Yaotl, the biggest of the three, backed down the ladder in front of the crate while Rivera and Nochtli shoved it forward. Sam drew back into the shadows and listened as they manhandled the crate down the ladder to the dock. Sam crab-walked to the rail and peeked over.
Nochtli and Yaotl were moving down the dock, each gripping one of the crate’s rope handles. Rivera walked a few paces behind. The trio reached the clearing. The crate was placed onto the Cushman’s flatbed.
Rivera began speaking in Spanish. Sam caught only snippets: “. . . take it . . . helicopter . . . there shortly.”
The Cushman’s engine started. Tires crunched on the shell path. After a few seconds the engine faded and died away. Sam risked a peek over the railing. Rivera was striding down the dock toward the ladder. Sam backed away and took cover against the bulkhead. Rivera climbed the ladder and went into the cabin.
Sam considered his options. He had little desire to tangle with Rivera, a trained and accomplished killer, but as soon as the man reached the helicopter it would lift off with the bell aboard. More important, whatever he and Remi did next would be easier with Rivera out of the equation. The H&K was out of the question, Sam knew, because the noise could attract the attention of the other guards. He’d have to do it the hard way.
He took a deep breath and crept aft along the bulkhead to the sliding door. He took a few moments to mentally rehearse his actions, then reached out, pressed his thumb against the door’s handle, and shoved. With a hiss, the door slid open.
From inside, Rivera’s voice: “Nochtli? Yaotl?”
Sam took a half step backward, balled up his right fist, and cocked it over his shoulder.
A shadow blocked out the cabin’s light.
Rivera’s nose appeared from behind the doorjamb, followed by his chin and eyes. Sam lashed out with a straight punch, aiming for Rivera’s temple, but the man’s reflexes kicked in, and he twisted his head sideways. Sam’s fist glanced off Rivera’s temple. Wary of him recovering and grabbing whatever weapon he was sure to be carrying, Sam pivoted through the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Rivera to the right. As predicted, Rivera was reaching for something behind his back.
Years of judo training took over. Instinctively, Sam assessed Rivera’s posture and stance and saw the weak point: Still slightly stunned, Rivera was leaning against the bulkhead, trying to regroup, all his weight concentrated on his left foot. Sam ignored Rivera’s weapon hand and instead lashed out with a Deashi-Harai—a Forward Foot Sweep—that caught him just below the left ankle. Rivera collapsed sideways and slid down the bulkhead, but still his weapon hand was coming around. Sam saw the gun in it, reached up, grabbed the wrist, and used the arm’s momentum to slam Rivera’s hand against the wall. Sam heard the crack of bone. The gun fell away and bounced across the carpeted deck.
Hand still clamped on Rivera’s wrist, Sam took a big step backward, dropped his center of gravity and twisted his hips, whipping Rivera’s body flat across the floor. Sam released the wrist and dropped onto Rivera’s back. He snaked his right arm around the throat, going for a rear naked choke. Rivera reacted immediately, lashing backward with an elbow punch that caught Sam below the eye. His eyesight sparkled and dimmed. He turned his face away, felt another elbow crash into the back of his head. Sam breathed through it and curled his forearm, sliding farther across Rivera’s throat. Using his legs as counterweights, Sam rolled left, taking Rivera with him. Then Rivera made his mistake: He panicked. He stopped throwing elbows and started clawing at the forearm around his neck. Sam extended the choke, clamped his right hand onto his left bicep, then squeezed while pressing his head forward, forcing Rivera’s chin toward his chest and compressing his carotid arteries. Almost immediately Rivera’s flailing weakened. Another second, and he went limp. Sam held on for three more beats, then let go and shoved Rivera aside. Sam got to his knees and checked the man’s pulse and breathing: alive but in a deep sleep.
Sam took ten seconds to catch his breath, then climbed to his feet. He reached up and touched his cheekbone; his fingers came back bloody. He shuffled out the door, looked around to make sure all was clear, then held up five fingers. He returned inside.
