by Jack Du Brul
When they reached the next tower, Mercer checked his watch. Half an hour had already passed since their arrival at the terminal. At this pace, they’d only have a couple of minutes in the warehouse.
“I know,” Lauren said when she saw his expression. “I’ll try to push the pace.”
The hunched position cramped Mercer’s back and his legs began to tremble. His hands felt like claws. He looked down and saw an armed guard sheltered by towering walls of cargo pause to light a cigarette. The orange flare of his match looked as distant as a shooting star. That tiny lapse in concentration caused Mercer’s next step to be slightly off. His foot slipped from the wire.
As he fell, his body torqued over, forcing him to release one of the cables to keep his arms from pulling from his shoulders. Dangling one-handed on the greasy wire, Mercer watched horrified as one of his gloves fell from a pocket in his BDUs. It landed no more than five feet behind the Chinese guard. The man looked around slowly then shrugged before continuing his illicit smoke.
Mercer’s first stab of panic had sent enough adrenaline into his system for him to lurch upward to grasp the cable with his off hand. Fortunately his frantic effort wasn’t enough to shake the cables and jar Lauren loose. In fact she didn’t even know he’d nearly fallen. Panting, he hoisted one leg over the wire and muscled himself upright, straddling the two cables for a second to let his heart slow.
Lauren finally looked back. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”
“Right,” he muttered, feeling tendons in his shoulders protest every movement.
Ten minutes later they crossed over the fence surrounding the warehouse, noting that guards had been stationed all along its perimeter, especially around its only gate. A string of large dump trucks idled just outside the building’s main doors.
The warehouse’s roof had just enough pitch to channel away Panama’s nearly seven feet of annual rainfall and was studded with air vents. Its peak lay about thirty feet below the cable. Once in position, Mercer pulled the rope from his back and tied a slip loop in one end. He lowered it until it brushed the edge of the building, then swung the loop back and forth until it caught around one of the vents. It took a dozen tries.
“A cowboy you ain’t,” Lauren teased.
He gave her a good-natured scowl and pulled on the rope to tighten the noose then tied his end to the cable. They could now climb down to the roof and be able to extricate themselves the same way.
A shift in the lighting drew Mercer’s attention. He looked up from his work and saw the mammoth grapple carriage trundling toward them like a mechanical spider stalking prey on its web. In its pincers dangled an enormous crate. It glided almost silently on the cables and the spotlight attached to the rig hit Mercer full in the face. The wires began to vibrate.
“Lauren, move!” They had seconds before the crane either knocked them from the cables or ground them under its guide wheels.
Without hesitation, she reached for the rope and slid down far enough for Mercer to follow. “Keep going,” he hissed. “The carriage will cut the rope when it crosses it.”
Hand over hand she dropped down to the roof. Mercer looked up as the first of the large metal wheels reached his knots. The crane didn’t even shudder. The knife-edged rollers simply sliced through the line. The rope seemed to dissolve in his hands. One second he was eight feet above the roof, secure, and the next instant he was falling through open space. He landed on his feet, bending his knees to keep the metal from rattling.
Lauren had had the presence of mind to haul in the severed rope before its free end dangled over the open doors below them. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I am until we have to get out of here.” Mercer looked up as the crane dolly rocked to a stop just past the last of the dump trucks. The cableway was hopelessly out of reach. They were trapped.
Captain Vanik seemed unfazed. “One of the first rules of conflict is that plans go to hell the instant they’re implemented. Let’s see what we can see and worry about getting out later.”
She moved out of the spill of light coming from below and found a roof vent large enough to see through. Feeling powerless by the turn of events, Mercer joined her. Through the vent he saw that the concrete floor of the warehouse was littered with more containers. Several men in military-style uniforms drifted in and out of his view. They appeared to be Chinese. He and Lauren moved from vent to vent, getting an idea of the building’s layout. They found a vent large enough to crawl through at the far end of the warehouse. Below it was a darkened second-floor storage level crammed with trunk-sized packing crates. The top of the nearest crate was only five feet below them.
