The Lost City (Joe Hawke Book 8)

by Rob Jones

  Customs seemed to take longer than usual, a chore Scarlet Sloane was rarely able to tolerate with anything resembling good grace, but at least it was taking place on board their private jet and not in the airport.

  They left the aircraft and began searching for Saqqal’s plane on the aprons provided for private aircraft. They walked up and down on the hot asphalt searching for the aircraft when suddenly they found them. Rajavi and Corzo were loading the gold into an SUV while Saqqal, Kruger and Jawad were talking to an airport official. Kruger handed the young man a large envelope which Hawke presumed was a bribe.

  A man in a dark suit approached the ECHO team and introduced himself as Sergeant Carvalho of the Military Police of Rio de Janeiro. He was a solid man with a chunky handshake and dark, honest eyes.

  “We’re watching them just as we were instructed,” Carvalho said with a subtle nod across the tarmac at the SUV.

  It was then that Kruger saw them, and they scattered. Kruger and Corzo dived into the SUV and skidded off the apron while Saqqal, Jawad and Rajavi piled into a catering truck and made off in the opposite direction.

  “Wait – Saqqal’s making a break for it!”

  “Eh?”

  “He’s not going with Kruger to the boat – he’s got another plan!”

  “Great,” Scarlet said. “The sodding BOPE team are down at the docks.”

  “Fine,” Hawke said. “You get down there and stop Kruger leaving the country with the treasure. Lea and I will take Saqqal down. There’s only three of them.”

  Reaper, Lexi, Scarlet and Ryan followed Carvalho to his car.

  “And what about us now?” Lea said. “Saqqal’s getting away and we haven’t even got a flaming car!”

  A pushback tug trundled past them on its way to a 737 landing on the nearest runway.

  “By Strength and Guile, Donovan… and we mean it!”

  Hawke ran alongside the tug, pulled the man out and revved the engine. He had no idea how fast these things went but he was about to find out. He floored the throttle as he weaved the tug in and out of a baggage train, and soon discovered the answer to his question – twenty-five miles per hour.

  From the noise the engine was making it already sounded like it was pretty unhappy at the treatment he was giving it, so he frantically searched the airfield for an alternative as he pursued Saqqal. Ahead, his prayers were answered by three bright red fire trucks in front of the airport fire station, and he raced the pushback tractor as fast as it would go across the grass, wildly cutting over a runway just as a Boeing 747 was about to land, forcing it to go around. He guessed he wasn’t too popular either on board the aircraft or in the Air Traffic Control tower but there was no time worry about it. He could live with being deported from Brazil if it meant stopping whatever lunacy Ziad Saqqal had in store.

  He pulled the pushback tug up to one of the fire trucks and climbed inside. The keys were in the ignition, saving him the effort and time of hotwiring it, and seconds later he and Lea were skidding off the apron in pursuit of the catering truck which was almost at the exit to the airport.

  Hawke swung the truck around to the right and noticed in his mirror that the truck’s boom-ladder was loose and now swinging wildly from left to right as he swerved in his pursuit of the Syrians. Clearly the training that the firemen were doing back at the station hadn’t finished yet, and he was just going to have to live with it.

  “He’s almost out of the airport!” Lea said.

  “I’m going as fast as I can!” said Hawke.

  “Why don’t you put the siren and lights on?” she asked as she loaded her gun. “That makes it go faster.”

  “Of course it doesn’t bloody well make it go…” he looked at her and saw the look she was giving him. “Ah, right.”

  “You’re such a dope, Joe Hawke.”

  She leaned out of the window of the cab and fired a couple of shots at the catering truck, but they missed. They were too far away for any meaningful shot with a handgun, but at least she gave it a shot, he thought. He spun the wheel hard to the left and slammed his boot down on the throttle, sending the truck skidding hard in a sharp arc and the boom flying off to their right.

  “What the hell are you doing, ya eejit?”