Remi stepped through the door sixty seconds later. She glanced at Rivera’s motionless body, then to Sam, then dropped their backpacks. She strode to Sam and they embraced. She pulled away. She used her index finger to tilt his face sideways. She frowned.
“It looks worse than it is,” Sam said.
“How do you know what it looks like? You’re going to need stitches.”
“My pageant days are over.”
Remi nodded to Rivera. “Is he . . .”
“Just sleeping. He’s going to be one angry man when he wakes up.”
“Then let’s not be here. I assume we’re going with the helicopter hijacking?”
“They were kind enough to load the bell aboard. It’d be rude to let that effort go to waste. The Rinker . . . Did you . . .”
“Jerked out the wires and tossed them overboard. What now? Tie him up?”
“No time. We’ve got surprise on our side. If anyone comes back looking for him, that’s gone.” Sam looked around. He walked forward and opened a door, revealing a ladder leading upward. “That’ll be the bridge. Go up and do some damage to their communications.”
Remi said, “Ship-to-shore phone and radio, right?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll go below and see if there’re any bazookas lying around.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re going to have company at the helicopter pad, and I doubt they’ll be happy to see us. Something big and loud and scary might change their minds.”
Sam knelt down, retrieved Rivera’s gun—another H&K semiautomatic—and handed it to Remi. She examined it for a few moments, then deftly ejected the magazine, checked the ammunition, slid the magazine back into place, flipped on the safety, and shoved the H&K into her waistband.
Sam stared at her.
She said, “Home and Garden Television.”
“Okay, then. We’ll meet back here in two minutes.”
Remi headed up the ladder, and Sam went belowdecks. He ransacked each of the six sleeping quarters and found only one weapon, a .357 Magnum revolver. He went back up the ladder. Remi was waiting.
“How’d you do?” he asked.
“I ripped both handsets out of their sockets and tossed them overboard.”
“That’ll work. Okay. Everyone’s waiting for Rivera at the pad. With luck, it’ll be Yaotl, Nochtli, the guard, and the pilot. Four people at most. We drive up and hope they don’t get suspicious until it’s too late.”
“And if there’s a big party waiting for us?”
“We retreat.”
CHAPTER 19
BIG SUKUTI ISLAND
“OKAY, SIT TIGHT,” SAM SAID TO REMI.
He brought the cart to a halt and set the parking brake. Ahead he could see the crest of the path. He walked forward until he could see over the rise. A hundred feet down the path was a clearing where the road forked up to the main house. To the right of the clearing, sitting under the glow of a pole-mounted sodium-vapor lamp, was the helicopter pad.
Sam walked back to the cart. Remi asked, “How many?”
“I only saw three: the guard, Nochtli, and Yaotl, all standing together at the edge of the pad. They’ve all got AK-74s, but they’re slung over their shoulders. As for the pilot, no sign. He’s either at the house or sitting in the helicopter waiting.”
“No offense, Sam, but I hope it’s the latter. If we convince him to fly us—”
“No offense taken.”
“What about the bell?”
“It’s not on the Cushman. Looks like they’ve done the heavy lifting. I’ll take the first three; you head straight for the helicopter. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She crouched on the golf cart’s floor and ducked her head beneath the fiberglass dashboard. She looked up at him. “You don’t look much like Rivera.”
/> “As long as we get close enough fast enough, it won’t matter.”
Sam withdrew the .357 and the H&K from his pockets, tucked one each beneath a thigh, then released the parking brake and depressed the gas pedal. The cart eased forward, and within seconds they were over the crest and heading for the clearing. He resisted the impulse to jam the accelerator to the floorboards.
“Fifty feet to go,” he muttered to Remi. “Still haven’t seen us.”
At thirty feet, Yaotl looked up and spotted the cart. He said something to the other two. They turned around. All eyes were on the cart now.
“Still no reaction,” Sam said. “Hold on tight. I’m going in.”
He stomped on the gas pedal, and the cart accelerated, covering the final twenty feet in a matter of seconds. Sam slammed on the brake, locking the parking mechanism, took his hands off the wheel, grabbed both guns, and jumped out before the trio, just outside the glow of the pole light. He raised both guns.
