell just as it unlocked with a soft click. He jerked the door open. Ossana was waiting. Hagen nodded to her, and they left the cell together. “The power will be back on in thirty seconds, but the surveillance cameras will still be out of commission,” he said.
The first security station was unmanned and they got past it easily. They would have to come up with something at the next station, though; by then the power would be back on and the entire night shift would be in alarm mode. They were running down the emergency stairway when the lights came on. They had to hurry. They turned into a corridor and saw the next checkpoint ten yards ahead. There was only one guard, standing behind a counter He was confused by the fact that a guard was in the hallway with a prisoner after a power outage. His confusion was doubled when the security gate opened by itself, just as the pair reached his station. Taken by surprise, he reached for his gun, but Ossana was faster. She leaped over the counter and grabbed hold of the man. His neck snapped with a gruesome crunch that made even the callous Hagen wince.
“Next,” he said.
They ran downstairs, and after the next checkpoint—this time Hagen took out the guard—they arrived in the garage where the employees’ cars were parked. Hagen knew perfectly well that he would not simply be able to leave the prison in the middle of the night after a power outage. But here, too, Shelley had been useful. That morning, she had concealed three packets of C4 in the watchtowers and in the guardhouse at the gate.
Ossana jumped into the trunk of Hagen’s Dodge Charger and Hagen steered the car out of the underground garage. As he drove up the ramp, he opened an app on his phone and pressed three buttons with his thumb. Seconds later the explosives detonated, demolishing the watchtowers and killing the guards inside. Hagen stepped on the gas and hoped that Noah had taken care of the final hurdle. He raced toward the electronic gate. The guardhouse was no more than a pile of rubble—the C4 had done its job. Seconds before Hagen’s car would have crashed into the gate, it opened as if by magic.
Hagen pressed the accelerator to the floor and raced along the dusty road. They weren’t in the clear yet, and he knew it. They were in the middle of the godforsaken New Mexico desert. Hagen roared along at a hundred and twenty miles an hour, as fast as he dared go on that road. He raced over a small rise and on the other side he saw them: four identical Sikorsky S-92 helicopters. He smiled and slammed on the brakes, and the Charger came to a stop in a cloud of dust. He climbed out and opened the trunk. Ossana ran to one of the choppers and jumped inside, while Hagen climbed into another. Moments later, all four lifted off and flew in four different directions: one toward Mexico, the second west toward the Navajo Nation reservation, the third north toward the Jicarilla Apache reservation, and the fourth east toward Texas. Noah had jammed the communications at the prison complex—it would be quite a while before the FBI could even mount a pursuit.
67
NutriAm bottling plant, Burrell Boom, outside Belize City
The explosion destroyed part of the bottling system and breached the outer wall. Plastic bottles flew through the air, and water began jetting from countless openings in the gigantic machinery, as if someone had triggered the sprinkler system. Tom had jury-rigged a small time bomb out of a hand grenade, a piece of duct tape and a cigarette, and had placed it close to the CO2 system on the other side of the hall.
The Kahle and the two thugs ducked for cover when the grenade detonated but were quickly back on their feet. “Run!” Tom yelled, lobbing his second hand grenade toward the Kahle. Almost as one, Hellen, Cloutard and Tom leaped over one of the conveyors just as the grenade exploded, taking out one of the two thugs. Tom, rolling and twisting back, took out the other with three quick shots. He squeezed off three more at the Kahle, but he was fast enough to find cover behind the machinery.
Tom saw a pistol lying on the floor about ten feet away. He fired a cover round, jumped for the gun, rolled to the side, came up on his feet and ran back. Only now did the Kahle dare to break cover and return fire.
“Take this,” Tom said, cutting through his friends’ bonds and pressing the second pistol into Cloutard’s hands, while Hellen took cover behind a large metal cabinet. Water covered the floor, already up to their ankles. Tom instructed Cloutard to stay put while he crept closer to the Kahle.
“Hey, Wagner. We’ve been here before, remember?”
“Yeah. And we can do it just like last time, but this time I’ll aim lower.”
Two more bullets whistled past Tom. He crept around to the other side of the machine and climbed up onto it while Cloutard squeezed off an occasional shot to keep their adversary pinned down. Now Tom was directly above the Kahle.
“Well, Wagner? What do you say? You got the guts to fight like a man this time?” von Falkenhain shouted through the hall, then he squeezed off a couple of shots at where he thought Tom was. The slide on his pistol clicked back. His magazine was empty.
“Sure,” Tom said. “How about you?” As he spoke, he dropped onto the Kahle, who looked up, stunned. Water splashed high as they crashed together onto the floor. They struggled in the water for a moment, before the Kahle pushed clear of Tom and jumped to his feet. Quick as a snake, he drew a knife and lunged at Tom. Tom was able to grab the knife hand, then he headbutted the Kahle on the bridge of his nose, forcing him back. Blood poured over the German’s mouth and chin.
