Scorpion (20 page)

Then the bomb went off.

Broxton threw himself at Ramsingh, pushing him onto the floor and covering him with his body. The room seemed to vibrate, but the windows didn’t break and the explosion was muffled.

“
I’m all right,” Ramsingh said. Broxton eased himself off and helped the prime minister up.

“
It won’t take them long to find out you weren’t over there. Then they’ll come here,” Broxton said. “We have to go, now.”

Ramsingh reached for his bag.

“
Leave it.”

“
I can’t, it’s got government papers in it.”

“
Your life’s worth more,” Broxton said on his way to the door.

“
I’m leaving it.” Ramsingh stepped into the hall behind Broxton. The doors to every occupied room on the floor were open and the hallway was teaming with people in various stages of dress and undress.

“
What happened?” a female voice said.

“
Sounds like the boiler blew,” a man said.

“
They don’t have boilers anymore, at least not on the fifteenth floor,” another voice said.

“
We’ll take the stairs,” Broxton said, leading Ramsingh toward the stairway at the end of the hall.”

“
Billy.” Broxton recognized Dani’s voice and stopped.

“
Are you all right?” he called toward her.

“
What happened?” she said, pushing her way through the throng toward them.

“
I don’t know, but we’re leaving.”

“
The elevator’s the other way.”

“
We’re going down the stairs.”

“
Let’s go.” She followed them through the excited crowd toward the end of the hall and the staircase.

The stairway was lighted and empty. Broxton took the steps two at a time, the prime minister and Dani doing the same as they passed floor after floor. They were four floors down with ten to go when the fire alarm went off and Broxton quickened his pace. They were five more floors down with five to go when they met the first panicked person entering the stairway.

“
Is the hotel on fire?” she asked. She was a young mother, with a baby in her arms.

“
I don’t know,” Broxton said, stopping and gathering his breath. He was panting heavily, but both Ramsingh and Dani looked like they’d just been out for a short walk. “We have to go.”

“
I can’t go down with the baby.”

“
Give it to me,” Broxton said. The woman handed over her child and Broxton again started downward. Three more floors and the stairway started filling up. Broxton pushed into the panicked people, yelling out, “Please make way, my baby’s not breathing, please make way,” and the frightened people moved aside as Broxton, the baby’s mother, Ramsingh and Dani hurried down the stairs.

Broxton burst through the door at the bottom and jogged through the lobby with his troop still following behind. The fire alarm was still wailing, short, steady blasts, but the people in the lobby appeared more curious than panicked. A few were headed for the doorway, but most were standing around like they were at a garden party, talking, laughing, wondering what the fuss was about.

Outside, Broxton saw a couple getting out of a late model Mercedes. A man in an evening jacket was holding the door for a woman dressed like she was going to the Academy Awards. The parking valet was standing solicitously to the side, waiting for the keys.

“
You’re safe now,” Broxton said, handing the baby over to the young mother.

“
Thank you,” she said.

“
Dani, see that she’s all right,” Broxton said. Then he stepped over toward the Mercedes as the overdressed gentleman was dropping the keys into the valet’s hand and he snatched them out of the air.

“
I’m going to borrow the car for a bit. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt it.”

“
See here,” the man said. Two words and Broxton knew he was British.

“
Life and death, forgive me,” Broxton said. Then he turned away from the man and held the door as Ramsingh slid into the passenger seat.

“
Life and death?” the man said. Broxton nodded and noticed a big man leaning on a palm tree, watching him. He was speaking into a handheld radio and Broxton had the impression that he and the prime minister were the subject of the conversation. They locked eyes for an instant, then Broxton hustled around to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.

“
Yes, sir.” Broxton opened the door. “I don’t know where I’ll leave it, but I’ll try and leave it safe.”

“
Don’t worry about the car, just keep the prime minister safe, son.”

Broxton hesitated and met the man’s wolf gray eyes. “You know?”

“
I can guess, now go.”

Broxton slipped into the car, started it and spun the wheels.

Chapter Thirteen

“
He just split with the baggage in a black Mercedes and he’s headed out.” Earl was talking into an miniature handheld VHF radio. He was broadcasting on 01, a channel seldom used by boaters in Venezuela, and the radio was fitted with a scrambler. No one was going to eavesdrop on his conversation.

“
This is Undertaker, I have the Mercedes. I’ll take it from here.” Earl didn’t know who his backup was and he didn’t care. He’d done his part. It wasn’t his fault if the woman couldn’t get it right.

“
This is Lawman. Am I out of it now?” Earl said into the radio.

“
You are not. Get your car and follow. Undertaker will give you directions. Black Widow out.”

“
Copy,” Earl said. He respected the authority in her voice and he sprinted toward the parking lot and the small Ford Escort. Usually he liked bigger, faster cars, but the Escort was in the lot with its windows down. Easy to get in. Easy to get the hood up. Easy to hotwire. Better than a rental.

“
He’s turned left out of the parking lot. I’m right behind him,” his backup said over the radio.

“
Undertaker, drop back, give him some room, and remember, nothing happens to Broxton.” She called herself Black Widow and just by hearing her voice, Earl knew she was capable of eating her mate, her young, too.

“
I see them, up ahead, they’re turning again. Left, toward the marina,” Undertaker’s voice came over the radio. Earl wondered if the British accent was real.

“
Copy,” he said into his radio.

“
Copy,” Black Widow said. He wondered where she was. Probably still back in the hotel. What a looker, he thought. What a straight on good looking piece of deadly work.

“
I think he’s spotted me,” Undertaker said.

* * *

Broxton saw the headlights behind and stepped on the gas. He couldn’t be sure the car in back was part of the assassination attempt, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t either. Trust no one, suspect everyone, get away. He was racing along the beach and the full moon lit up the phosphorus in the breaking waves. The car behind accelerated too, and then Broxton was sure.

