Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“I’ll get it,” Dirk said. “I need to retrieve my float marker anyway. Maybe you can scavenge something to eat from the cooler while I’m gone.”

“No,” Torres said, “we shall have a celebratory dinner in Zimapán, and the tequila shall be on me.”

Dirk grinned. “A better offer I haven’t had in a month of Sundays.”

He hiked to the water’s edge, donned his tank and mask, and swam to the float. He took a quick glance up and noticed an odd swirl of dust rising atop the ridge. Thinking nothing of it, he emptied his buoyancy compensator and sank beneath the surface.

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The white Jeep Cherokee came barreling up the ridge like a speeding cheetah, its tires chewing up the incline with ease. Reaching the summit, it made a hasty beeline for the university van. The Jeep’s driver didn’t bother picking an easy descent but drove straight down the ridge and slid to a stop in front of the van. A patch of loose gravel skittered over the edge of the rock face into the water below.

Summer casually kicked the sleeping pad over the stone and stepped in front of it as three men hopped from the Jeep. Each wore a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a black scarf wrapped around his face. Two held automatic handguns, which they leveled at Summer and Torres.

“What is this?” Torres snapped. “We have no drugs or money.” Though they were far south of the major drug cartel homeland states, Torres knew the violent organizations had a long reach.

“Shut up, old man, and stand aside,” one of the gunmen said. He waved his pistol at Summer. “You, too.”

Torres and Summer backed away as the other gunman stepped forward and threw back the cover from the stone.

“Is this it?” he asked.

The unarmed man stepped closer with a measured ease that was in marked contrast to the two men holding weapons. Clearly older than the others, he was the obvious group leader.

He studied the Aztec stone with a patient gaze. Satisfied, he nodded at his accomplices, then pointed to the back of the Jeep. The nearest gunman, who wore a red shirt, opened the deck lid and then joined the other man. They holstered their weapons and hoisted the stone off the ground.

“No!” Torres shouted. “That’s an important historical artifact.”

He stepped forward and shoved the nearest man, who lost his grip on the stone and fell backward. The other gunman let go as the stone thumped to the ground. In an instant, his pistol was back in his hand. Without hesitation, he raised and fired three shots into Torres’s chest.

Summer screamed as the archeologist staggered back. His eyelids fluttered and then he fell to the ground. Everyone else froze as the sound of the gunshots echoed off the surrounding hills.

“Imbécil!” the trio’s leader cried. He grabbed the gun and pointed at the stone. “Rápidamente.”

The two gunmen ferried the stone to the back of the Jeep as their boss kept a watchful eye on Summer. She knelt beside Torres but quickly realized he was dead.

“You killed him for a carved stone!” she cried, rising to her feet.

The two gunmen returned and spoke with their leader in low voices. One produced a knife and cut a short length from the rope. He then reached over and grabbed one of Summer’s wrists.

She swung her opposite elbow and slammed it into the man’s jaw. As he tumbled back, she took a step to run but froze as a gunshot rang out.

It was the group’s leader, firing a shot into

the side of the van inches from Summer. He eased the gun sideways, taking aim at her. “The next one won’t miss.”

Logic, and the thought of her brother in the water below, overcame her anger. She remained still as the woozy gunman rose and bound Summer’s wrists behind her. After a quiet conversation with the leader, the gunman in the red shirt approached Summer. “Where is the other man who was with you?”

Summer stared straight ahead and said nothing. The leader strode to the edge of the bluff and stared into the water. Dirk’s float bag bobbed directly below. The water was clear enough that he could just make out the ledge fronted the cave. He gazed back to the mass of small boulders in front of the Jeep. They were in perfect alignment.

He pointed at Summer and motioned toward the Jeep. Red Shirt grabbed her arm and pushed her into the backseat, then helped the other two drag Torres’s body and roll it off the bluff. Summer grimaced as the body hit the water below with a sickening splash. The man with the knife then went to work on the van, slashing each of its tires.

Satisfied with their handiwork, the three men returned to the Jeep. Red Shirt climbed in back and held a pistol on Summer, while the other two sat in front. The leader took the wheel, but instead of backing up, he let the Jeep roll forward against one of the blockading boulders. He put the Jeep in low gear and eased the accelerator, shoving the boulder forward. Smaller rocks in front of it began sliding over the bluff, raining down into the water below. The boulder soon gave way, tumbling into the lake.

The Jeep backed up and took aim at an adjacent wall of rocks stacked high near the edge. The driver nudged at the pile, backing up hurriedly when one slammed onto the hood. Another push broke loose a lower supporting rock and the entire pile cascaded over the side, taking with it a thick chunk of the cliff. The Jeep nearly joined the avalanche, but the driver shifted into reverse and gunned the engine just in time. He turned and headed up the ridge as several tons of rock and debris slid down into the reservoir.

Summer sat stoically, anger showing only in the creases of her eyelids. As the lake vanished in a swirl of dust behind them, she could only pray silently for her brother’s safety.

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