Now it was Tom’s turn to seize the initiative. He leaped at the Kahle and they slammed onto the conveyor belt. The knife fell to the floor, and Tom began pounding his fists into the other man’s face like a madman. Off to the right, he saw an array of cylindrical steel spikes, each about eighteen inches long. They rose and fell rhythmically with hydraulic precision: the filling nozzles for the bottles. With all his strength, Tom pinned the Kahle to the conveyor and dragged him toward the nozzles. Bottles flew in all directions. Tom was unyielding, filled with a desperate strength. The Kahle had no chance at all.
“If bullets won’t kill you, maybe this will.”
The Kahle turned his head to the left and began to shriek as he rolled closer to the instruments of his death, but a final convulsion wasn’t enough to free himself from Tom’s grip.
“This is for Sienna.”
Tom released the Kahle as the steel nozzles descended, cracking cruelly through his ribs and plunging into his chest. The Kahle’s scream died instantly, transformed into a gurgling groan. Liquid pumped through the pipes and nozzles into the Kahle’s lungs, and watery blood gouted from his mouth and nose. The nozzles lifted again, and Friedrich von Falkenhain slipped to the floor, dead. For good this time.
“Enjoy your drink, asshole,” Tom said. Exhausted, wet and covered in blood, he sank to the floor.
Hellen came running over. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” she asked frantically. When she saw that Tom was still in one piece, a note of jealousy crept into her voice as she continued: “And who’s Sienna?”
“Dr. Wilson. I told you about her. That’s the bastard who shot her,” Tom said, taken a little off guard, and he put his hands up for Hellen to help him up. Both were soaked to the skin.
“We should hurry,” Hellen said. “I think I know what Matthews wanted to say before she was shot.”
Tom and Hellen looked at each other. “The first . . .” said Tom.
“ . . . shipment is already on its way,” Hellen
added.
“Ah, l’amour,” said Cloutard, who had taken care of the other two bodyguards in the meantime. “You two are so sweet together. Now you are even finishing each other’s sentences.”
Quickly, they left the plant. Time was pressing. The ship with the poisoned water was already on its way to the States.
68
Belize City harbor
Outside, chaos reigned. People were running in all directions. Tom’s explosion had torn a gaping hole in the bottling plant. Fire engines and ambulances arrived, sirens blaring, only adding to the mayhem. In all the confusion, it was relatively easy for Tom, Hellen and Cloutard to slip unnoticed into one of the SUVs and drive away.
Following first Burrell Boom Cut and then the Northern Highway, they covered the twenty miles to the Port of Belize in less than half an hour.
“What’s the plan?” asked Hellen.
“I have no idea,” Tom replied.
“Won’t you need a small army to take over a huge freighter?”
“You don’t need an army for that. The biggest container ships in the world have a crew of no more than thirty, and this ship is probably half that size.”
“But then how do you think you can stop it?” Hellen pressed.
“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it. First we need to get there and get on board.”
When the entrance gate to the container terminal came into view, Tom abruptly stopped the car. “We can’t just charge in, and even here in Central America not everyone will take a bribe. We’ll have to think of something else.” Tom thought for a moment and looked around in the SUV. He climbed out and opened the back, discovering Yasmine Matthews’ hand luggage: a small suitcase and a Louis Vuitton travel bag. He rummaged through the bags, then closed the back and went around to the rear passenger door.
“Here. Put this on,” he said to Hellen, handing her a gorgeous summer dress and a pair of pumps.
“Umm . . . why?” Hellen asked, perplexed, but she got out and did as he asked.
“Ah. I think I know what you have in mind,” said Cloutard. “It could work.”
“Wow!” Tom gasped when Hellen stepped out from behind the car. A little wobbly in the high heels, she stood in front of him and self-consciously rearranged her hair.
“You think this suits me?” she asked. Tom nodded, his eyes almost falling out of his head.
“Here, these too.” He handed her a pair of Chanel sunglasses, then stood back and inspected his handiwork. “That should do it.”
Tom suddenly caught sight of himself in the tinted window of the SUV and started. The injuries to his face and the sodden, bloody shirt disqualified him. He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to improve his appearance, but quickly gave up.
“No way,” he said. “François, you drive. Remember, low key. Let’s go.” With that, Tom climbed into the cargo area of the SUV. Hellen jumped into the back seat, and Cloutard slid across to the driver’s seat.
“Hello,” said the security guy who came to the window when they pulled up in front of the boom gate.
“This is Yasmine Matthews, CEO of NutriAm,” Cloutard said, turning on his incomparable charm. “The owner of that ship out there. We have an appointment.”
Skeptical at first, the security guard tried to peer through the dark-tinted windows. But when Hellen rolled down the window and frowned at the man, he became a lot friendlier.
“Yes, sir, ma’am. Of course.” He bowed, almost groveling.
“Open up, open up!” the man said, waving frantically at his colleague to raise the boom. Cloutard drove onto the terminal grounds, heading directly for the water and pulling the SUV to a stop beside the last building. It was not a very busy harbor, with just a few people walking around. No one took any notice of the black vehicle. Tom climbed out of the back and they looked out over the sea. The harbor itself wasn’t deep enough for large ships to anchor, so the NutriAm container ship was moored at the end of a half-mile-long pier that led out to deeper water. It was a one-way pier, with trucks hauling the containers out one by one and cranes at the end loading them aboard the ship.
