Silver Page 13

  But it didn’t stop him. He kept on rushing forward, his right arm hanging uselessly.

  Again Skarda pulled the trigger. But the man had anticipated this and dropped low. The bullet nicked his collar bone, spraying blood.

  And then he was on Skarda, colliding with him like a freight train. The breath whooshed out of Skarda’s lungs as he went down hard on his back, the pistol skittering away, clanking against a rock. Knees like tree trunks slammed against his chest. With his good hand the giant reached for his throat, but Skarda grabbed his wrist, snapping it back in a violent movement. The man roared in agony. Hate darkened his face.

  With a violent wrench Skarda freed his right hand and smashed his fist into the bald man’s face, feeling a satisfying crunch of cartilage as blood spurted from his nose. The man bellowed again, then rammed his forehead against Skarda’s skull, showering him with blood. Bolts of pain shot like arrows into his brain and fireworks of light exploded in his vision.

  Again Skarda pounded the man with his fist, feeling teeth give way, but it seemed to have no effect. A monstrous hand clamped tight his hand around his throat, the huge thumb digging into his windpipe, crushing it, at the same time banging the back of his skull against the rocky ground.

  Another explosion of lights danced in his vision. He squirmed like an eel, trying to wriggle free. But the bald man dug his knees harder into his rib cage, pinning him in place.

  The huge hand squeezed harder—

  The pulsing roar of blood filled Skarda’s head. Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision. Dust choked his eyes and mouth.

  Desperately he clawed at the man’s fingers—

  Then from somewhere in front of him Skarda heard a shout and then he saw Nathaniel leaping onto the man’s back, throwing his arms around his neck.

  With a violent twist the bald man arched his spine and Nathaniel went flying, slamming against a boulder with a solid thunk.

  But the scholar had given Skarda the chance he needed.

  His groping fingers reached for the AA-12 hanging from the left side of the big man’s body. Through a haze of blackness he felt his skin touch cold metal.

  Yanking the barrel of the shotgun around, he pulled the trigger—

  Instantly the giant’s spine went ramrod straight as the mini warhead tore through his scapula, shattering bone and shredding muscle and ripping through his pectoral on the other side of his torso. He shrieked in pain, his eyes going wide with shock. The hand clamped on Skarda’s neck jerked away.

  A jolt of panic shot through Skarda. The warhead wouldn’t travel far at that angle, and the fuse assembly would arm itself in seconds—

  Gasping for air, he wrenched his body violently to the right and rolled out from under the bald man, wresting the shotgun from his shoulder and coming to his knees in a flurry of dust. The big man was frantically clawing at his back with his good hand, his eyes wide with terror.

  Shoving to his feet, Skarda sprinted for shelter—

  A second later the warhead exploded in a burst of flame. Scraps of shredded flesh rained down.

  He raced to Nathaniel’s side. The scholar was sitting with his back to the boulder, his head lolling on his chest.

  Skarda shook him.

  Slowly his eyes opened and his vision cleared. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I’m not much of a fighter, am I?”

  Skarda grinned. “Better than you think. You saved my life.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Shotgun in hand, he took off running along the cliff face, heading for a vantage point where he could see the valley below. Krell and the stocky man would have heard the weapons fire and they’d be coming.

  He had to move fast.

  Making his way around a tumble of squared-off boulders, he crossed a low ravine, then climbed up a loose gravel slope to find himself in a dense myrtle thicket where a stele-like block of pinkish-gray dolomite blocked the way ahead. Making his way to it, he inched around its bulk and looked out over the valley below.

  The tiny figures of Krell and the stocky man were running across open ground. Above them the Eurocopter was swinging around to the south.

  Resting the barrel of the AA-12 on a rock ledge, Skarda wiped the blood and sweat from his face, then sighted and pulled the trigger three times in succession. The first shell hit the chopper’s tail boom. A ball of flame spurted out and the rotor assembly went spinning away just as the second and third warheads struck the nose. Booms echoed through the valley. The combined explosions fireballed into a blast of black, oily smoke as the Eurocopter disintegrated into hunks of flaming metal. The pilot’s lower torso, his upper half missing, tumbled from the wreckage to smack against the rocky ground below.

  Flaming debris plummeted to earth. Throwing his head back and staring at the chopper, the stocky man yelled and sprinted for the safety of the rocks, but Krell stood stock still, his head lifted to the sky, watching the lethal hail of metal storm down upon him. A red-hot chunk of the fuselage struck the ground and bounced, skimming through the air like a huge frisbee. It sheared the top of the stocky man’s body off and he tumbled forward, his corpse hitting the ground with his arms stretched out in front of him.

  Still Krell didn’t move.

  As Skarda watched, the rain of debris swept over him like a steel blanket and then the bulk of the chopper slammed against the ground, exploding into a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire, sweeping over the tall man.