  He pointed over to the other side of the airfield. “They’re going over there. We can cut them off.”

  “Sure we can, except for the fact there’s a bloody great razorwire fence all the way around the sodding airfield.”

  “Oh yeah – I didn’t see that,” he said giving her a sideways glance and rolling his eyes. “However will we get through a chain-link fence with nothing but a ten ton fire truck at our disposal?”

  “Smartarse, that’s what ya are. A right little smartarse… but with nice eyes.”

  The offending fence was now coming up fast as the truck raced toward the airport’s perimeter. “Cover your eyes!” he yelled.

  Lea looked away and Hawke lowered his head as the fire truck smashed through the fence at speed, snagging a panel of it in the front bumper and dragging it along behind them as they launched off the kerb and slammed down on the road running around the airfield.

  “Christ almighty that was idiotic!” she said. “But also kinda fun.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  When he had stabilized the truck, he powered it forward once again, keeping a close eye on the catering truck as it tried to outrun them on the ring road. He felt a heavy clunking sound and checked his mirror to see the boom-ladder had become partially unfixed to the top of the truck and was now hanging limply behind them, scraping along the asphalt in a shower of orange sparks.

  “You’re never driving my car, I can tell ya that.”

  “They let you drive?”

  He stamped on the brakes and the heavy truck juddered violently as he brought the speed down low enough to take the corner, but they were making progress. Up ahead the old catering truck had run into the heavier traffic of the Sâo Cristóvâo district and Saqqal was having to work harder to make his escape, but Hawke still had no idea where that was. He would have thought they wanted to get on a plane as fast as possible, but they were driving away from the airport instead. He guessed they had access to a private airfield but he was damned sure they weren’t going to get there.

  They chased the catering truck south through the suburb of Rio Comprido before Saqqal took a sharp right at Cosme Velho and raced into the mountains to the north of Copacabana. Now they were racing along a boulevard lined with jacaranda trees and expensive sedans.

  “Not a private airfield then…” Hawke said.

  Lea watched suburbia fly past them. “Where the hell is he going?”

  Then Hawke pointed to a large mass of land rising up ahead of them to the southeast. “My best guess is he’s going to have a chat with God.”

  She looked at him, confused “Eh?”

  “Up there,” he said, and pointed to the sky. “See what I mean?”

  She stared up at the twilight where a grove of sparkling stars studded the sky like diamonds and her eyes widened with amazement. “Oh… wow!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vincent Reno and the others followed Carvalho through a utility corridor until they reached a door which opened out to a small car park. Carvalho blipped the locks on a Chevy Blazer and seconds later they were skidding out of the airport and driving down to the docks.

  “My men are already in place,” the Brazilian said. “There is no way for the South Africans to leave the city with the stolen treasure.”

  Scarlet leaned over into the front. “Is the air conditioning on, or what?”

  “Broken,” Carvalho said with regret. “Only the heater works.”

  “Oh, that’s okay then,” the Englishwoman said. “It’s only thirty-nine degrees with ninety percent humidity today – why not turn the heater on instead?”

  Carvalho smiled and offered a polite laugh, but made no reply. He used his knowledge of the city to weave the Blazer neatly in and ou
t of the Rio traffic, passing south through the districts of Maré and Caju before turning east at São Cristóvão and heading into Centro.

  Vincent watched the city flash past as he listened to the banter. He hadn’t been to Rio for many years and was surprised by the contrast between then and now. All those years ago it was much poorer, but now he saw evidence of new money wherever he looked. A city on the rise, he thought with appreciation.

  Carvalho slowed to handle some traffic in Gamboa and ahead of them he saw Guanabara Bay to the north, reflecting the last of the day’s sunshine as twilight enveloped the cityscape. He was jolted from his trance by the sound of screeching brakes and a cacophony of car horns as a jumble of cars nearly collided with one another at a junction. Carvalho gave as good as he got and moved on.

