Gitmo getaway, p.22
Gitmo Getaway, page 22
Hidalgo was older, his face thinner and darker from exposure to the long hours of sunshine in Colombia. Clay's face was more rounded, smooth, less swarthy. The resemblance was unmistakable; they had to be cousins at least. It all clicked into place. She'd thought she was using Clay, when all along he'd been using her to track her movements. It was no wonder Hidalgo was here. Clay only had to call him. As she watched them, they looked up, and Clay saw her watching through the binoculars. He said something to Hidalgo, and they started toward her. She dropped the binoculars and ran.
* * *
"They've seen us!"
Will slammed the throttled forward, and the Avanti began to pick up speed. They started to follow the H&Z, but the other craft was picking up speed.
"Christ, she's fast."
Will pushed the throttles all the way to the stops. Nolan watched the speed indicator hit fifty knots, and they were still accelerating.
"So are we," he shouted back, impressed by the power of the Avanti.
"We'll see," Will grunted. He gripped the wheel and steered the craft so that it seemed to thread a path between the waves.
Nolan raised his assault rifle. There was no need for pretense, not any longer. The chase was on.
"We're gaining on her. As soon as anyone has a chance of a good shot, take it." He looked at Will, who was shaking his head. "What is it?"
"They have a lot more power than we do. I told you, Chief, that thing goes like a bat out of hell."
"What can we do?"
"Pray they overturn. The guy at the wheel doesn't know his business, so it's possible. Then again, if he speeds up, we've lost him."
"Take him now. Try and ram the bastard." He looked at the rest of them crouched in the cockpit, watching the target boat. "You all ready? We'll open fire as soon as we're close. If we ram her, with any luck she'll sink."
"Or we will," Brad murmured.
He ignored him and watched the wave-filled gap growing smaller as they neared the other vessel. The man at the helm was having trouble keeping his skittish boat on a straight course, and behind them, their wake was a crazy pattern, a bunch of curves where his boat continually went off the intended track.
"He's probably hitting sixty knots," Will shouted, "We're doing fifty-five, and we're all out. If he gets the hang of it, we've lost him."
"Roger that. Open fire!"
He held the butt off the AK tucked into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Despite Nolan's sniper skills, there was no chance of precision shooting. Both boats were plunging around the waves, pitching, corkscrewing. There was no way to anticipate and lead a burst of fire into the target. It was a time for 'spray and pray.' He emptied the magazine at the distant boat, and the others opened fire, Vega, John-Wesley, and Brad with their AKs. Then Eva joined in, firing careful, single aimed shots with the Tokarev.
Two of their bullets punched holes in the fast boat, but none hit a vital component.
"Keep firing, punch some holes in the hull. That'll slow her down," he shouted.
They reloaded and fired again, and again. A man on the target boat was returning fire with an AK, the same weapon they were using and with similar results. Nothing. Then he noticed the hostiles were starting to pull ahead.
"You have to get nearer," he shouted to Will, "They're gaining."
"I'm working on it, but I told you, we don't have their speed."
"Yeah. We have to stop them. Everyone aim at the helmsman."
The fired again, clip after clip, but the other craft was pulling away. Slowly, erratically, but there was no question. They were getting the hang of it, and the boat was skimming over the waves, picking up speed every second.
"Keep following," he ordered Will, "We may get lucky."
Ryder was still firing single aimed shots, trying to anticipate the complex physics between the movements of the two vessels. One of his shots hit the guy on the wheel, and the boat veered suddenly and nearly went over, but he recovered control.
"Nice shooting, John-Wesley."
"Not nice enough," he growled, as another bullet cracked out of the barrel of his rifle, "He sweeps away his enemies in an overwhelming flood, and he pursues his foes into the darkness of night."
"Right." He looked at Will. "We're losing them."
"We are that. I'll stay on their tail. Who knows what'll happen?"
He heard John-Wesley intone, "Nearly, nearly, keep it like that, motherfuckers. Lord, I will smite them, and leave their bones to decay in the dust."
