A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [99]
As the Scorpion drifted down over the town, the wind started to blow again. Slay said, “I was looking this sandstorm business up on screen. It seems there can sometimes be a resurgence pattern where the second shock can be worse than the first, just like an earthquake.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” Dillon said. “Where are we landing?”
Greg Slay said, “By the cargo hangars at the east end of the pier. I’ve used it often to pick up stuff that’s come in by boat. There’s a small police station near it, and the police launches tie up at the steps.”
“How many police?”
“I’ve never seen more than a handful.”
Dillon pulled a ski mask from his pocket and pulled it on, just the eyes and the gash of the mouth showing. “Put us down, Greg, and let’s get on with it. Maybe we can frighten them to death.”
Holley said, “Very funny, Sean, but remember where you are. The kind of country where leg irons are a permanent fixture. Torture of every kind is on the menu, and the sexual varieties don’t bear thinking about. I’m here to get Sara. I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.”
“All right,” Dillon said, “we get the point. So let’s do it.”
They skimmed flat roofs, noticing that in most places where there was a light it was quickly turned off, dropped in beside the cargo building, hovered and descended. Slay switched off, pulled on a ski mask, pulled an Uzi out of the capacious pocket of his desert fatigues, turned and followed the other two out.
A uniformed policeman with an AK-47 moved out from behind a container and called out in Arabic, “Stay where you are and identify yourselves.”
Holley turned, pulled out his silenced Walther, and fired on the instant, knocking the policeman over the edge of the pier and into the water.
“Give the man a coconut,” Dillon said softly, and they paused at the sound of the launch approaching from the Monsoon.
“What now?” Slay asked, as they crouched, watching the launch come in, the pilot jump to the pier to the step. Khazid joined him, paused to light a cigarette, then walked toward the police post, the pilot following, opened the front door and entered.
“That was Khazid, the chief of police,” Slay said.
“Excellent,” Holley said. “And as he’s just over from the dhow, he’ll be able to tell us exactly what’s going on out there.”
He ran toward the police post, flung open the front door, and rushed inside. Khazid was handing out cigarettes to his pilot and four others, and they all turned in alarm.
“Who are you? What is this?” Khazid demanded in Arabic.
Holley took a step toward him, pulled the Walther from his pocket, and struck him across the face. Khazid cried out and fell back across a desk.
“We’ve come for the English woman,” Holley said. “She only arrived an hour or so ago, so tell me the truth or I’ll kill you.” That his threat was delivered in Arabic made it even more impressive.
Khazid, fear of Ali Selim heavily on his mind, moaned and said, “What are you talking about? This is madness. Captain Slay, why are you mixed up in this?”
One of the policemen at the back of the group made a move to draw his pistol from its holster, and Slay knocked him back against the wall with a blast from the Uzi. It was enough, and those unharmed put their hands on their heads.
“Tell him,” someone called.
So Khazid did. What was happening on the Monsoon, who was on board—everything. Someone passed him a towel, which he held to his broken face.
Holley said, “This is how it goes. You and your pilot will take us to the dhow in the launch and we’ll go on board to retrieve the woman. The slightest thing you do wrong, you die. Is this understood?”
“We will do as you say.”
“We’ll have three of those police oilskins so we look right on the launch. You and the pilot will handcuff the others, put them in leg irons and then lock them in a cell. Anyone who causes trouble will be shot