Medusa

As Gamay helped Lee to her feet, Lee gazed at her deadly handiwork.

“I’ve never done anything like that,” she said. “Never.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Gamay said. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He came up while I was getting my kayak and struck me with his gun. He said he’d been watching me, and that others were coming in a boat to take me away.”

Gamay suddenly put her hand on Lee’s arm.

“Listen,” she said.

Excited voices talking in Chinese could be heard coming along the path. The others had arrived.

Lee’s kayak was righted and dragged to the water. She produced a spare plastic-and-aluminum paddle for Gamay to use. They both shoved their kayaks off the beach and paddled madly. They were about a hundred feet from the mangroves when flashlight beams probed the water around them.

The shafts of light reflected off the shiny fiberglass hulls. Gamay told Lee to hug the shore, where they’d make a more difficult target. She tensed, expecting gunfire, but the lights blinked out.

“They are going back to their boat,” Lee said. “They will come around the other end of the island and intercept us.”

“How long before they get there?” Gamay asked, without breaking the rhythm of her strokes.

“Five, ten minutes, maybe. What should we do?”

“Paddle as if our lives depended on it . . . because they do.”

They put their backs into each stroke and made it out of the cove, but the sound of a boat engine soon shattered the quiet of the night. A spotlight moved slowly back and forth across the water. There was no place along the shore where they could put in and hide. Thick, gnarly roots extended out from mangroves, forming a formidable barrier.

A silhouette loomed ahead. They were coming up on the grounded cabin cruiser. Gamay paddled toward the old boat with Lee right behind. They climbed aboard the derelict, pulling their kayaks up behind them, and lay facedown on the rotting deck.

Through cracks in the hull, they saw the spotlight go past the cruiser. For a second, Gamay entertained a flash of optimism, but that faded as the search boat changed direction, circled the wreck, and came closer. The spotlight filtered through the cracks and fell on their faces.

The women’s pursuers peppered the cabin cruiser with gunfire, starting with the elevated bow and working back toward the stern. They took their time, pumping round after round into the pilothouse. Splinters showered the two women. Gamay covered her head with her hands and cursed her own stupidity. The only thing they had accomplished by climbing on the old boat was to give these bozos some target practice. It would only be a matter of seconds before the bullets found them.

Then the firing stopped.

Gamay expected the attackers to swarm aboard, but instead a bottle filled with flaming gasoline arced through the air and landed on the deck. Crackling fire from the Molotov cocktail spread in a blazing puddle that lapped at their feet. The heat became unbearable. The two women stood up, preferring to be shot rather than be burned to death. But the boat carrying their assailants was moving away from them and picking up speed. By then, the cabin cruiser had become a blazing torch.

“Jump!” Gamay yelled.

They dove into the water and swam away from the burning wreck. They struck out for the nearest mangrove and had only gone a short distance before they heard a boat engine again and saw a spotlight coming their way.

Gamay’s hopes were dashed. The shooters were coming back to finish them off.

The boat slowed and the spotlight played over the water, finally finding the pair of swimmers. Gamay expected that the rattle of gunfire would be the last thing she would ever hear, but instead a familiar voice rang out.

“Gamay,” Paul Trout called, “is that you?”

She stopped swimming and began to tread water. She stuck a hand in the air. The boat edged closer, looming over them, and she looked up to see Paul Trout’s long arms reaching down to pull her to safety.

CHAPTER 25

ZAVALA SWUNG HIS CORVETTE INTO THE PARKING LOT OF the Eden Center shopping mall in Falls Church, Virginia, as Charlie Yoo had instructed. The Chinese agent was waiting for Zavala near the clock tower in a black government-issue Ford Crown Victoria. He rolled down the window.

“Where’s your friend Austin?”

“Delayed,” Zavala said. “He’ll catch up with us later. Or we can wait.”

Yoo frowned, raised an index finger indicating Zavala should wait, and rolled up the window. Zavala could see Yoo’s lips moving and assumed he was talking on a wireless Bluetooth setup. Then the window came down.

“The guys on stakeout said to come along now. You can call Austin later and tell him where you are. Hop in.”

Zavala didn’t like the idea of leaving his prized Corvette in a public parking lot, but he raised the convertible top, locked the door, and slid into the passenger’s seat of the Crown Victoria. Yoo drove out of the parking lot, through Seven Corners, and toward Wilson Boulevard, slowing after a few miles to take an off-ramp. After a short drive, they came to an industrial park consisting of large metal-sheathed buildings spread over several blocks. Except for the amber security lights over the loading-dock doors, the complex was dark and seemingly deserted.

Zavala expected Yoo to pull over and park before they got to the stakeout so that they would walk the rest of the way. Yoo slowed the car to a crawl, then, without stopping, hooked the steering wheel over to the right and accelerated through an open gate with a sign on it that read GOOD LUCK FORTUNE COOKIE COMPANY.

Yoo kept his foot on the gas pedal, swerved behind the building in a g-force turn, then pointed the car at a garage door. As the car headed for the big black square, Zavala braced himself for the impact, but then the headlights showed that the door was almost fully open. Yoo finally hit the brakes inside the warehouse, sending the car into a fishtail skid into a wall of cardboard cartons.

The car’s grille slammed into the cardboard boxes with a loud crunching sound. The boxes split wide open, spilling dozens of plastic-wrapped fortune cookies over the hood.

The car’s air bags exploded, cushioning the impact further.

Zavala caught his breath, then reached down and unclasped his seat belt. Pushing his air bag aside, he saw that Yoo was not in the driver’s seat. Zavala’s exit from the car was less than graceful, and he fell onto one knee. He was slow to anger, but as he got to his feet he wanted to rip Yoo’s head off.

The overhead lights snapped on. Charlie Yoo was nowhere to be seen, but Zavala was not alone.

He was surrounded by several Asian men, all dressed in black running suits, and all carrying automatic weapons that were pointed at his midsection.

The closest man poked Zavala in the gut with the barrel of his gun.

“Move,” he ordered.

CHAPTER 26

AUSTIN FLIPPED OVER THE LAST PAGE OF THE VOLUMINOUS file on Pyramid Trading Company, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. The picture that the file painted was of a vast corporation with no regard for human life. Pyramid had put out more than three hundred harmful products. It had exported tainted fish, killer pet food, unsafe tires, and poisoned toothpaste, candy, vitamins, and drugs. Under international pressure, the Chinese government had admitted that there was a problem with Pyramid and promised to remedy the situation. But nothing in what Austin had read would explain why Pyramid would go after Kane and his research project.

Austin went over to a window and gazed down at the lights of Washington as if they might coalesce into a