He redoubled his efforts and within minutes had created a large enough opening to squeeze through. He turned and looked down to where he could now make out the shadowy forms of Remi and Lazlo in the gloom. “Well, don’t stand there all night. Our chariot awaits.”
“I don’t suppose you have any tips for the best way to scale this mound of debris?” Lazlo asked.
“Carefully,” Sam shot back.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Remi came first and, not unexpectedly, made it to Sam’s position in just a few minutes. Sam helped her climb through the aperture, ignoring the trickle of small rocks knocked loose by her passage, and she pushed through the vines into the night.
Lazlo took three times longer, climbing gingerly toward Sam and freezing in place every time a stone gave way and tumbled below. When he finally made it to Sam, he was panting like he’d run a marathon and he had to stop to rest before making the final effort to clamber through the gap.
Sam followed him out, the temperature increasing at least thirty degrees once he was in the jungle air. A thin scythe of moon hung overhead, bathing the area in a pale wash. Sam brushed dirt off his shirt and then moved to Remi and hugged her close, whispering in her ear as he held her.
“That didn’t go exactly as planned.”
She pulled away and held his gaze. “But we’re out. And Leonid could be lying in a crevice with a broken back.” She glanced around the hillside. “Time to earn your keep, Fargo. Which way do you think the road is?”
Sam thought for a moment and then tilted his head to their right. “That way. I caught a glimpse of ocean through the trees as I climbed out.”
“Then let’s get going. Vengeance may be a dish best served cold, but after being kidnapped, tied up, threatened, and chased, I’m impatient for a little payback.”
Sam nodded. “Me too.”
CHAPTER 47
Sydney, Australia
Jeffrey Grimes sat on the terrace of his lavish contemporary home on the waterfront of Sydney Harbor, watching the sun sink into the southern ocean. Smooth jazz pulsed from hidden speakers near the floor-to-ceiling pocket doors as he admired the play of light on the waves that stretched to South Head and the Hornsby Lighthouse in the distance. He took a long pull on his Cuban Montecristo Gran Corona cigar and studied the glowing ember with satisfaction before resting it in a crystal ashtray and leaning back in his chair.
The call he’d received earlier had put a smile on his face. Guadalcanal was in turmoil: rioting and looting had started shortly after the most recent rebel action, and several pliant MPs had advanced a bill in an emergency meeting of Parliament that effectively nationalized the key industries he was interested in. His mystery partner had assured him that now the primary opponents to nationalization had been neutralized (he liked that word—“neutralized”—a term that was far more civilized and professi
onal than the more vulgar “murdered” or “assassinated”), it was just a matter of a little more time, and a few more dollars spread in the right places, and their scheme would come to successful fruition.
The entire exercise had been stressful for him and he was glad it was finally ending. Grimes was accustomed to having total control over his projects and taking a backseat to a disembodied voice on the telephone had gone against the grain. He told people what to do, he didn’t listen quietly like a serving girl being issued her day’s chores. Playing nice with his partner had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but it looked like his high-stakes gamble was about to pay off as handsomely as he had hoped.
“Jeffrey? Are you going to sit out there all night?” a female voice called from inside the house.
Grimes glanced over his shoulder to where a young woman with impossibly long tanned legs, wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, stood by the picture window, a frown of discontent on her flawless face. Another expensive vice, he thought, as he took a small sip of the port and rolled the mahogany nectar in his mouth, savoring the toffee and hazelnut notes, before rising with a final look at the waning sunset, cigar clutched in his hand.
Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands
Finding a trail that led toward the coastal road proved more difficult than Sam had hoped. He led Remi and Lazlo down the uneven slope, taking care to avoid the area near the ridge for fear of running across a rebel search party. The memory of dozens of skeletons tossed into the caverns like so much firewood was still vivid in all their minds and their passage through the brush was quieter for their recollection.
“Wish we had one of those machetes right about now,” Lazlo complained under his breath as a branch pulled at his shirt.
“If we’re going to wish, I’d want a few AK-47s and some grenades,” Sam replied.
“And a helicopter. Don’t forget the helicopter,” Remi said.
“Never,” Sam assured her and then slowed. “I think there’s a trail ahead,” he whispered.
They approached the opening in the underbrush cautiously. Sam eyed the trail and nodded. “This looks good. Hopefully, it will get us close.”
They hadn’t discussed what to do next, other than find the logging road and pray that Greg was still there. Everyone knew it was a long shot, but there was a chance that the rebels wouldn’t move against Greg until the situation in the caves was resolved, in which case the Mitsubishi was their best shot. The alternative was to try to hitch a ride on the coastal road—an ugly proposition under the best of circumstances, given that they hadn’t seen another vehicle on the way there.
Their progress was slow, and more than once they almost lost their footing to an unseen rut or a lurking vine, obstacles nearly invisible with the clouds obscuring the moonlight.
After hours following the wandering trail, they emerged in a clearing, where the first dim pink of dawn was lighting the sky through gaps in the canopy. Remi pointed at the strip of asphalt beyond the tree line and sighed. “There’s the road.”