“A couple days.”
KC sat up suddenly. “What does he want?”
Michael stared at her, formulating an answer, knowing that he would have to phrase it just right; his face was a truth barometer that KC could read even in the darkness of the bedroom. “He’s just saying hello, had a few work questions.”
KC reached up and turned on the light. Michael sat up and stared at her. He always loved the way her blond hair fell about her face after they made love.
“Don’t even think about it,” KC said.
“I’m not…” Michael laughed; he was already backpedaling.
“What does he really want?”
Michael stared at her a moment and then finally relented. He told her about Simon’s request regarding the simple theft of an envelope containing a three-page document and a puzzle box from a home in Italy.
“And you told him no, right?”
“Of course I told him no.”
“Michael, we made a vow, we both agreed—”
“That’s right, we both agreed,” Michael said as he gazed at her. “So when he asks you—I told him to not even think of asking you, but I know he will—when he asks you, you better give him the same answer.”
“You really think—”
“KC, I know you and forgive me for saying this, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you ran off and did this behind my back.”
KC smiled her get-out-of-jail-free smile that Michael always fell for. But he wasn’t about to let her fall into danger.
“KC…”
“I made a vow to you, Michael, I gave you my word,” KC said, kissing him gently on the lips.
ITALY
MICHAEL RACED UP the stairs of the castle, the sight of the three women and the child, their headless bodies on the floor, burning in his mind. He ran down the second-floor hallway and back into the library. He opened the liquor closet, thrust his hand into the safe, and grabbed the Sig Sauer. He ejected the clip, confirmed the bullet count, and tucked it in his waistband. Without hesitation, he ran to the window. He grabbed the second rope off the floor, tied it to the thick doorknob on the closet, and threw its two-hundred-foot length out the window. He clipped on and dove out the window, sailing down the side of the castle, his eyes darting between the ocean below and the six men on the dock who had shoved the older man into the launch and were heading out to sea.
Michael blew past the building’s stone foundation, flying down the cliff face, his hands burning from the rope’s friction, his feet bouncing off the sheer face as he descended. Nearing the water, he slowed himself and came to a stop. The dock was seventy-five feet to his left.
Michael angled back his body, his feet on the wall, holding himself nearly perpendicular to it, and began to run toward the dock. It was an odd sight as he struggled across the rock face, his feet scrambling along, slowly arcing upward until he could go no further. He turned his body and began to run in the other direction, his momentum increasing with the downward arc of his charge. He ran along the wall to the right until gravity once again stopped him. He reversed direction and this time ran with even greater speed, accelerating as he raced across the wall, but this time as he reached the apex of his charge, he released himself from his harness to fall into the heavy waves fifteen feet below.
He hit the frigid water and swam as hard as he could against the current, struggling against the waves, determined not to be smashed upon the rocky wall. He was only fifty feet from the dock but it felt like a mile as he pulled and kicked his body through the sea. He finally caught hold of the dock and pulled himself up. Without stopping, he jumped into the launch. He thanked God; it being a private dock, the key was in the ignition. He turned the key and pressed start. The Mercury engine sputtered, coughing and choking, until it sang with life.
Michael looked out across the water and saw the other tender was heading not for the boat that had brought the men to the castle but for the megayacht and was nearly alongside it.
Michael turned the launch out to sea, grabbed the accelerator, and punched it. The boat skittered across the waves, jumping in the air only to land hard on the next wave. It was like a mogul run on skis, his bones jarring with every wave. Michael had no idea what to do. He knew the men had taken the file and the puzzle box from the safe, but they’d also taken the man and killed his family.
As he looked up again, the six men were already dragging the man onto his yacht, and it occurred to Michael that if they’d found what they were looking for, they would already be on their way and would have killed the man alongside the other four. As he drew closer, the wash of the aft light reflected off the rolling sea, illuminating the name stenciled in large gold letters on the rear of the boat, Gentlemen’s Den . . . And Michael understood.
As he neared the Sunseeker, Michael cut the engine, allowing the launch’s momentum to carry him to the yacht’s edge. He set his boat adrift and slipped over the side, swimming around the back of the yacht, the heavy waves thrusting him up and down. The kidnappers’ launch was tied to the port side, the boat fenders squeaking as they rubbed against the larger craft.
Michael grabbed hold of the rolling ship and slowly climbed up on the swim platform. He looked about. The yacht was much larger than Michael had imagined from shore. Three decks above the water line, climbing nearly thirty feet high, it was truly a mansion at sea. Her polished white hull was adorned with brass fittings and teak rails, her mass absorbing the roll of the waves far better than the flimsy craft he had arrived on.
He climbed three steps, kept to the shadows, and peered into the main salon, an opulent living room filled with all-white furnishings—couches, chaises, and leather chairs, even a white grand piano in the corner. Heavy soundproof glass doors were pulled tightly closed.
The old man was lashed to a chair in the center of the room, his face bloody and tear-streaked, his eyes filled with pain. Five men were scattered about the room, the man obviously in charge crouched down before their captive. His dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that hung over his tailored suit jacket.
