Choke Point

by Jay MacLarty

  “Absolutely.”

  “And what if it’s the crest they’re after?”

  “Then we give it to them. What’s the problem?”

  “They’d destroy it. That’s why the plane was sabotaged.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Because no one knew you or Kyra would be onboard.” He could see in Kyra’s expression that she had come to the same conclusion. “And I’m not important enough to have been the target.”

  Atherton hesitated, staring into rain, as if listening to something just out of hearing, then shrugged. “So they destroy it. It’s certainly not worth our lives.”

  “Isn’t it?” Simon asked, wondering what happened to bravery and honor and showing off for your one true love. “It’s the linchpin to the Alliance. A new peace between Taiwan and China. Wars are fought over less. Most people would consider that worth the cost.”

  “Well, I don’t happen to be one of them.”

  Kyra wrinkled her nose, as though she had suddenly noticed a flaw in what she thought was a perfectly cut diamond. “Speak for yourself.”

  “You’re serious?” Atherton asked. “You’d rather die than give up that broken piece of rock?”

  “It’s a decision I’d rather not make.”

  He shook his head, a look of disappointment. “Well, we have to do something. We can’t just wait for some boat to happen along. Not in this weather.”

  “No,” she agreed, “we can’t.” She reached over and picked up the night-vision goggles. “I’m going down there. See if I can figure out what they’ve got planned.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  An Island in the South China Sea

  Wednesday, 11 July 21:26:28 GMT +0800

  Hidden beneath a blanket of darkness and driving rain, her nose not more than an inch off the ground, Kyra edged forward over the slippery leaves, toward the only source of light: a faint glow just inside the line of trees that bordered the shoreline. Above her, the sky was blank and unblemished, not a single star or speck of light, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet, the shadowed outline of the trees purple-black against the sand and smoky-gray water. She had tried to use the night-vision goggles, but they were too cumbersome in the muck and she abandoned the effort. Despite the downpour, the air remained hot and thick with the smell of seawater and the fecund scent of earth and rotting vegetation. Too wet, she hoped, for the bugs and nightcrawlers.

  She took another shallow breath and pulled herself forward, the mossy green carpet absorbing the sound of her movement. The effort, she realized, would probably be for naught, the sound of the rain too loud to overhear any conversation; but she felt compelled to try, to go back with something, to prove she had the nerve. Prove? To whom?

  Atherton? Maybe, but she didn’t like the feeling that she had to.

  Leonidovich? No, he accepted her as she was—the good and the bad.

  Herself? Probably, that same old pressure to “beat the boys.” She glanced up, readjusted her angle to the light—fifty more yards—then put her head down and slithered forward.

  She had barely moved a yard, when suddenly, without so much as a slackening whimper, the rain stopped, as if someone had changed the weather channel. The cathedral-like hush seemed even louder than the downpour, the silence broken only by the irregular patter and drip of water off the trees and drooping ferns. She grabbed a quick peek at the sky, surprised to see an outline of clouds and a floodlight of stars. Shit, of all the damn luck!

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, a number of large dark shapes began to materialize around her. What the…? Then she realized…one-man pup tents, three on one side, two on the other. God almighty! She had somehow managed to drag herself into the middle of their camp. Don’t panic! But even as she thought it, her heart began to flutter and pound, threatening to explode through her chest. She swallowed back the metallic taste of fear and forced herself to breathe, filling her lungs, then letting it go…long and slow…silent. Don’t panic! She glanced behind her, measuring the distance, trying to decide whether to move forward or retreat.

  You got the guts, little girl? The voice echoed through her head, her father’s words the first day she took flying lessons. Oh, how she hated those words. So easy for him—the invincible Big Jake Rynerson—but that was then, and now he was lying in a coma, maybe dead, and it was up to her. You got the guts, little girl?