Nolan stared at him for a moment, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a religious ecstasy of hate.
Shit, he's getting worse. Even so, I hope his God is listening. We need all the help we can get.
* * *
"I'm hit!"
Nasriri looked at Bakr. He was the only man with any knowledge of small boats. If he died, it would be difficult for one of them to take over.
"Can you keep going?"
A pause. "I think so." Then he laughed, a loud cackle that made them all look up, "After all, the worst that can happen is it kills me."
He glanced at him nervously. The last thing he wanted was for his number two to break down in hysterics. "Hold it together, Abu. Not long now."
"I will manage." His eyes were screwed up in agony, "It hurts, Omar."
"Where did the bullet hit?"
"In my stomach."
Nasriri moved across to him and looked at the blood pooling on the deck boards, draining into the bilge.
"Just a few minutes more. Allah is watching over us, Abu. He is here, with us."
"It hurts."
"Just a little longer."
He looked at the pursuing boat. They were further away.
Good, they’re too slow to interfere.
"Abu, increase speed. We must get clear of that other boat."
"I will try."
He'd been clutching his stomach with one hand. He lifted the bloody hand to the throttle, and once more the boat surged forward. Nasriri watched the speed indicator. Seventy knots. Then he glanced behind; the boat was dropping back.
"You're losing them!"
"It's hard to steer a straight course, but I will do my..."
He didn't finish. A bright, red blotch blossomed on the side of his head, next to his ear. His hands fell from the wheel, yet the boat kept going. He realized in an instant that Abu was dead. Moreover, the craft was starting to turn, back toward their pursuers, and tilting up on one side.
I have to do something, now!
He dropped the AK and lunged for the wheel, simultaneously tossing Abu to the side. He shoved the steering over, increased the angle of the tilt, and moved it back the other way. Slowly, the craft began to right itself, but when he looked across, they were nearer. Much nearer.
His remaining men, Nazo, Ahmad, and Hosni, were staring at him, frozen. He nodded to the AK-47 lying on the deck.
"Ahmad, pick up the weapon. You must return fire and stop them getting nearer."
The man nodded and grabbed the gun. Nasriri pulled back on the throttles. He had to regain control, and as soon as they were on an even keel, he pushed them forward again. As he did so, he hit a huge wave head on, and tons of water cascaded over them. He cursed. His attention was on the boat behind them, but his lapse cost him another man.
"It's Nazo. He's gone," Hosni gasped, "That wave, it...no, Ahmad, no!"
The other man had leapt into the churning wake of the powerboat in an effort to save his friend. Nazo Tokhi was waving his hands, shouting for help.
"The stupid bastard," Nasriri snarled, as he swiveled his head to look, "Why did he do it?"
"He can't swim."
"Idiot. We must keep going, Hosni. We're nearly there."
The other man didn't reply. Nasriri ignored him and stared through the cracked windshield in triumph. The inlet to the Hudson was in sight. They were there. He looked at the small box screwed to the dashboard of the powerboat. It wasn't standard equipment but had been fitted by the engineer of the MV Rezam. There was a simple hinged cover. When he lifted it, he'd see a button inside one inch in diameter, recessed deep inside a protective ring, so it couldn't be pressed accidentally. When he pressed that button, they would be seconds from Paradise.
He looked forward again as another big wave smashed into them, and this time the boat reared up like a spooked horse. His hand raced for the throttle, and he pulled back, but as soon as the prow smacked down onto the water, he opened it up and picked up speed again.
* * *
He watched her hiding in a thicket about a hundred meters away. Stupid bitch, she was wearing a distinctive bright-colored zip jacket. He'd have spotted her a kilometer away. He pointed her out to his accomplice.
"Cristobal, circle around behind her. This time I don't want any mistakes. I'll arm the detonator."
"You got it. I thought I'd be sorry to see her go, but lately, that puta is getting on my nerves. Trying too hard to be Anglo. Motherfuckers, what's wrong with Colombians?"