  As they turned into Saúde, Carvalho nodded to himself and then raised his forefinger off the wheel, pointing ar the docks. “That’s Kruger’s boat right there – a Navetta called the Theia. Theia was a Greek goddess,” he said. “But that is all they told me.”

  They slowed down and parked up well away from the Theia. The Brazilian radioed their position to his other men as they watched Kruger’s men unloading the loot from his SUV.

  They all knew the deal, and that was to ensure the South African and his men on the boat, as well as Corzo, were either taken into custody or taken out altogether. The BOPE force was now in place at the docks so between them all, Reaper was confident the situation could be contained as he saw Dirk Kruger strutting about on the deck.

  The South African was holding a cell phone to his face and talking animatedly. Corzo and a few of Kruger’s sailors heaved the last of the treasure into the hold and then began smoking at the back of the boat. The Colombian rebel leaned over the stern rail as he watched the water splashing against the hull.

  The Frenchman was more hopeful than usual. It was an isolated part of the city well away from the general public and they had many more men than they would need to take on Kruger and his team, not to mention the element of surprise and the home advantage. He hummed a made-up tune as he loaded a mag into the submachine gun and readied the weapon.

  “When do we go?” he asked Carvalho.

  “When my superiors give the order and not a moment before,” came the businesslike reply.

  Reaper gave a modest nod. He could live with that, but then with no warning, the Theia jolted forward and began moving away from the docks at full speed. Reaper stared up and saw Kruger in the bridge driving the Navetta out into the bay as its enormous engines were now spewing a tumultuous wake up behind it.

  “He’s taking it out to sea!” Lexi said.

  “This is our last chance to nab the bastard,” said Scarlet.

  “We have a police boat,” Carvalho said. “Don’t worry… we’ll take it from here, obrigado.”

  “Eh?” Scarlet said. “This is our mission!”

  Without warning Ryan snatched Scarlet’s weapon and bolted from the Blazer. “I want him dead.”

  “Ryan!” Scarlet yelled.

  Reaper leaped from the Blazer and sprinted after Ryan, but he was already in the police boat and firing her up. He pulled away from the dockside just as Reaper jumped into the boat.

  “You could have waited…” he said.

  “I can’t let him get away,” Ryan said coldly. “He has to die, Vincent.”

  Reaper made no comment, but instead readied his weapon and joined Ryan at the front of the boat. He turned to see the wild flashing of lights as more police pulled up at the docks. “Scarlet and Lexi will not be too happy with you cutting them out of the action.”

  “You heard Carvalho!” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “He told us he would take it from here. Like hell!”

  “Let me get to the helm,” the former legionnaire said. “You drive like a girl.”

  Reaper moved to the wheel and took over control of the small boat, pushing the throttles down as far as they would go and spinning the wheel to correct the course. With peninsulas on the right and the left, Kruger was leaving the last of Rio behind and setting a course across the South Atlantic for Cape Town.

  “We don’t have much time to catch him!” Ryan said.

  Reaper knew boats and he was right. The Theia might have been seaworthy but this little police boat was not. If Kruger got out of the bay and into the ocean he had the fuel, power and resources to cross the entire ocean and get back to South Africa, but they would be going no further than a few miles and then their boat would be little better than driftwood.

  “But we have one advantage, mon ami,” he said with a grin. ‘We have more speed!”

  Then the Theia turned hard to starboard to move south around Sugarloaf Mountain before it suddenly lurched violently back to port without warning.

  “What the hell are they doing?” Ryan asked.

  Then they saw.

  Kruger had swerved to avoid a gargantuan container ship which was attempting to enter the bay from the south but the South African was going too fast and crashed into the starboard side of the enormous ship. The captain of the container ship sounded the general alarm to alert the crew to the emergency, but Kruger pushed the Theia through the collision and slipped out the back. They watched the Navetta bobbing around in the container ship’s massive wake but Kruger’s only response was to order more men to the back and open fire on the police boat.