Mercer twisted the cap off the vent and dropped through. He landed silently, his pistol at the ready. Nothing but murky shadow and dusty boxes. Lauren followed and together they crawled to the railing that overlooked the main floor. Along one wall of the warehouse were several large eight-wheeled trucks of a type Mercer didn’t recognize. He assumed the yellow vehicles were specialty cargo-handling cranes like the one Victor drove. Piled along the full length of the other wall was a towering hill of crushed stone that reached almost to the ceiling and stretched under the second-floor deck. A Caterpillar bucket loader sat at the base of the gravel mountain.
In a clear space at the center of the building, workmen were moving wrapped blocks of something heavy into the back of a van. Around them stood six or so anxious guards with assault rifles. Two men in suits surveyed the work from a short distance off, their heads close together as they spoke. Unlike the multiethnic workforce outside, everyone here was Chinese.
“Those weapons are the new Chinese type-87 assault rifles, a copy of the British SA-80 bullpup,” Lauren whispered so softly her voice was like a ghost’s. “Notice how the magazine is placed behind the trigger grip to make the weapon more compact.”
Mercer remained silent, watching.
Realizing he was more interested in the workers than the soldiers, she asked, “What are they loading?”
Each man took just one object from the stack on the floor, and struggled to carry it to the van. It was the small size and great weight that tipped Mercer off. His voice was suddenly hoarse. “Gold!”
No sooner had he mouthed the word than one of the supervisors stepped over and slid the cloth covering off one of the bars, revealing the unmistakable buttery yellow gleam. Lauren drew a sharp breath. Mercer had seen more gold than most people, rough nuggets and ranks of ingots at some of the big mines on South Africa’s Witwatersrand, and still it held him enthralled. He put a quick estimate of forty million dollars on the blocks being loaded into what he now recognized as a disguised armored car.
“Is that from the treasure your friend was looking for?”
Nodding, Mercer whispered back, “They must have found it when I was in the hospital and have already melted it down. For that much bullion they must have a smelter someplace in this building. That’s why none of the Panamanians have been allowed inside.”
“What about the cargo Victor said came in last night?”
“No idea.” The Chinese superintendent made some comment to the worker and they both laughed. The cloth was replaced and the gold bar went to join the others in the armored van.
“They’re going to smuggle the gold out of Panama?”
To Mercer that scenario didn’t make sense. “Why bother with an armored car when they can put it directly on a Shanghai-bound freighter? No, I think they’re going to transfer it to a bank.” Lauren’s exceptional eyes asked the follow-up question of why. He had no answer.
“Here’s something else to think about,” she said. “Those assault rifles the guards are carrying are only issued to China’s elite forces, like the first troops they sent into Hong Kong after the handover from Britain in 1997.”
He failed to see her point. “Meaning?”
“Meaning this operation has probably been sanctioned by the Chinese government.”
Mercer knew that after the drug trade,
the second largest source of illegal revenue in the world came from the smuggling of art and antiquities. It was a multibillion-dollar business that garnered few headlines and even less resources to combat. Much of the activities were art forgery and theft-for-hire, but the plundering of archeological digs was fast becoming a huge business in its own right. Especially in South and Central America, where governments didn’t have the means to protect the hundreds of newly discovered sites. Most of the looting was carried out by locals, who would steal one or two pieces from a tomb then sell it immediately for a fraction of its value.
It seemed logical that someone with the contacts and wealth to operate on a larger scale would eventually organize a more systematic pillage. That’s what Mercer thought he’d stumbled across. Beginning with the attack in Paris, he’d always assumed that Gary Barber’s rival for the Twice-Stolen Treasure was a corrupt businessman. Jean Derosier had said a Chinese executive snapped up all the other relevant documents at the auction. That idea was further solidified when Roddy Herrara told them the helicopter belonged to Hatcherly Consolidated, run by a director named Liu Yousheng. Lauren’s revelation that only government troops possessed these weapons threw his assumption on its head.