  Yes, Daddy, I do. She put her head down, dug her fingers into the soft earth and started to pull herself forward when a sound not more than ten yards away froze her to the spot. From the corner of her eye she could see a man crawling from one of the tents, naked except for dark-green boxer shorts, and one of those copper arthritis bracelets on his left wrist. He stood up, a big man—his legs the size of small palm trees, his biceps nearly as large—turned his head, then hawked and spit and farted, a loud and rolling eruption that would have registered a good 9.4 on the Richter scale of flatulence.

  There was an instant bellow from another tent. “Joisus H. Christ, Paddy, put a cork in that bleedin’ hole!”

  The big man grinned, took a deep breath, bent forward in a semi-squat, and pushed out another sputtering blast. Despite her fear, Kyra had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Men! Were they all so gross and immature? Probably, so why would she want to share her life with one of the beasts? Before she could consider the question, the man pulled out his penis—a female killer if one ever existed—and began hosing down the wildlife around his tent: the male ape marking his territory. He expelled another eruption of gas—not more than a 6.2—wagged his meaty monster back and forth like a windshield wiper, then stuffed it back into his boxers and disappeared into the tent.

  She waited at least five minutes, until her heart had regained its natural rhythm, then took a shallow breath and began to slide forward over the wet ground. Be the snake. She pulled herself over a hump of a tree root, but as careful as she was, without the rain to cover up the sounds every tiny movement seemed to produce a thundering avalanche of water from the jungle-like foliage, and it took nearly an hour before she was close enough to the light to see or hear anything.

  Edging herself between the fronds of two broadleaf ferns, she found herself no more than ten yards from what appeared to be a combination of field kitchen and command center: a rectangular table with aluminum legs, four fold-up canvas chairs, boxes of food and supplies. Everything was neatly arranged within a large canopied enclosure with rolled-up sides. A small lantern, tampered down to a yellow glow, hung suspended within a tightly stacked cove of boxes, which hid the light from the water and the possibility of being seen from any passing ships. Directly below the lantern, sitting sideways to her position, the man with the shaved head sat hunched over the table, absorbed in what appeared to be a small stack of satellite photos. Wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and lightweight hiking boots, his deeply tanned and well-toned body glistened with sweat, reminding her of Yul Brynner in The King and I.

  He carefully scanned each photo with a six-inch magnifier, marking locations with either a blue or red marker. When he finished, a job that seemed to take the better part of an hour, he set them aside and rolled out a topographical map of the island. He placed a lead sinker at each corner to keep the paper from curling, then pulled a laptop computer from a waterproof duffle lying next to his chair and placed it alongside the map. As the computer booted, he began to transpose the marked photo locations to the map, highlighting and numbering each spot with the same identifying colors. He worked methodically, not stopping until every location had been marked, numbered, and input on a gridlined overview displayed on the screen of his laptop.

  Mawl nodded to himself; no way that Houdini Leonidovich would escape this time. He took a deep breath and counted slowly to five, mentally preparing himself for what he would say to Trader, a man who was never satisfied with anything.

  No, sir, that wasn’t the plan. A little dramatic hesitation. But you said “get it done.”

  No, sir,
I didn’t know she would be on the plane—Another hesitation.—but you said you “didn’t give a fuck who got in the way.”

  Yessir, quite sure, your exact words. Would you like me to play it back?

  Oh, didn’t I mention that? Everything. Every last word.

  Yessir. Thank you, sir. And fuck you too.

  Just the thought of it made him smile. He reached down, pulled his phone from the waterproof duffle, attached the micro-recorder, and punched in the numbers. He waited through the familiar rings and clicks of the router, but then after a few moments the line went to dial tone. What the…? But he knew the answer even before the question formed in his mind. The bastard had heard the news reports, realized what happened, and was now trying to avoid final payment on the contract. Mawl wasn’t that surprised, and he certainly wasn’t worried. He could find the man—he had a voice print and a money trail—but that would have to wait. First, he wanted whatever was in that black case. That was the golden apple. His one-way ticket to…some out-of-synch vibration suddenly broke into his consciousness…the faint sound of breathing.

