Lost Empire (Fargo Adventures 2)

“Yaotl!” Hawk Nose’s voice echoed over the water.

“Hurry,” Sam said to Remi, then climbed aboard the Zodiac and took a seat at the motor. “Stay on the port side. I’ll drag you back to the Andreyale.”

Remi swam around and grabbed the oar hook with two fingers. Sam revved the motor, and the Zodiac glided out from behind the mangrove. Sam found the man’s—Yaotl’s—flashlight where it had fallen, picked it up, and aimed it at the other two Zodiacs, which come to a halt. Sam flashed the beam twice and raised a casual hand, praying it would be enough. He held his breath.

Nothing from the Zodiacs. Ten seconds passed. And then the double wink of a flashlight followed by a raised hand. “Yaotl . . . ¡Apúrate!”

Sam guided the Zodiac to the Andreyale’s stern, using the length of the boat to hide their movements. Remi climbed aboard, and together they rolled Yaotl over the gunwale. He landed with a thump on the afterdeck.

“Now what?” Remi asked.

“Tie him up, hands and feet to the cleats, and search him. I’ve got to catch up with my new friends.” Remi opened her mouth to protest, but Sam interrupted: “I need my mask and the binoculars.” She went into the cabin with both items and traded them for Sam’s gaff. “Don’t worry, Remi, I’ll keep my distance.”

“And when you can’t any longer?”

“I’ll have a terrible mishap.”

He gave her a wink, revved the engine, and motored away.

HAWK NOSE and the other man had continued on. By the time Sam reached the midpoint of the lagoon, they were turning west into the inlet. Sam mentally recalled the twists and turns of the inlet, did a few quick calculations, and kept going. Fifty feet from the entrance, he slowed to idle and listened. No sound of the other motors. He revved up, kept going, and made the turn. A hundred yards ahead the other two were moving single file through the inlet. Beyond them, about a half mile away, Sam could see the inlet widening into Chumbe Island’s shoals. He lifted the binoculars to his face and scanned the channel. Nothing was moving, and no lights were visible within ten miles—save one. A mile to the southwest, a single white light hovered thirty feet off the water—the international signal for a boat at anchor. The boat itself was bow on, rake stemmed, with a gleaming white superstructure, clearly a luxury yacht. The mother ship, perhaps?

Hawk Nose and his partner veered left and disappeared from view momentarily. Time to prepare for the mishap: Sam throttled down, veered left, and let the Zodiac ground itself on the sand. A quick glance around gave him what he needed: a dagger-shaped rock. He grabbed it, shoved the Zodiac back into the inlet, jumped aboard, and took off again.

So far Sam’s luck was holding. Aside from a few backward glances to make sure “Yaotl” was following, neither Hawk Nose nor his partner slowed to let him catch up. The remainder of the transit took ten minutes, and soon enough Sam could see the other two Zodiacs jostling as they moved into the shoals.

“Come on, guys, show me where you’re going,” Sam muttered.

Now clear of the shoals, Hawk Nose and his partner veered left and headed toward the yacht. Two minutes later Sam was himself in the shoals, but he put on a few more degrees left rudder, steering the Zodiac nearly parallel to the bank in which they’d found the bell. Onshore, landmarks began looking familiar. He was within twenty yards of the precipice. It was time.

He grabbed the rock from between his feet, leaned over the side, stabbed the tip into the rubber sidewall, and heaved backward. He repeated the process twice more until he’d created a ragged eight-inch gash. He tossed the rock over the side and checked the progress of the other two Zodiacs: they were a few hundred yards out into the main channel and still heading for the yacht.

It took only twenty seconds for Sam’s sabotage to take effect. The Zodiac began slowing, shuddering and wallowing as water gushed into the sidewall. He gave the throttle one last twist, then let out what he hoped would sound like a panicked scream, then rolled over the side.

He ducked underwater, settled the mask over his face, blew it clear, then clamped the snorkel’s mouthpiece between his teeth. He went still now, floating with just his eyes and the tip of the snorkel above the surface.

His scream had done the trick. Hawk Nose and his partner had reversed course and were heading at top speed toward the rapidly deflating Zodiac, which was now drifting twenty yards to Sam’s left—and directly over the precipice. When the rescuers were fifty yards away, flashlights blinked on and began scanning the surface.

“Yaotl!” Hawk Nose called. “Yaotl!” The other man joined in.

Sam had been hyperventilating his lungs for the past minute. Now he took one final deep breath, ducked beneath the surface, and finned toward the bank. He was there in ten kicks. He turned so Hawk Nose and the other were on his right, then begin finning north along the bank, occasionally glancing back to check the location of the flashlight beams. Both Zodiacs had converged on the remains of the third.

“Yaotl!” Sam heard through the water. Then again, this time more strident: “Yaotl!”

Sam kept swimming. Behind him, the deflated raft was being dragged from the water and into one of the Zodiacs. Sam stopped, held still. He felt the ache of oxygen depletion in his lungs and a tingle of panic in his neck. He quashed it and remained still.

After what seemed like minutes but was no more than thirty seconds, the Zodiacs revved up, came about, and headed back into the channel.

Sam finned for the surface.

CHAPTER 7

ZANZIBAR

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER WHEN SAM CLIMBED BACK ABOARD the Andreyale, he found Remi sitting in a deck chair casually sipping a bottle of Kenyan Tusker beer. Their guest, Yaotl, lay like a defeated game fish on the deck, back bent, wrists bound to his feet, these in turn knotted to the nearest cleat. He was still unconscious.

“Welcome back,” she said, handing him a beer. “How’d the mishap go?”

“They seemed to have bought it. How’s he?”