The intensity of her stare was enough for Mercer to believe her deduction and rethink his earlier conclusions. At the time, Roddy’s suggestion that Liu had influence in China’s government hadn’t made an impression. Now it took on new meaning. Since the dawn of civilization, government officials commonly looted their own nations of treasures. Mercer’s experiences in Africa made him think it was almost a prerequisite. On a vacation to Egypt earlier in the year he’d learned that the tombs in the Valley of the Kings had been sacked shortly after a pharaoh’s interment by a band of thieves headed by the mayor of Luxor, the closest city. History had proven that only King Tut had escaped their well-organized raids.
But if the Chinese government really was behind this, it was no different than the Nazis plucking artwork off museum walls during their occupation of Europe. International law concerning recovered archeological treasures was murky when the origin of the loot was in question. Mercer had no idea who owned title to the Twice-Stolen Treasure-Peru, where it originated, or Panama, where it had remained hidden for centuries? He was damned sure, though, it wasn’t China.
What he was witnessing sickened him. Far from the monetary considerations, he was most bothered by the destruction of the ancient relics that must have been found at the lake. They represented a window to the past that had been melted down to innocuous gold bars so some Chinese commissar could add them to a ledger sheet. Unconsciously his hand tightened on his pistol. Lauren put a hand over his to stop him from doing something stupid. “We have to get out of here.”
“How?”
Lauren surveyed the building once again. Mercer could feel her concentration, almost see her thoughts as she juggled stealth, speed, and odds of success. Her answer came in short seconds. “There’s a shallow trough on top of the gravel pile where it lays against the side of the building. It stretches almost all the way to the front door and will cover us if we stay low and silent.”
“What about the fence outside?”
She had a ready answer. “I didn’t see any insulators so it’s not electrified, and the razor wire on top angles out to prevent people entering, not leaving. We can climb over no problem.”
Mercer glanced over the edge again. The top of the long gravel mound was about six feet from the wall, leaving a gully more than adequate to shield them as they ran for the far doors. The problem was reaching it. Because of the crates, they couldn’t get close enough to the wall to jump over the crest of the pile and land in the trough. No matter how far they leaped, they’d still end up on the mound’s exposed flank in full view of the smugglers. It was a gamble, but he could see no other option.
“All right,” he agreed. “Wait until they’re looking the other way and go. I’ll be right behind you. But be careful, the gravel doesn’t look like it’s settled so you may sink in it like quicksand.”
“Gotcha.”
She waited for the right moment with preternatural calm, her whole body coiled. When she launched herself, her movements were as graceful as a gymnast’s. Her leap took her to within five feet of the hill’s summit, but the impact sank her up to her knees in the loose stones. Even as she began struggling up the mound, Mercer jumped after her. He absorbed a brutal blow by intentionally landing spread-eagle to disperse his weight. Chest aching, he hauled on Lauren’s arm and scrambled for the crest. Dust powdered his clothes and stuck to his greasepaint. A sheet of gravel slid to the concrete floor in a hissing wave.
Mercer rolled over the top and almost had Lauren to safety when he heard a shout over the sound of the idling trucks outside. They’d been spotted.
He expected a few seconds for the guards to organize. He didn’t get it. Two soldiers opened up with their assault rifles the instant the alarm was raised, their weapons echoing in the building’s confines. Lauren began to slither along the trough. The 5.8mm rounds kicked divots in the gravel and blew wedges from the hill’s sharp peak. A shower of pebbles pinged off the metal wall and peppered her back.
He took off after her, feeling the jagged edges of the stone dig into his hands and knees. The air was full of shrapnel and cloying dust. The deafening fusillade suddenly ended. Lauren stopped moving and Mercer was about to prompt her on when a figure loomed to their right, a guard who’d climbed the sloping bank of gravel. Her silenced Beretta spat once and the man tumbled into the trough, prompting a fresh barrage. It sounded like a hundred guns were screaming to get at their rocky defile.