"Yeah," he nodded, "Get moving."
"What about the USB stick?"
"I talked to the Jefe. He said to finish the job today. We'll tear her apartment to pieces afterward. It can't be far away. Don't worry about it, just make sure she doesn't leave this park."
"There'll be more than a few when that boat detonates," he chuckled.
A couple of people stared at him. "Quiet, Cristobal."
The man who'd used the first name 'Clay' for his assignment to befriend Esperanza loped away. Hidalgo took out the innocuous looking cellphone and switched it on. The signal showed full strength, which was no surprise. He'd checked it twice in the past week. After all, the death of a President was not something to be left the vagaries of chance.
He smiled; it was Señor Montez's idea, and a good one. His boss didn't trust the camel jockeys to do the job right. Sure, they'd drive the boat in toward the target, but at the last minute, they wouldn't be the first suicide bombers to change their minds or screw up in some way.
It had been simple to persuade the engineer on board the MV Rezam to install a little gadget, unseen by the Afghans. A modified cellphone, connected to the detonator. When Hidalgo pressed the programmed numbers, 911, it was goodbye Mr. President. The powerboat was nowhere in sight, so he took the time to search around for the girl. She'd vanished, but she wouldn't be far away. Cristobal would find her and kill her.
Pity, she's a nice looking girl. Nevertheless, her death is overdue. She needs to be put out of harm's way so we can recover what belongs to Señor Montez.
He glanced around, but there was still no sign of her. In the distance, he heard a new sound. SWAT helicopters flying out to the mouth of the Hudson. It meant they'd noticed the powerboat heading in and were rushing to respond. It was expected, but they'd be too slow, much too slow.
No way can they stop them, not now.
* * *
Ryder fired again and again. He seemed to have the range and deflection angle sorted, and bullet after bullet whacked into the fast moving powerboat. He missed anything vital, tearing chunks out of the hull, splintering the upper works. And then a solid hit.
A man stood up to move forward to join the man at the wheel, and the heavy bullet took him plum in the center of his chest, probably a heart shot. His hands flew up in the air. He dropped the assault rifle he'd been holding and tipped over the side. He heard Ryder chuckle, and then hiss fury at his victims.
"The Lord has prepared his people for a great slaughter and has chosen their executioners. The awesome day of the Lord's judgment has come."
Ryder went quiet and focused on the remaining man. Five rounds spat from his rifle, and then it clicked on empty. The man driving the powerboat suddenly looked at them, and at that moment, Brad emptied yet another clip at him that caused him to flinch away. He turned the wheel, and the boat almost overturned. He corrected, but they were nearly up with him.
"Chief, we're nearly there!" Will shouted, "If we don't stop him now, it's all over. Stupid bastard nearly lost it then. Another mistake, and I'll be alongside him."
"We'll be ready."
He looked ahead. They were about to go under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Staten Island lay to their right, and on their left, the Fort Wadsworth Light. They'd entered the Hudson River, and Liberty Island was dead ahead. The hostile saw it, too, and increased speed. Will drove the boat like a man possessed. He seemed to anticipate every single wave, riding with them, using them to get every ounce of speed out of his boat.
Suddenly, a helo roared overhead, and a voice boomed out.
"Both vessels, you are ordered to stop. This is the New York Police. Stop or we shoot. You must stop now!"
The man driving the other boat looked up, leaned down, and picked up the fallen assault rifle. He squeezed off a panicked burst in the direction of the helo. It veered away, but he'd lost control again just for a fraction of a second, enough for Will to get close. Nolan didn't hesitate, and he jumped.
Behind him, he could see men, divers, jumping into the water, and two men leapt onto Will's boat from a low flying helo. He landed half on, half off the hull of the speeding enemy boat. The driver swung around, and his face expressed astonishment. He battered the Seal with the barrel of his rifle, unable to bring it to bear for a shot.
