Page 83
“That’s right,” said Paul. “I just need to get one thing.”
He reached under the lowermost pallet and retrieved a hard plastic case the size of a large carry-on.
“Whaddaya got in there?” the forklift driver asked. “Some precious fruit?”
Paul grinned. “You could say that.”
The driver hopped back onto his seat, rolled the forklift forward, and speared the bottom of the pallet stack. He backed the load out, made a deft turn, and drove toward a freight elevator on the far side of the deck.
Paul looked around to get his bearings. He dropped his life jacket and hard hat on the deck, then headed for the nearest ladder. At the top of the steps, he put down the case and tapped out a quick text to Pete and Ron on his Apple Watch.
MEET ME DECK 4
This was it. Paul had been planning this for months—perfecting his devices, training his teams. Like Lev and Andrei, the men now called Pete and Ron were veterans of Putin’s army.
Bright, tough, and ruthless.
And now, like everybody else working on this massive structure, they were expendable.
CHAPTER 84
HOLMES LEANED FORWARD in his seat as the Aquila came into view, lights sparkling against the dark water.
“Look at that!” said Poe, leaning in next to him. “It’s massive!”
“Two hundred fifty thousand tons,” said Holmes.
“One hell of a target,” Poe replied.
The intercom crackled. “Edwards! We’ve got a problem.” It was the co-pilot. The channel was wide open. The passengers could hear everything.
“What problem?” Edwards called out, clearly impatient.
“Landing platform is occupied. They’ve got a corporate bird sitting there.”
“Shit! Are you in contact with the landing officer?”
“He’s on the line now.”
“Put me on with him,” said Edwards. He grabbed a handset from the cabin wall.
“Copy that,” said the pilot. “Connecting you now.”
“Hello?” said Edwards impatiently.
“Seahawk, this is Aquila. Landing control.”
“Listen up, Aquila. This is Special Agent Burton Edwards, FBI. I need you to clear your chopper pad now!”
“Sorry. That’s a corporate aircraft. I can’t clear it without checking with the OIM.”
“No! You do not need to check with anybody! Tell that chopper pilot to get airborne on my authority. National security. Priority Red. Read your manual.”
“Stand by…”
As the FBI helicopter circled, Holmes unfastened his seat belt and knelt on the cabin floor in front of Marple. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “You can’t do this.”
Marple’s shackles and handcuffs had been removed. A wireless button mic had been clipped to the inside of her prison jumpsuit. She had a 9mm pistol in her rear pocket.
