feet above the water. No way she could hear him now, even if he shouted loud as he could. If he jumped, he just might make it to the flat roof of the wheelhouse. It was pitching pretty badly. Still, it beat the hell out of swimming ashore in Hong Kong Harbor at night.
He jumped, clawing at the air, because Jet decided to hit the throttles while he was in midflight.
He made it, barely.
Fear lent him wings, as the saying goes.
When he clambered down to the afterdeck and ducked inside the wheelhouse, Jet was frozen at the helm. She was staring straight ahead, hands locked on the wheel at ten and two. Her pretty white dress was torn and bloodstained. She was barefoot. Her hair was messed up and matted with dark blood. He put a hand on her shoulder and she turned to look at him. There were black streaks down her cheeks under both eyes.
Already knowing the answer, Stoke said, “Hey. You okay?”
She looked away without answering.
“Hey. You have to talk to me.”
“I hope you found what you were looking for,” she said. Her voice, like her eyes, was dead.
“Yeah. I did. But I need to know something. Right now. I need—”
“He’ll be coming after us. You. Me. Most especially me.”
“What happened?”
“My father and my sister. When you didn’t come back, they figured it out. He was holding me down. The guards came in and he told them to go away. Locked the door. It was a family matter. He gave Bianca the knife. Told her to cut the traitor’s throat. Mine. And she would have, too. You should have seen her smile. So I hope you got the information you needed.”
“Jet, I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, you did the right thing.”
“The right thing? I killed my own sister. I almost killed my father.”
“That was self-defense, Jet. Cut yourself some slack.”
“Slack? My own father wants me dead. When General Moon wants you dead, there’s nowhere to run. It’s over, Stoke. We’re not getting out of China alive.”
“How did you leave him?”
“Unconcious. I shot him up with ketamine. A liquid anesthetic. He should be out for a couple of hours if I hit the right vein. After that—”
“Listen, Jet. I knew I’d have to leave in a hurry. Didn’t know for sure if you did. Now I do. There’s a seaplane.”
“Where?”
“On a temporary mooring in Kowloon Harbor. Six minutes from here. I’m taking it to Taiwan. There’s a State Department jet on the ground at Chiang Kai-shek Airport with its engines warming up. I’m taking you out of China. Okay?”
There was an imperceptible nod of her head.
“That’s a good decision,” Stoke said. “Thank you for what you did back there. One question I have to ask you. Where are the tankers? Where are all these big surprise packages, Jet? Now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do. Tell me.”
“I don’t know where the tankers are, Stoke! How would I? I know Leviathan sailed from Le Havre five days ago. She’s probably at the dock by now.”
“Which dock is that? Schatzi happen to say?”
“Pier 93, I think. New York City.”
“Jesus, Jet. Is there a plutonium bomb on that cruise ship?”
“What?”
“I think there is a bomb aboard that ship. Remember that weird-looking keel on that Leviathan model in Germany? Big damn bulge at the bottom of it. A bulb keel you called it. There’s a bomb inside that bulb, Jet.”
“He wouldn’t do that, Stoke. My father’s not that evil. He’s no mass murderer. I don’t think he—oh, god, I hope to hell you’re wrong.”
“I think a bomb that big will take out the whole West Side of New York. And, what’s left of the city after the explosion will be flooded with dirty water. Radiation levels so bad no one can live there for at least ten years.”
She looked up at him. Tears were running down her cheeks.
“I can’t believe he’d do that, Stoke. Blow up the whole goddamn world. Even for my father, that’s complete, utter fucking insanity.”
“Okay, Jet, tell me this. Do the French know about these bombs? Are they in on this?”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t about France. France is fucking clueless. This is all about who rules the world, Stoke. It’s about China and America, dividing the spoils, upping the ante. In case you haven’t heard, the next world war is going to be over oil. We’re running out.”
“Listen. You see that berth down there? Why don’t you go lie down for a few minutes? I’ll take the helm, okay? I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Need me?”
“We got company, Jet. Back there. Couple of blue-light specials. This is a pretty crowded neighborhood and maybe I can lose ’em. I stowed some weapons under that berth. Two HK machine guns and a grenade launcher.”
Stoke took the wheel and put the boat hard over to avoid a suddenly oncoming ferry. Jet ducked down into the little cabin and lifted up the cushion, moving very slowly and deliberately. She handed up one of the HKs, but she was clearly in shock. If he did need her, she wasn’t going to be much help.
A rapidly blinking blue light had flickered across Stoke’s peripheral vision. Then it disappeared into the great floating city of barges, scows, and sampans. He thought he’d lost it. A minute later, they were everywhere. Two or three fast patrol boats, maybe more. He saw their flashing blue lights bearing down on Foo Fighter from astern and abeam, weaving through traffic at ridiculous speeds.
He was smaller, though, and, he hoped, faster.
He was sure more would be on the way any second now. Shit, General Moon would have the whole Chinese navy out here as soon as he came to his senses. Stoke leaned on the throttles, firewalling them. The answering roar and the little hull’s great leap forward was reassuring. The good news here was Foo Fighter was a screamer. He’d seen the chrome-plated heads and that big Holley hot-rod four-barrel carburetor sitting on top. He knew that big block Chevy V-8 might come in handy.
He was running flat-out in open water now, a blurred neon skyline out his window, ahead the dark silhouettes of sampans moving on the water, merging into the darker mass. He was doing nearly fifty miles an hour, headed straight toward that big black wall. The almost solid city of sampans and ferries between him and Kowloon Harbor would be tough to navigate with the throttle wide open. But slowing down was definitely not an option. He leaned forward over the wheel, ignoring the rapidly gaining patrol boats, his concentration total.
The window about six inches in front of his face exploded a second before he heard a sizzling round just below his left ear. Now he heard and felt the heavy thunk of rounds slamming into the transom and the deck behind him. They’d found his range all right.
Oh, shit. He cranked the wheel hard to starboard and missed a big sampan by inches. He saw a hole in the black wall that loomed up in front of him. The alley created by two hulking barges was about six inches wider than his beam. A bullet in the back or collision at sea can ruin your day. But he didn’t slow down. He didn’t really have time for a shootout with Chinese gunboats right now. He had a plane to catch. And a phone call to make.
Alex Hawke was in New York City. He was probably at New York Hospital this very minute, sitting in a room somewhere with Ambrose Congreve. He kept his left hand on the wheel and took out his sat phone. He and Hawke needed to have a very serious conversation.
Right now.
He put the wheel hard to port and Foo Fighter ducked down another blind alley at full bore.
Chapter Fifty-eight
New York City