  “Bastard’s still going,” Reaper said, steering the smaller police boat out to port and giving the container ship the wide berth it deserved.

  “But we can’t let him get away!” Ryan yelled. “He has the Lost Treasure!”

  “But that’s not why you want him dead…” Reaper said, giving him a glance.

  They drew closer and suddenly other police boats began to swarm around the Navetta.

  Reaper fired the first shot, and his bullet was on target. It ploughed into one of Kruger’s sailors and spun him around, making him cry out in pain and reach up to the wound.

  “Come on, Vincent!” Ryan muttered.

  “One more shot…” he said, squinting into his gun sights.

  He squeezed the trigger and this time his aim was better. The round tore through the sailor’s throat and killed him instantly. He dropped to his knees with a frozen look of stunned terror on his face and then fell forwards over the boarding ramp and disappeared into the black water of Guanabara Bay.

  Moments later Reaper was piloting the small police boat up to the stern of the Navetta and he and Ryan were boarding under a hail of fire. A large net was on the deck at the stern, stretched out ready for deployment, but Reaper had his doubts that it was used for fishing.

  Before he had a chance to think about it, a man burst out of the cabin at the rear and charged toward them.

  Reaper punched the thug in the face with a powerful shovel hook. The man flailed backwards grasping for his weapon but went over the portside rail before he could get hold of it. He plummeted twenty feet into the water and landed on his back in a bloody splash. As a younger man Reaper lived for this sort of adventure, and spent many hours a week working out in the gym to ensure he never came off worse in skirmishes like this, but now he felt his age weighing down on him more and more with each passing year.

  Another man stumbled out of the cabin in search of the other sailor and instead found himself directly in between Reaper and Ryan.

  Reaper turned to Ryan and the two men exchanged a signal which they both understood at once. Working together they punched the sailor on both sides of his face at the same time which resulted in a terrible crunching sound as he couldn’t yield to the strike. He slumped to the floor, face first and was out like a light for the duration. Reaper and Ryan shared a high-five before Carlos Corzo appeared with a hunting knife in his hand and charged toward the Frenchman.

  “Get Kruger!” Reaper yelled at Ryan, and threw him the gun. “Three rounds… make them count.”

  Ryan didn’t need to be told twice and ran forward to the wheelhouse. As he went he glanced
over his shoulder and saw Reaper and the Colombian rebel fighting hard on the deck. They crashed into the net and began tumbling over each other as the punches flew.

  But Ryan couldn’t stop to help. He had only one target in mind: Dirk Kruger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Corcovado Mountain is a monumental peak of granite rising nearly two and half thousand feet into the air above the Tijuca Forest to the north of Copacabana. People reached the top via a rack railway which carried them two and half miles to the peak where they could see the world-famous statue of Christ the Redeemer. Nearly one hundred feet tall, the statue had looked over Rio de Janeiro since 1931 and attracted countless millions of tourists.

  Now, Ziad Saqqal, Bashir Jawad and Mr Rajavi were scrambling out of the catering truck and running toward their only hope of fulfilling Saqqal’s insane plan – the Corcovado Rack Railway. Bursting into the front cab, Saqqal waved a gun in the face of the engineer and forced him to start the train. Jawad followed his boss toward the train while Rajavi sprayed the platform with bullets and then leaped up to join the others. The train began to pull away and start its journey to the peak.

  Joe Hawke watched Jawad as he gripped the medical carrying case in his arms the way he might cling to a distressed baby and all around the tourists were screaming and running for cover from Rajavi’s submachine gun. They were terrified of the bullets as they fired from the flashing muzzle, but both Hawke and Lea knew they should be a thousand times more terrified of the contents of Jawad’s medical case.

  “Where the hell are they going?” Lea said.

  “This train goes to the top of the mountain,” said Hawke. “I think Saqqal wants to release Utopia from an elevation to increase the area the wind spreads it to.”