  He leaned down, as if to return the phone to his duffle, his fingers closing around the butt of his Beretta. Hunched over, he could now make out the dark shape, realized who it was, and laid the gun on the table. “Enter.”

  Robbie hesitated, then stepped forward into the yellow light, his body covered head to knee in a rain poncho.

  Mawl leaned back and crossed his arms. “Well?”

  The kid shook his head, his eyes downcast, like a dog caught soiling the carpet. “I’m sure it was on the boat.” He extended his hands out from under his poncho, the stiff material flaring off his arms like bat wings. “I remember pulling out my rain gear on the way over.”

  Mawl motioned toward one of the fold-up canvas chairs. “Sit down. I believe you.”

  Though his hangdog expression never changed, the kid’s relief was obvious, the tension melting from his face like snow before the sun. He pushed back his hood and dropped into the chair. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m sure the good captain didn’t think anyone would notice if he helped himself to a little bonus.”

  Robbie bobbed his head, clearly pleased to be off the hook. “Yessir. That’s what I was thinkin’.”

  “That doesn’t excuse it,” Mawl snapped, letting the kid know he couldn’t dismiss his carelessness so easily. “You should have checked your gear.”

  “Yessir, you’re right. It won’t happen again.”

  There would never be another again, Mawl thought, if he could get his hands on that case. “You sure he didn’t get anything else?”

  “Aye, that was all,” Robbie answered. “Just some clothes and things.”

  “Things…?” Mawl knew exactly what the kid was trying hard not to say. “Such as your NV goggles?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Which you’ll pay for.”

  “Aye.”

  “What about papers? Prescription bottles? Anything of that nature? Anything with your name on it?”

  “Nae.”

  “Backup weapon?”

  Robbie pulled back the edge of his poncho, exposing his shoulder holster and the butt end of his forty-five. “I’m good to go, sir. Really. No problem.” He glanced at the map, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Everything worked out?”

  “Pretty much,” Mawl answered. “I won’t be able to finalize exact placement until we’re in the field.”

  “How many infrared?”

  Mawl glanced at the count totals on his laptop. “Fifty-three pair. Plus twelve dozen vibration sensors.”

  Kyra could hardly breathe, her whole body going cold with fear, the way a field mouse must feel when it comes under the shadow of the hawk. What she assumed would be a struggling search through the rain and mud, had suddenly turned sophisticated and high-tech.

  Robbie nodded approvingly. “Aye. That sounds right.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Mawl snapped, irritated by the kid’s appraising tone. “They so much as break wind, we’ll know it.”

  “Yessir,” Robbie answered quickly, anxious to please. “They’re as good as trapped.”

  “They won’t be trapped until the sensors are down and those Zodiacs are in the water. It’s gonna be a lot of work, kid, you better turn in.”

  Robbie hesitated, the shadowed look of a person with something on his mind. “Chrich said you mighta hit one. That courier bloke.”

  “Chrich talks too much.”

  “But now you want everyone taken alive?”

  Mawl nodded, realizing the kid was circling, building up the courage to ask something.

  “Well…I was just wondering—” The kid glanced away, avoiding eye contact. “You know…what then?”

  Normally, Mawl would have verbally swatted the kid for insubordination, but he realized the question would need to be answered soon enough, and this was a perfect time to test the story. “Listen, kid, I take orders, just like you. I just now got off the phone with the client, and believe me, he laid it out real clear. You know that case Leonidovich is carrying?”

  Robbie frowned, a puzzled look of confusion. “Aye.”

  “Well, he finally told me what this is all about. It’s full of incriminating papers. Papers that could ruin the client’s reputation. He expects me to deliver it intact. Unopened. That’s priority one.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So we need them alive,” Mawl went on, getting into the story, feeling the rhythm. “To make sure they didn’t hide the case or what’s inside.”

  “Then what?”