Three of the men stood with pistols in hand, while a fourth held an elegant polished scabbard, the black leather hilt of a sword protruding from it. While Michael couldn’t see the face of the leader, he could see the others; there was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at an Asian group: Yakuza, Triad, Tong, or Bangkok Mafia.
As Michael looked at the ponytailed man, he knew the man had slain the old man’s family in front of him, and would no doubt use the same sword on the man once he’d obtained what he had come for. The old man struggled against his bonds, uselessly flexing his arms against the rope. The agony in his face, the tears in his eyes were not from physical pain, but from the sheer torture of his heart.
The ponytailed man held out a dark red lacquered box, turning it about in his hand. Michael caught a glimpse of a fearsome dragon entwined with a tiger etched into its surface and recognized the object that Simon so desperately needed him to steal. The ponytailed man held it before the old man’s eyes and screamed in a language Michael didn’t understand.
Michael had yet to see the face of the leader as he interrogated the old man, his body, his hands subtly moving with his demands. There was confidence in the ponytailed man’s body language, in his actions, superior and exacting. He suddenly dropped the box to the floor and violently stomped on it, cracking it open. He picked it up and thrust it in the old man’s face to reveal that it was empty.
The ponytailed man took off his jacket, tossed it aside, then unbuttoned his white shirt. He removed a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on, the flame dancing above its silver case. And with a powerful grip, he grabbed the man’s left hand, bending it up against his constraints, holding the flame to the old man’s palm.
The old man’s face grew stern, hard like granite, as he locked eyes with his torturer, a test of wills as his palm blackened, as the smoke curled up. And the ponytailed man smiled. He pulled the lighter away, tucked it in his pocket, and
pulled out a black box, similar in shape and design to the red one; a dragon engaged in battle with a raging tiger was etched in its top. He held it before the old man and whispered in his ear.
And Michael saw fear pour into the old man’s face, an agony worse than flame upon his skin… and the old man finally screamed.
Michael averted his eyes and climbed the rear steps, keeping his body low within the shadows, quickly arriving at the second deck, which was far less formal, with a large teak bar, overstuffed couches, and a wide-screen TV on the rear wall. The rear deck was open to the elements, with lounge chairs and towels in the corners. No cost had been spared on the luxurious craft.
Remaining in the shadows, Michael looked about until his eyes fell on an oddly shaped form toward the far end of the room. As Michael’s eyes adjusted, he saw the open door to the pilothouse, the glow of instruments casting a green haze in the ship’s bridge, and realized… he looked again at the form, now discerning the crumpled body of the ship’s captain.
A light three hundred yards off the port bow caught Michael’s eye. It was heading toward the yacht. He didn’t know if it was coincidence or something worse, and he had no intention of waiting to find out.
Michael ran to the bar, slipping behind it. He looked about: at the liquor bottles in their leather hammocks, at the secured glasses, the fully stocked wine cooler. He knew it had to be here. He finally looked at the ice maker; he saw the wide seams, slightly off angle, something incongruous with the exacting detail of everything else on the ship.
He pulled the ice maker out to reveal the other Helix 09 safe. It was listed on the sales quote: one for the study, the other for the Gentlemen’s Den, the name of the yacht Michael was on now.
He knew the bypass code, the one used when the owner forgot the combination and needed access to his valuables.
Michael punched the numbers into the keypad and pulled open the door. He reached into the safe and pulled out a single manila file. Opening it, he found three pages, Xerox copies, but as he looked closer at the lettering, it was indecipherable. It was Asian calligraphy, Chinese, he believed.
Tucking the manila file inside his wet shirt, Michael stood and heard the sound of a footstep behind him. Without thinking, he dove to the right, just as the sound of a bullet exploded. Michael took cover behind the heavy teak bar, drew the Sig Sauer from his waistband, and peered around the corner to find the man crouched, his pistol double-gripped, moving with his line of sight.
Michael aimed and pulled the trigger. The man tumbled back, the bullet catching him heart-high in his chest. While Michael hated guns, that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to use them. Simon had seen to that years earlier.
Michael stood, and the sudden wash of a spotlight shone through the port window. He ducked for cover as he heard a flurry of commotion below. And before he could move, a firefight erupted. An onslaught of bullets pelted the side of the ship; Michael could hear the men below returning fire.
The windows were shot out and bullets flew over Michael’s head as the second deck was sprayed with gunfire. The lights of the salon and the upper decks were shot out, sending the room into darkness.
The thundering crack of shotguns, rifles, and pistols filled the nighttime air. He heard the pounding feet of people boarding the ship, there were shouts and commands, a coordinated attack unfolding. He heard splashing as bodies hit the water, heavy thuds on the lower deck as people went down.
A giant roar cut through the cacophony of sound, an explosion not far off, the orange glow of flames pouring through the window. Michael could see the ponytailed man’s yacht, the one the six men came in on, being consumed by the sea, flames hissing as she quickly disappeared beneath the surface.
Michael turned to see the small boarding craft bobbing off the port side. There was no one on board, though her lights were lit and her engines were running in wait.