“What now?” Cloutard asked. He turned to the left to where Tom had been standing a moment earlier, then turned around further and saw Tom, pistol in hand, waving down a truck that was on its way out to the ship. With his hands raised, the driver jumped down from the cab, and Tom led the protesting man over to the SUV.
“I’m terribly sorry about this,” an embarrassed Hellen said to the driver as Tom and Cloutard tied him up and pushed him into the back of the SUV.
“You all can go to he—!” the man shouted. Tom cut him off as he slammed the rear hatch closed.
While Hellen changed back to her regular shoes, Tom outlined his reckless plan: “You two hide in the container. I’ll sneak onto the ship and let you out on board,” he explained, as if he did this every day. Hellen and Cloutard were speechless, but went reluctantly to the back of the truck and climbed inside the container.
“If we are stuck in here all the way to Miami, I will punch you in the mouth personally,” said Cloutard.
“Don’t worry, it’s one of the last containers. It’ll be right on top.”
Tom closed the container again, then he climbed up into the cab and drove out to the end of the pier, where a handful of trucks were still parked on a small artificial island. Tom reversed the truck beneath one of the freighter’s huge cranes.
While the dockworkers hooked Hellen and Cloutard’s container to the crane, Tom climbed down from the cab and sneaked forward to the ship’s bow, where he quickly shimmied aboard along one of the ropes that moored the ship to the dock. On ships like this, the bridge was at the stern, so no one was paying any attention to the bow.
The last container was lowered into place and the longshoremen left the ship. Tom emerged from his hiding place and crept along the narrow walkway by the railing to the stern. The ship was about three hundred feet long and had several metal stairways that gave access to the containers. Tom climbed one of these stairways, encountering no one. When he found the right container, he swung the handle and pulled open the door. Two very relieved faces peered back at him.
69
U.S. freighter “Sin Libertad,” international waters
“Magnifique,” said François happily.
“Okay, I think it’s time we heard the rest of your plan,” said Hellen. The large freighter was now on its way toward Miami, heading out toward the open sea. Tom, Hellen and François moved cautiously between the containers, making their way toward the stern.
“I figured we’d go up to the bridge, point a gun at the captain’s head and call the cavalry,” Tom said.
“The cavalry?” Hellen and Cloutard chorused.
“Sure. The Coast Guard, SWAT, the Navy, whoever. The cavalry,” Tom said, waving off his friends’ misgivings.
“And you’re certain there’s no more than twenty people on board?” Hellen asked.
“Definitely. They’re mostly mechanics and engineers, and they’re probably below deck. There shouldn’t be more than four on the bridge.”
“Then I can add ‘pirate’ to my résumé,” said Cloutard, smiling. He took out his hip flask and offered it to Hellen and Tom.
“Thanks, but I’m on duty,” Tom deadpanned. “Just kidding. Here’s to luck!” He accepted the flask and took a swig, then took out his pistol and crept on. Hellen shook her head and followed him. Cloutard took a final swallow of the liquor, then joined his friends on their way to the bridge.
When they reached the multi-story tower looming high at the stern of the ship, they had to be more careful. They might cross paths with a crewmember at any time. As quietly as possible, they climbed the steel stairs outside the bridge. Halfway up, Hellen noticed a bright-orange vessel attached to a kind of slide, its nose pointed down at a forty-five degree angle. It looked like a small submarine.
“What the heck is that?” she whispered, pointing to the vessel.
“It�
��s a free-fall lifeboat,” Tom said, climbing on.
When they reached the bridge, they paused for a moment. Cloutard also took out the pistol Tom had handed him at the bottling plant. Then they jerked open the door.
“Hands in the—”
Tom’s sentence was rudely interrupted by the loud ratcheting sound of several Kalashnikovs being racked. The color drained from Tom’s face. Besides the captain and his crew, the bridge contained ten heavily armed men—they looked to Tom like Guatemalan guerrillas. Damn. Looks like Matthews found some decent security for her sensitive freight, he thought.
He and Cloutard dropped their weapons.
“Funny story . . .” he said as he raised his hands, trying to joke his way out of it. But his feeble attempt to break the ice was brought to an end by a rifle butt slamming into his head.
70
U.S. freighter “Sin Libertad,” international waters
The monotonous rumble of the ship’s engines droned in his head. Tom reached up with one hand, delicately touching a deep cut across his temple.
“Hellen. He’s awake,” Cloutard said.
Tom sat up slowly and looked around.
“Great plan, Mr. Wagner,” said Hellen, exasperated.
“What happened?”
“They knocked you out, marched us down here, and locked the door.”
“How long have I been out?” Tom asked. His head felt like a bowling ball.
“A few hours,” Cloutard said.
“We’re in really deep shit this time,” Hellen said. “How are you going to get us out of this?”
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 20