  For a long while Skarda stayed where he was, watching the devastation until the fires died down and the coils of black smoke drifted away to towards the sea.

  Nothing moved.

  He sucked in a deep breath. He’d gotten lucky. Krell had been a dangerous opponent.

  After a while he turned and headed back to Nathaniel.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Rethymno Harbor

  CATHERINE LAKE was mad. So far Solomon had done nothing to rescue her and time was getting short. If his men didn’t stop Turner or Morgana from getting their hands on the neosamarium, her deal with the Chinese would cost her millions.

  And that just wasn’t part of her plan.

  Her nerves fraying at the ends, she’d come back to her cabin to take a nap. But she couldn’t sleep. Fingers of doubt had begun to claw at her. Maybe she shouldn’t have trusted Solomon with the information about the silver. What if he decided to keep it for himself? It wasn’t as though he were a scrupulous man.

  Rolling off the bed, she opened the closet door, hoping that a change of clothes would calm her. Turner’s cabin was on the other side of this wall—last night the sound of his snoring had filtered to her ears as she tossed and turned in bed. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. It’s not that she didn’t trust him, but he was a formidable rival and somehow she’d have to maneuver him out of her way without her plan being discovered.

  It wasn’t going to be easy.

  A sound attracted her. She stepped into the closet, putting her ear against the wall. Her bottom lip sagged a little.

  It was the sound of a man and woman having sex.

  Turner? It couldn’t be—he was every bit as much a prisoner as she was.

  She pushed her ear harder against the partition.

  A man laughed.

  Turner’s laugh.

  And then a woman spoke, her voice low and thick with lust.

  Morgana.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  London

  AS far as April could tell, there were no cameras, either in the cell or in the whitewashed corridor outside. Not that that would have stopped her trying, but it would have made the risk of discovery all that much greater. For several hours now she’d been working on the vanity top, alternately hammering it with the heel of her hand and prying at it with her fingers.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, it was coming loose.

  It took another hour before she heard a sharp crack and the front face of the top split from th
e base. She used the heel of her hand to finish the split around the perimeter of the top. A minute later she had carried the separated rectangle of laminate to the wall just below the vent she’d seen. Leaning the top against the base of the wall, she climbed up on its edge, balancing herself.

  She’d recognized the purpose of the vent as soon as she’d seen it: a delivery system for gas, either to induce unconsciousness or death. Which meant she had to seal it up. Widening her stance on her makeshift ladder, she clenched an open tube of toothpaste between her teeth and leaned her elbows against the wall, freeing her hands. Biting on the tube, she squirted toothpaste into her left hand and daubed it into the vent’s louvers, working until she had filled the open spaces completely. Within an hour it would dry to a solid caulk.

  ___

  Martha didn’t fancy the blonde one, either. She wanted the new dark-haired bint, the one that looked something like an American Indian. The blonde one’s arse was a bit too flabby for her taste, and if the Master didn’t want her, then out she’d go.

  For a moment she stared at the dark-haired one lying face-down on the cot. Full titties, tight bum—very lush. Still, she looked strong, so she’d need a whiff of the gas pipe. Maybe after the Master was finished with her, she’d have a go. A wave of lust shot through her like an electric current.

  She gave a quick glance at the blonde, who was lying with her face pressed against the pillow. She seemed to have given up the ghost a couple of days ago. All the better. Martha walked from the corridor into a small room where a computer was sitting on a shelf that extended from the wall. The Master didn’t care, but it was her way not to let the bints know what was coming, because that way they always screamed more when their time came. So before the deed she put the others of them out, whoever was there at the time, so they wouldn’t see.

  Booting up the computer, she tapped a series of keys. A countdown timer appeared on the screen: one minute. It was enough time for the dark-haired one to be out, and for Martha to get back to the blonde bint’s cell.

  With lust mounting inside her, she retraced her steps into the cell corridor, throwing a quick glance at the dark-haired one’s cell. She lay unmoving on the bed. Quickly Martha positioned herself in front of the other cell, watching, her mud-colored eyes glittering with anticipation.

  From the ceiling vent issued a mustard-colored cloud, wispy at first, then coagulating into a thick mist. On the bed, the blonde woman stirred and shifted.

  Martha licked her lips. The gas itself was odorless and colorless, but she ordered it to be colored yellow and smelling of sulphur just for her. She wanted the bints to know. That was half the fun.

  Now the woman rolled onto her back, her head lifting a couple of inches off the pillow. Then suddenly she bolted straight up, whipping her head around as if she expected to see Martha there, smiling at her. Her eyes were wide with fright—fright that was slowly changing into terror.

  The bint knew!

  Martha’s hand stole to her crotch, slowly stroking up and down.

  The woman was coughing now, her naked breasts heaving. Choking. Her fists knotted and reached up, pounding on the glass wall. Tears streamed down her face and her mouth was torn open in soundless screams.

  Martha’s hand moved faster. She shuddered.