And then there was silence. Michael held his breath, listening. He could hear the footfalls of only one person. He crawled through the salon, past the body of the man he had killed; he grabbed the pistol from his hand and tucked it in his waistband for backup. He continued crawling past the dead captain of the ship, who sported a bullet hole just above his glazed-over eyes. He came to the interior stairs and listened, slowly creeping down to the first deck. The lights were gone, shot out, but even in the shadows Michael could see the carnage.
There were bodies strewn everywhere. The old man was slumped over in his chair, his torso riddled with bullet wounds—he’d been trapped in the crossfire. The ponytailed man stood in silhouette, crouched, ready to strike, his left hand clutching his pistol, waving it about the room while in his right was the unsheathed sword, refracting shards of intermittent light off its honed edge.
A moan escaped the old man’s bloody lips.
The assassin raised the sword as if in ceremony above the old man.
“Don’t,” said a deep, commanding voice that, surprisingly, sounded American. Michael caught a glimpse of the man: He stood in the deep shadows of the shattered remains of the door, dressed in black fatigues, his closely shorn black hair under a dark cap. He gripped his pistol in both hands, his eye lined up with the sight; there was no question as to his aim. Beside him stood two more commandos, each with a short submachine gun, their faces painted with black pitch.
The assassin lowered his sword and dropped his pistol on the deck. But then, with a sudden swiftness, he turned the blade over in his hand and thrust it through the old man. It slipped through the man’s body without resistance, as if piercing water. And just as suddenly, it was withdrawn, with a wet sound of death.
The two commandos moved in, their guns raised, their fingers on the triggers. The ponytailed man lowered his sword, bowing his head in defeat.
“Drop the sword,” the first commando said as he circled around in the darkness. He moved behind the man while his partners remained in front, both guns aimed.
“Drop—” but the commando never completed his sentence.
In a single motion, the man dropped to a crouch, spinning like a dervish, his blade held out, slicing the air, through the first commando’s throat, its speed increasing as it whipped around, slicing through the second man, felling them where they stood before they could even react.
And a shot rang out.
The ponytailed man was knocked back by the force of the bullet; he tumbled over an ottoman and fell to the ground. The American with the deep, commanding voice approached, his gun at the ready. “You’re not going to escape this life yet.”
“But you soon will,” the ponytailed man whispered. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“What have you done?” the American said.
“You will die,” the ponytailed man said. “You may hold the weapon but I will be the one that will kill, and know this: You will not be the only one to die.”
“Where’s the file? The pages… ?” There was desperation in the American’s voice. “Where is the box?”
“You are the last person I would tell.”
“If they get out in the open, if anyone learns—” The man stopped. He pulled a black bag from his pocket and threw it at the assassin. “Put that over your head.”
The assassin held up the bag, examining it.
“I could shoot you right now and end this insanity.”
The assassin smiled as he slipped the black bag over his head. “Know this. You think you’re in control here, but you’re not. If I die, you die.”
The man pulled zip ties from his pocket and circled behind his captive. “We’ll see.”
With control of the ship seemingly taken, Michael continued down the stairs, doing everything he could to avoid being seen. And he found himself belowdecks, where there was a host of bedrooms. Michael bypassed them all and moved toward the stern. He opened a door and found himself in the engine room, two enormous engines gleaming under the red night lights. Michael made his way to the rear door, and that’s when he saw them. They were l
arge and crude, thick chunks of C4, a radio transmitter attached to the detonator.
Michael grabbed the door but found it locked; he shook it but knew it was useless. Wasting no more time, he turned and raced forward toward the bow, past the bedrooms, the crew galley. He found a narrow crew ladder and quickly climbed up it through a hatch into the bridge of the yacht. He didn’t know if he had minutes or seconds, but acted as if he were out of time. He took the central stairs back up to the second deck and stopped in his tracks.
The American commando was there now, his captive on the floor before him, his head encased in the black hood, his arms tied in front of him.
Despite his captive’s binds and the bag over his head, the American kept his gun up, aiming it, holding it tight as he walked behind the bar. He crouched down and saw the open safe.
“Where is it?” the man shouted.
His captive said nothing.
“My men, before they were all killed, rigged the ship with C4.”
There was no response.
“If you want to leave this boat, you’ll tell me where those papers are.”
Again there was nothing but silence from the prisoner on the floor.
“Know this, I’m going to invade your world, I will bring you all down. Starting with you.” The man reached in his pocket and withdrew a small transmitter; he thumbed off the safety cover.
Michael turned in the shadows and quietly scaled the steps to the third deck. Thirty feet above the sea, open to the elements, it was an outdoor living room of lounge chairs and cushioned decks for sunbathing.
Without another thought, Michael reached within his shirt, pulled out the file, took the pages, and tore them down the middle. He tore them again and again and again, until he had nothing but confetti paper, and he ran to the rail of the boat, tossing the tiny remnants of what everyone so desperately wanted into the air. They fluttered on the wind into the high seas, where they were scattered and lost in the flotsam and jetsam.
Michael peered over the port-side rail to see the American, the lone survivor of his team, carrying the body of one of his men on his shoulder. He lowered him into his boarding craft and walked back in only to emerge with another body.
The Thieves of Legend Page 3