“Evening, gentlemen,” he said.
“It’s you . . .” said Yaotl.
“Us,” Sam corrected.
Without a word, Remi climbed from the cart and joined Sam, who told the group, “Everyone act natural. Nothing’s changed. Just three guys hanging around. Big smiles, everyone.”
He and Remi had decided it was best to assume the pad was under observation from the Big Eyes binoculars on the main house’s roof. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yaotl and the other two would have to keep their weapons until Sam and Remi were ready to leave.
“Remi, see what you can do about that light.”
Careful to stay at the edge of its glow, Remi stepped forward and studied the pole. “No switch, but the cables are coming up from the ground. It looks like standard one-ten voltage.”
Sam said, “Nice of Okafor to cut corners for us.” While two-twenty-volt lines carried enough juice to electrocute, one-ten lines carried only enough to cause a painful jolt. “Do you think you can make it to the helo without being seen?”
“I think so. Be right back.”
She walked back down the road and ducked into some bushes alongside the helicopter pad. Thirty seconds later she appeared on the opposite side and, using the helicopter to screen her movements, sprinted to the pilot’s door. With the pilot under her H&K, she retraced her course and returned to where Sam stood. The pilot was a short black man in dark blue coveralls. His expression was one of genuine fear.
Remi said, “The crate’s aboard, all strapped down.”
Yaotl asked Sam, “Where’s Rivera?”
“Napping.”
The guard moved his hand, trying surreptitiously to unsling his AK-74. Sam raised the gun and pointed it at his head. “Don’t,” Sam said, then added in Swahili: “Usifanye hivyo!” The guard stopped, let his hand drop.
“Remi, do you have them?”
“I have them.”
Sam stepped backward and motioned for the pilot to join him. “What’s your name?”
“Jingaro.”
“You’re Okafor’s pilot.”
“Yes.”
“Your English is good.”
“I went to missionary school.”
“I want you to fly the helicopter for us.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Yes, you can.”
“If I do, Okafor will kill me.”
“If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”
“Not in the same way he will. And perhaps my family, too. Please, I just fly for him, that’s all. I’m not part of this. You see I don’t have a gun. I just fly the helicopter.”
“Are you lying about your family?”
“No, it is the truth. I’m sorry I cannot help you. I do not like Mr. Okafor, but I have no choice.”
Sam studied Jingaro’s eyes and decided he was telling the truth. “Is the helicopter ready to fly?”
“Yes. Are you a pilot?”
Sam shrugged. “On rotary, I’m not much past takeoff, hover, and touchdown.”
Jingaro hesitated, then said, “This one is equipped with a hover coupler. On the far right side of the dash. It is labeled ‘H-V-C-P.’ As long as your flight level is steady, you can engage the coupler, and the craft will go into auto hover. Also, the rudder pedals are heavy. I like them that way. It is harder to overcompensate. Do not be afraid to step on them. Keep your airspeed below one hundred knots. She’s much easier to handle.”
“Thanks.”
“You are welcome. Now hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me. If Okafor suspects I—”
“I understand. Good luck.”
“And you.”
Sam cocked his hand back and slammed his palm on the tip of the pilot’s nose. The blow wasn’t enough to break bone, but blood began gushing immediately. The pilot stumbled backward and sprawled onto his back.
“Stay there,” Sam barked. “Don’t move. Remi, can you see the Big Eyes from there?”
She reached her hand behind her, withdrew the binoculars from her pack’s side pocket, and aimed them at the house’s roof. “I see them. They’re pointing to the south right now. Panning slowly this way. Another thirty seconds or so and they’ll have the pad in sight.”
Sam looked at the guard. “Unazungumza kiingereza?” he said in Swahili. Do you speak English?
“Bit English.”
Sam pointed at the sheathed machete strapped to his belt and said, “Kisu. Bwaga Ku.” Knife. Throw it down. Sam pointed at his feet and barked, “Now.”