“There’ll be more,” she warned savagely.
Each foot they wriggled forward brought them no reprieve from the scathing attack. The Chinese raked the entire pile, holding their aim only where several of their comrades assaulted the hill to fire down the channel along the wall. Trusting Lauren to keep their front clear, Mercer concentrated on their flanks and rear.
A head appeared over the crest twenty yards behind him. He took a snap shot that plowed into the crest of the mountain and prepared for counterfire. Instead of a burst from his type 87, the Chinese soldier heaved a grenade in a long parabola. The bomb smacked the top of the hill and bounced back down its long face. It landed near the armored car. There was a scream followed by a sharp explosion that rocked the building to its foundation.
Without the need for stealth, Mercer and Lauren jumped to their feet, running hard for the exit. Another grenade sailed into view, a perfect toss that placed it only ten feet in front of them. Mercer rushed forward to grab Lauren around the waist and threw them both out of the ravine. He landed on his back with her clutched to his chest. As they slid down the pile, Lauren cycled through the remains of her magazine to provide cover fire. The second grenade detonated in a gush of gravel that blew across the warehouse like grapeshot from a cannon.
They hit the floor side by side and raced behind the Caterpillar bucket loader. The warehouse’s open doors were clear and they took off, Lauren changing out her magazine without losing stride. The twin grenade blasts were bound to bring reinforcements and they were still trapped inside two different perimeter fences.
“Now what?” she panted.
“This way!” Mercer said as soon as they were outside. Armed men stationed at the gate were just now coming to investigate. He threw himself under one of the idling dump trucks parked near the warehouse and sprang to his feet on the far side. Keeping low in case there was a driver in the cab, he crept forward until he could see the operator’s seat in the wing mirror. Empty. He opened the door and launched Lauren into the tall truck with a shove to the seat of her pants.
“Stay down,” he said and jammed the transmission into gear.
The dump truck snarled when he pressed the accelerator. The cab shuddered. Pulling out of line, the front fender clipped the dump body of the truck in front of them, the sheet metal tearing as easily as paper.
“You do know what you’re doing, right?” Lauren taunted, much more calm than Mercer.
“Hush.” He ground up through another two gears and raced the truck toward the gate.
By the time the soldiers in the warehouse realized their quarry was escaping, Mercer was almost abreast the break in the fence. The troops caught the fleeing dump truck in crossfire, but the vehicle’s thick hide turned away their bullets like the armor on a tank. In the wing mirror, Mercer glimpsed weapons spitting tongues of fire before a bullet disintegrated the glass. And then they were past the gate, careening across the main part of the Hatcherly terminal.
“We have to get to the fence that rings the entire port.” Lauren used the tail of her shirt to wipe camo paint and sweat from her face.
“Which way?” Mercer swerved around a row of containers, scattering the workmen who’d been helping a forklift driver. As yet, he didn’t think the regular workers knew there was a pair of fugitives running around the facility.
“Back through where Victor first let us out. It seemed more deserted than around here.”
Mercer cranked the wheel over. The tires barked in protest and for an instant the truck seemed light on one side before it settled back on its suspension. All around them, startled workers and guards gawked at his driving. One of the guards must have gotten a call over his walkie-talkie because rounds suddenly sprayed the side of the truck. “They’re on to us.”
They were going too fast for Lauren to accurately return fire, which left evasion as their only course. Mercer weaved the truck as best he could. Even empty the rig was top-heavy and tippy. More guards were alerted and it seemed that no matter where he steered, soldiers were waiting in ambush. The windshield had taken a dozen hits or more. He could feel that several tires had been shredded. He found cover by steering toward a parking area littered with ranks of shipping containers.
It was like running a maze, he thought. The containers had been stacked in rows that intersected at right angles, creating canyonlike lanes that seemed to lead nowhere. He couldn’t see far enough to know if he was heading in the right direction. The track was too narrow to turn the vehicle, so he pressed deeper into the labyrinth of containers, hoping to spot an outlet down any one of the numerous side branches.