  Then what? Then it hit him; the kid didn’t give a bloody damn about reasons—he was still thinking about the Rynerson bird. “Then we do what the client wants. That’s the way we earn our money.”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” Robbie mumbled, though he obviously didn’t want to accept it. “But I was just thinkin’…you know…we could get ourselves a nice ransom for Ms. Rynerson.”

  “I told you, kid, forget about her. There’s not going to be any ransom.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Mawl interrupted. “We do what the client wants. And he wants their bodies found floating faceup with salt water in their lungs.”

  For a brief moment the kid said nothing, then the color in his face drained away, as if someone were adjusting the tint on a television. “You mean…? Oh, Jaysus!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  An Island in the South China Sea

  Thursday, 12 July 00:03:46 GMT +0800

  Kyra remained frozen to her spot among the ferns for another two hours, not daring to move until the hole in the sky finally closed and the rain began to fall, an angry spitting that turned into another deluge within seconds. She skirted around the outside of the camp, able to move faster now that she knew the location of the tents, then stood up and ran. It was stupid, the rain coming down so hard she could barely see the trees, but she couldn’t stop the blind need to put distance between herself and that maniac who wanted to drown her. Dead was dead, it didn’t matter how they intended to do it, but she couldn’t convince her feet—not until she had slipped and fallen a dozen times, and gotten so lost it took nearly an hour to find her navigational landmarks.

  By the time she found their hideaway shelter, the gray light of dawn was trying unsuccessfully to push its way through the dark clouds. “It’s me,” she whispered before daring to poke her head through the protective curtain of foliage. Sitting on the bed of palm branches, their backs to the rock wall, the two men jumped to their feet. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that neither man had slept: their eyes bloodshot and weary, their faces stubbled with whiskers.

  “Ahh, there she is,” Simon said, a relieved lift in his voice.

  “We thought they caught you,” Atherton said, his tone a touch scolding, parent to child. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered, knowing she looked like a train wreck; her legs and arms covered in scratches, her wet and
muddy clothes hanging off her body like a filthy layer of old skin. She dropped onto the makeshift bed. “I just need to rest for a minute.” The lumpy green surface, with branches poking out in every direction, felt better than any feather bed she had ever slept in. “Then we need to go.” She recognized her mistake the moment the words crossed her lips; their single-word response—“Go?”—echoing from both sides. Knowing they would never let her rest until she told them everything, she leaned back against the rock wall, closed her eyes, and began.

  No one interrupted or spoke until she finished, and then not for a good minute, until Atherton reached out and patted her knee. “It’s settled then.”

  Settled? She opened her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “They want the case. Isn’t that what he said? ‘That’s priority one.’”

  “So…?”

  He shrugged, his hands lifting from his sides. “We give it to them. We have no choice. They’re going to find us. They’re going to get it. We would be stupid not to use it to negotiate our way out of this mess.”

  “And the trade agreement collapses.”

  “No,” Atherton responded instantly, as if anticipating the argument. “I’ve been thinking about that. The crest is symbolic. Once the Chinese realize they have no chance of bringing the pieces together, they’ll move forward with the Alliance. There’s too much at stake. What they want is Taiwan. The Alliance is their foothold. It’s all a matter of diplomacy.”

  “Even if you’re right, those men will never let us off this island alive.”

  “Of course they will. They’re mercenaries. They don’t care about us. All they care about is collecting their money.”

  Simon knew it was coming—had known it from the moment the three of them had crawled out of the water—sooner or later they would turn to him, as they now did, expecting him to play arbitrator. A no-win situation, if one ever existed. “Well…I guess—” He worked it through his brain, choosing his words carefully, trying to sound fair-minded. “I would have to agree with Jim, it’s the crest they’re after. And he may be right about the Alliance, it may hold. This whole thing with the crest does seem a bit silly.” He said this in an attempt to appease Atherton, knowing it was stupid for any Westerner to underestimate the seriousness of the Chinese when it came to things like superstition and the philosophy of feng shui.