The guard unclipped the machete and tossed it toward Sam, who picked it up. To the group he said, “Here’s the plan, everybody. We’re going to walk to the helicopter. We’ll go first, and you’ll follow feet behind us, spread out in a line—”
“Why?” asked Yaotl.
“You’ll be the sandbags if anyone starts shooting at us. Yaotl, make sure the other two understand.”
“You won’t get away with—”
“Maybe not, but we’re going to give it the old college try.”
“If we say no?” This came from Nochtli.
“Since you brought it up, you’ll be the first one I shoot.”
Yaotl said, “I do not think you will. Even if you do, the rest of Okafor’s guards will be here in under a minute.”
“Probably so, but you won’t be around to see it.” Sam took a step forward and leveled the .357 on Yaotl’s chest. “Remember your stay at our villa?”
“Yes.”
“We treated you decently.”
“Yes.”
“Well, we’re all out of nice.” To punctuate his point, Sam raised the .357 so it was level with Yaotl’s forehead. “Care for some proof?”
Yaotl shook his head.
“Make sure the others understand the plan.”
Yaotl translated first to Nochtli, then to the guard in pigeon Swahili. Both men nodded. Yaotl said, “Where will you go, Mr. Fargo? If you knew how to fly you wouldn’t have been talking to the pilot. If you stop now and surrender—”
Sam interrupted. “We’ve had enough of Nightmare Island. We’re leaving, and we’re taking our bell with us.”
“The bell . . . Is it so important you are willing to die for it?”
Remi spoke up. “Is it so important that you murdered nine tourists for it? Sam, he’s stalling us.”
Sam nodded. “Keep an eye on them. I’m going to see about making those carts disappear. Yaotl, take the laces out of your boots and give them to me.”
Yaotl bent over, removed the laces, balled them up, and tossed them forward. Sam retrieved them and walked to the golf cart. Thirty seconds later, the steering wheel was locked down by one of the laces. Sam released the parking brake, braced his arms on the front bumper, and pushed the cart over the crest of the hill, where it started rolling on its own. After a few seconds it disappeared into the darkness. He then repeated the process with the Cushman, and returned to Remi’s side.
“Ready?” he asked.
“A relative term, that.”
<
br /> “I don’t know how quickly we’ll get a reaction once the light goes out, so let’s be quick.”
Sam watched the Big Eyes on the roof until they moved toward the light pole. Remi stopped him. “Hold on, Sam.” Then to Yaotl and the others: “Turn around and face the helicopter.” The group complied. “Now look up and stare at the light.” Again the group complied. She said to Sam, “To ruin their night vision.”
Sam smiled. “Yet another reason why I love you.”
Through his binoculars he watched the Big Eyes on the roof until they were pointed to the southwest, then strode forward, knelt beside the light pole, took a breath, and slammed the edge of the machete into the power line. There was a hissing pop and a shower of sparks. Sam jerked his hand back. The light went dark.
Remi asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes, but it got my attention. Okay, let’s go.”
They separated, walking clockwise and counterclockwise until they were facing the group. “Walk toward us,” Sam ordered.
Blinking and shaking their heads against the sudden loss of their night vision, Yaotl and the others started forward. With Remi in the lead and Sam walking backward, his H&K trained on the group, they began moving toward the helicopter.
“Twenty feet away,” Remi told Sam. Then, “Ten feet.”
Sam stopped walking. “Stop. Spread out,” he ordered. To Remi: “I’m doing preflight.”
“I’ve got them covered.”
Sam tossed their packs into the cabin, then opened the pilot’s door and climbed inside. Using his penlight, he scanned the controls and panels, doing his best to ignore the Eurocopter’s dizzying array of options and concentrate on the essentials. After thirty seconds he’d found what he needed.
He flipped on the battery switch. The interior lamps and control panel glowed to life. Next he turned on the fuel pump, followed by the auxiliary power switch, which began the prestart of the turbine. After a few seconds of whining the turbine kicked in and began to spool up. The rotors begin turning, slowly at first but with increasing velocity as the rotor RPM gauge began climbing.
Lost Empire: A Fargo Adventure Page 14