The Mercedes gobbled up the road, blurring the broken center line. Broxton checked the rearview mirror. The headlights behind were fading. They were moving away from their pursuers.

“
The road ends,” Ramsingh said. Broxton snapped his eyes back to the road, and slapped his foot onto the brakes.

“
Shit,” he said, as the car slid out of control, leaving the road and heading toward the water. Frantically he spun the wheel away from the beach sand and back toward the center of the pavement. Instinctively he knew it was the wrong thing to do. He should be turning into the slide. But that was book learning, this was real and he’d just fucked up.

The right wheels left the ground and Broxton yelled out, “We’re going over!”

Then he stiffened his hands on the wheel, bracing himself as the big car continued its two wheeled spin onto the sand. Ramsingh’s side of the car was up in the air and the prime minister wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He struggled to stay in place but the force and surprise of the slide sent him sliding down into Broxton as the two right wheels slammed back onto the ground, cushioned by the beach sand.

They’d spun around a hundred and eighty degrees and were off the road, facing the headlights racing toward them out of the night. The engine was still running and Ramsingh scooted back over toward his side of the car. “We should go,” he said. “Now,” he added.

“
Yeah,” Broxton said, adding gas. Then he was back on the road, charging toward an enemy car again. After so long, now twice in the same week.

“
What are you doing?” Ramsingh said, voice cool, like he was sitting in a bar ordering a gin and tonic.

“
Playing chicken,” Broxton said. “The last time I did this was a couple of days ago, with one of your police officers.” The back tires kicked off the last of the sand.

“
Who won?” Ramsingh said.

“
He did,” Broxton said, eyes glued onto the rushing headlights. Now, for him, there was no beach, no crashing waves, no lonely road, no prime minister. There was only the headlights, twin beams of death, racing toward him faster than his heart was racing out of control. Twice in the last week he’d taken a car into a spin and twice he’d panicked and done the wrong thing. Last time he told himself it was because he was driving on the left, this time he didn’t have that excuse, he just blew it.

And again he was back on Cherry Avenue, back in high school, playing chicken, only this time it wasn’t with a macho third world cop who would rather die than blink. This time he was playing with an assassin, and this time Broxton wasn’t going to blink.

He braced himself for the collision, but the on rushing car turned. Broxton grabbed a quick glance as they flew past. The driver jerked the wheel too fast and too far to the left. Broxton slammed on the brakes as the other car, a Jeep, left the road on its side. He heard the thunderous scraping of metal against concrete and then the car slammed onto its top, then over onto the other side, bouncing and sliding through the sand.

Broxton saw the headlights up ahead, “Another one,” he said as the Jeep hammered into the sea. It went into the water on the driver’s side, and Broxton shuddered for a flash of a second, thinking of the water rushing in around the man. Then he whipped the Mercedes around and accelerated away.

“
Remember the road ends,” Ramsingh said.

“
Yeah.” Broxton shifted into low, then he was going through a screaming right turn, following a sign with a long pointing arrow and the single word, ‘Marina.’ He didn’t know if the marina offered any help, or shelter, but he damn sure wasn’t going to charge another car. Not now, not ever again. He was going to quit that game while he was ahead. He was on a wide four lane road and the Mercedes was a thoroughbred. If the other car was another jeep he would have no trouble outdistancing it.

The engine was racing and Broxton grabbed the stick to shift out of low. “Shit,” he said.

“
What?”

“
Stuck.” The thoroughbred was stuck in low, it was rushing out of the starting gate, but it wasn’t going to canter or run. No way was he going to out distance anything.

“
Maybe it’s just someone out for a late night drive,” Ramsingh said.

“
They didn’t stop for the car that went off the highway,” Broxton said, pulling the wheel to the right and following another arrow, another marina sign, this one pointing left, and all of a sudden the heavy Mercedes was humping and bumping on a dirt road.

“
Slow down,” Ramsingh said, but Broxton already had his foot off the accelerator and he was gently tapping the brakes when the Mercedes coughed and died.

“
Shit, shit, shit,” he said as he tried the key.

Nothing.

“
We’re out of here,” Broxton said, opening his door.

* * *

Earl spun out of the parking lot and stepped on the gas, going through the gears like a pro.

“
Take the first left,” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio. He slammed on the brakes, skidding around the turn. He’d almost missed it. Then he was racing along a dark road, the pounding surf to his left, bare fields on the right. Up ahead he saw the two sets of headlights charging toward each other, like two bulls, fighting over the herd.

“
That’s some kind of crazy,” Earl said, and then Undertaker’s Jeep swerved left. The sudden jerk was too much for the top heavy car and it rolled onto its side, then onto its top as it slid off the road, toward the breaking waves. He slowed down, taking his foot off of the accelerator, downshifting into second as the Mercedes ahead spun around and took off like a rabbit running from the fox.

Unlike the Jeeps sold in America, the one sliding into the sea was built with a hard, square, boxy back. Earl noticed the hardtop right off. If his backup survived it would be the hardtop that saved his life.

“
Undertaker is down. Lost a game of chicken with your boy and is sliding into the surf as we speak,” Earl said into the radio. “Should I stop and offer assistance?”

“
Negative, keep after your quarry. I’m a minute behind. If he’s alive I’ll assist.”

More like put a bullet in the poor bastard’s brain, Earl thought, but “Affirmative” was all he said, as he stepped on the gas and took off after the Mercedes. It was about a quarter mile ahead. Earl punched the button on the glove box and took out her chrome-plated thirty-eight. Looked liked a pussy weapon, he thought, pretty and glittery, but deadly.