White Death (NUMA Files 4)

Austin was relieved to see that the warehouse was still deserted. Soon he could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves. He had his hand tight against his chest, but he couldn't stanch the bleeding completely. Even worse, he was leaving a trail of blood droplets. A siren wailed in the distance. He was trotting past the forklift when a thought struck him. He was making it too easy for these guys.

He slid into the forklift seat, started the motor, aimed the tines at a tall stack of food cartons and nailed the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward and smashed into the boxes with enough force to topple them. The boxes crashed onto the conveyor belt and blocked the opening. He knocked over a couple more piles in front of the ac- cess and freight doors. As a finishing touch, he jammed a tine into the control box for the conveyor belt.

Moments later, he was hurrying through the caverns. He paused in the main picture gallery and listened. He could hear yells over his own heavy breathing. An even worse sound was the barking of dogs. His crude barricade had been breached. He continued at a measured trot, following the bobbing bull's-eye of the flashlight. In his haste, he mistook one fish marker for another and lost precious moments finding his way back. The shouts and barks were louder now, and he could see the phantasmagoric glow of lights behind him. The caves amplified and echoed the voices, creating the impression that a whole army was after him.

The stutter of an automatic weapon echoed throughout the caves. Austin dove for the floor, and a hail of bullets splattered harmlessly against the walls. He tried to ignore the searing pain of his chest wound and scrambled to his feet. Another fusillade raked the pas- sageway, but by then he was around a curve and the angled wall pro- tected him. Seconds later, he was squeezing through the last narrow passageway, then he was out and climbing down the natural staircase to the boat.

When he tried to start the engine, it coughed. He reached down into the cold water with his right hand, cleaned the seaweed that had tangled the propeller and tried the starter again. This time, the motor responded. As he pulled away and pointed the boat toward the canal that would take him back to the Mermaid's Gate, two black-clad fig- ures climbed down to the edge of the pool. The beams from their flashlights caught him, but they also illuminated the canal opening.

Austin aimed for the cleft and slammed against the sides of the canal, tearing off hunks of wood. He saw gray daylight ahead, and then the boat burst into the Mermaid's Gate. He snapped the wheel over. The boat made a sharp right turn toward the opening, but the slack current was ending and the devilish confluence of tides and cur- rents had returned. The boat slid sideways down the side of a wave and headed for a wood-splintering collision with the far wall, only to be saved when another billow pitched it back toward the canal opening.

Austin gunned the throttle, trying to gain control. The boat skid- ded as if it were riding on banana peels. He gave the wheel a quick jerk to avoid crashing into a jagged outcropping that would have sliced the boat in two. The propeller tinged against an underwater ledge. He brought the boat around again, but the waves caught him in another game ofFrisbee toss. The double-ender lost headway and was pushed backward into the grotto. Austin gauged the ebb and flow of the circulating wa

ter and in desperation aimed for a V that marked a calmer area between currents.

As the boat fishtailed toward the opening, Austin saw that he had company. His pursuers had made their way along the ledges that bordered the canal. They stood on the rocks only yards away from where he was about to pass.

One of the men aimed his rifle at Austin, who was an easy target, but his companion pushed the barrel down. He undipped a hand grenade from his belt, tossed it lightly in the air a few times like a baseball pitcher warming up, then as Austin passed, the man pulled the pin, holding down on the lever. Austin's eyes glanced from the grenade and into the merciless face of the man who had stabbed him. His nose was a bloody pulp and streams of blood had caked on his cheeks. He must have been in terrible pain, but the face broadened into a wide grin as he leisurely lofted the grenade into Austin's boat. Then he and the other man ducked behind an outcropping of rocks and covered their ears.

The arcing grenade clunked into the boat, landing practically at

Austin's feet. Austin wrung the last bit of torque out of the engine. The boat planed at a sharp angle, and the grenade rolled down the deck until it lodged against the narrow transom.

The boat burst through the arch into the open water. Choosing be- tween the devil and the deep blue sea, Austin instinctively chose the latter: A part of his brain made the choice between being blown to bits instantaneously and freezing to death in a few minutes. He launched his body off the boat.

He plunged into the frigid water, and, a second later, heard the muffled thud of the grenade, then the fuel tanks erupted in a sec- ondary explosion. Austin stayed under as long as he could and sur- faced under a rainfall of wood splinters. The boat was gone, and he dove again to avoid the burning fuel that floated on the water's sur- face. When he came up a second time, he was numb with cold, but the survival instinct burned in his chest. He started to swim in the di- rection of land, but he had taken only a few more strokes before his joints felt as if someone had poured liquid oxygen into them.

Over the wave-tops, he caught a blurred glimpse of a boat speed- ing his way: His pursuers were no doubt coming to finish off the job. A gurgled laugh escaped from his throat. By the time they ar- rived, he'd be nothing but a giant Slurpee.

13

SECONDS BEFORE HE slipped below the surface, however, Austin's one-way trip to Davey Jones's locker was cut short. A hand reached over the side of the launch and grabbed him by the hair. His teeth clacked like a pair of castanets, and his scalp felt as if it were being pulled out by the roots. Then other hands were grabbing him by the armpits and collar, and he was hauled from the sea, sputter- ing and coughing, like a kitten in a well.

His legs were still dangling in the water when the motor launch took off and raced over the waves with a roar of jet propulsion en- gines, its bow high in the air. Through blurred vision, Austin saw, to his surprise, that they were swinging alongside the blue yacht. Semi-conscious, he was passed up to the deck and carried to what must be the sick bay, where he was relieved of his soggy clothes, wrapped in warm towels and examined by a frowning man with a stethoscope. Then he was thrust into a sauna, where, eventually, he could move his fingers and toes. He was examined a second time and given a blue fleece sweat suit to wear. Apparently, he was going to live.

His transition from near-death to near-life was accomplished under the watchful eye of two men, built like professional wrestlers, who spoke to each other in Spanish. The same guard dogs escorted him as he walked on rubber legs to a luxurious stateroom. They set- tled him into a comfortable reclining chair, covered him with a soft blanket and left him to rest.

Austin fell into an exhausted sleep. When he awakened, he saw

that he was under scrutiny by a pair of dark eyes. A man sat in an armchair, watching him from a few feet away, as if he were a speci- men on a lab slide.

The man grinned when he saw Austin's eyelids flutter. "Good. You're awake," he said. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke American English with only a hint of an accent.

The man reached over to a side table for a silver-plated flask and poured Austin a drink. With shaking fingers, Austin swirled the greenish-yellow amber liquor around in the bottom of the brandy snifter, breathed in the heavy fumes and took a deep sip. The fiery herbal liquor trickled down his throat, and its warmth spread throughout his body.

Austin glanced at the flask. "This tastes too good to be antifreeze, but the effect is the same."

The man chuckled and took a swig from the flask. "Green Izarra is one hundred proof," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's usually served in glasses hardly bigger than your thumb. I thought a little extra might be of benefit in your case. How is your wound?"

Austin's hand reached down and touched his ribs. He could feel the stiffness of a bandage under his shirt, but there was no pain, even when he pressed with his fingers. He remembered the flash of white as the ivory knife slashed his flesh.

"How bad was it?"

"Another half-inch deeper and we would have been burying you at sea." The grim assessment was accompanied by a grin. "It feels okay."

"My ship's doctor is an expert in treating trauma. He sewed you up and froze the wound."

Austin glanced around at his surroundings, his memories return- ing. "Ship's doctor? This is the blue yacht, isn't it?"