  The woman’s head drooped and she slid down the glass wall until she collapsed in a heap at the end of the bed.

  Martha’s heart hammered in her throat. Sweat broke out on her temples.

  That was a good one.

  But now playtime was over. Now she’d have to haul the bint off until the wanker Krell could dispose of her.

  ___

  April raised her eyes fractionally to see the squat woman drag the naked blonde girl out through the door. Earlier her ears had picked up a faint hum at the ceiling vent and she’d guessed that an anesthetizing gas was being piped into her cell, since there would have been no point to imprison her in the cell just to kill her.

  So she’d feigned unconsciousness.

  But the blonde girl was dead.

  Whatever these people were doing here, she’d have to stop it.

  And that meant staying alive.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Kusadasi, Turkey

  IT was just past four when Skarda eased the Azimut 62S speed boat into a slip in the calm harbor at Kusadasi, a bustling Aegean seaport on the western edge of what was once ancient Anatolia. To the south two big white cruise ships in the port terminal were casting long shadows over the water, and to the west, the long chain of low peaks that was the Island of Samos shone like a blue jewel.

  The trek to the coast road had taken two hours; from there a truck full of Cretan teenagers had given them a ride to Heraklion. But not before Skarda had reluctantly tossed the AA-12 into the sea. There was just no place to hide it. After they’d cleaned up, he’d contacted Candy Man to arrange for the boat rental and a visit to a local black market arms dealer. Here he’d bought a Barrett REC7 assault rifle, extra magazines, four hand-held timer mines, and ammunition for the Sig Sauer.

  At the dock a black Land Rover sat waiting for them. Stowing the weapons, Skarda climbed in behind the wheel. Nathaniel was already sitting in the passenger seat, for once his face out of the laptop. Now he seemed more alert to his surroundings, his intelligent green eyes sweeping over the harbor and boats, his face eager with anticipation.

  Skarda glanced over at him and grinned. “You did good back there, but don’t get cocky. These people are killers.”

  Nathaniel bobbed his head enthusiastically. “It made me feel...alive! You know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean. And it’s my job to keep you that way.”

  “But they’re all dead, aren’t they?”

  “There’ll be more. Count on it.”

  Skarda headed southeast on the D515 through lush flatlands studded with olive groves and vast fields of cotton. The late afternoon sun beat mercilessly through the windows and a hot, dusty wind whipped around the 4x4. Heat waves shimmered on the road ahead. He shifted uncomfortably. The skin on his throat still crawled from the touch of the giant hand that had almost crushed his windpipe, and pain radiated from his shoulders and neck.

  Now that Krell was dead he was fractionally less concerned about the force of the Bad Guys. There had been something elemental about the man, something indestructible that chilled him to the bone. It was a relief. Maybe—just maybe—they’d be able to find the silver hoard and deliver it without any more interruptions.

  But in his gut he doubted it.

  At Priene he headed straight south on Route 09-55. In the distance the iron-gray hulk of Mount Mykale rose up like a sentinel guarding the flat tableland that was the flood plain of what the ancient Greeks called the Meander River, famed for its snake-like winding course.

  Ten minutes later he could see the ruins of the massive Greco-Roman amphitheater at Miletus perched on the summit of a rounded hill overlooking the southern edge of the flood plain, and on the plain itself, the brown dome of the Ilyas Bey Mosque. In the background the blue-hazed mountains of the Be_parmak range marched away into the distance.

  Nathaniel perked up at the sight. “It may not look like it now, but two thousand years ago Miletus was a thriving Aegean port city. The Meander River was much larger then and where we are now was a protected bay. The Milesians traded all over the Mediterranean and Black Sea, and founded many trading colonies, making the city very rich. It was center of learning, too, giving rise to philosophers like Thales, Anaximander, and Anaximenes, and the geographer Hecataeus. It became an important Mycenaean and later Greek city, but then over the centuries the river silted up and access to the sea was cut off and the economy collapsed. By the early Christian era the city was abandoned. But the Minoans were certainly here by 1900 BCE—the Greek historian Strabo, in fact, claims that the city was founded by colonists from Crete.”

  With a bouncing jolt, Skarda swerved the Land Rover onto a dirt track that ran perpendicular to the hill. �
��Well, that’s what we’re here for.”

  ___

  The sun was throwing long shadows from the groves of olives and pines by the time they reached what looked like a gigantic earthen ramp jutting up on the southwest corner of the plain. According to Dr. Vasiliou, recent archaeological excavations on the hill showed that the site had been occupied by Minoan colonists and later by Mycenaeans; it was here that the German TerraSAR-Z satellite that Candy Man had accessed had picked up traces of a circular structure under the ruins of a sixth-century BCE Greek temple. Skarda’s plan was to reconnoiter the area to find the best place to dig. A helicopter was standing by in Izmir to fly in an excavator to scoop a trench out of the hillside to expose the buried ruins.