Overhead, the loudhailer in the helo was still shouting at them, and then they opened fire. A line of shots zipped across the surface of the Hudson, spitting up small spouts of water. Someone shouted, a second loudhailer, and the shooting stopped. Unsurprisingly, they didn't want a trigger-happy gunner only a couple of hundred meters from the President. Nolan gripped a handhold, the edge of a seat, and started to pull himself on board. He had to use both hands, and the man kept battering with the barrel of the AK.
At last, he managed to swing his body more inside the boat than out. He wrenched the rifle away and tossed it over the side. He glanced up. They were almost at Liberty Island. The President's yacht was only fifty meters ahead. The hostile looked in the same direction and smiled. It was more baring of the teeth than a smile, savage, feral, the anticipation of death. He made a grab for a small box fitted to the dashboard and lifted the cover. Nolan had a searing moment of realization.
Fuck! It's the detonator. If he touches that, I'm dead. We're all dead.
He gripped the man's wrist in both hands and wrenched it away. The man's other hand disappeared into his coat and came out clutching a huge knife. He swung, and Nolan felt the cut as it sliced into his face, a long cut down from his forehead to his chin. Blood started to trickle down over his eyes, and he knocked the knife aside to prevent a second killing blow. He only had one hand free. The other had to block him reaching the detonator.
In a sudden move that almost took him by surprise, his opponent took his hand away from the detonator and swung at Nolan, a hard punch that connected with his chin. It was like being hit by a sledgehammer, and he fought back. He had to keep one hand covering the detonator box while the other man, using his weakness, used both hands, one with the knife, to fight. He was both strong and desperate, and Nolan felt himself being driven back by the relentless assault.
He saw an opening and punched hard, a pile driver that took the other man in the guts. The breath hissed out of him, and he reeled back, but he curved around, and the knife sliced though Nolan's arm. He blocked the follow up blow, but his vision was clouding, blood dripped into his eyes, and more blood was spurting from a deep wound to his arm. He tried to use it to block another heavy blow, but it was weak and slow. His opponent sensed victory.
A few meters away, more men were shouting, men in suits, sunglasses, earpieces. Secret Service, yet no one fired. He could hardly believe it, and then he understood. So far, they didn't know which man to shoot at, and more importantly, the deadly cargo carried inside the hull of the powerboat. The other man made another dive for the button. Nolan blocked him and received another cut for his efforts, this time to the other arm. His vision was fading, and he knew he had to do something fast. He lunged at the man in a last desperate grab, intending to take them both overboard, when a single shot rang out. It was the last sound he heard.
* * *
"You!" she stared at Hidalgo.
He smiled. "Me. Did you think we'd forgotten about Papa's little girl?"
"You killed him, all of them, my family. You bastard!"
He shrugged. "It's business, Señorita Flores, nothing more. Give me the USB stick, and maybe I'll let you live."
"Fuck you, hijo de puta!"
His smile faded. "Call me a son of a whore? You'll regret that, Esperanza."
"Are you okay, Ma'am?"
She turned to look at the stranger. "Who are you?"
"The name's Evers, Danny Evers. Is this man troubling you?"
She trembled with indecision.
Should I trust this person? He could even be working for Montez.
Before she could decide, it all happened.
Hidalgo's hand went inside his coat, slowly, and she knew he was reaching for his gun. She had a second; the element of surprise would give her no more. She'd practiced the move, and her hand swept inside her purse, touched the cold butt of the HK USP compact. Yet it was too late, the Colombian was already aiming his pistol. She was dead. It was all for nothing.
She was knocked aside as the man called Evers shoved her violently out of the way. Hidalgo fired, and the bullet took him in the head. He was already dead as he fell, but she had time to sweep her pistol up into the aim, and she fired. A single shot that slammed into the other man's chest.
Hidalgo went down, and the smile slipped from his face. His gun was out, and it fell from his hand. People were running, screaming, shouting, and panicking. She ignored them all. It was as if she was inside a bubble. His lips moved, and he said a single word.
