Filled with a new sense of urgency, he twisted his torso back and forth until, with a satisfying crack, the chair to which he had been bound splintered apart. The intensity of his struggle also proved too much for the thin plastic strap that held his wrists together; the zip-tie, designed for nothing more strenuous than securing electrical wires and computer cables, broke apart, and suddenly he was free.
A throb of pain accompanied the return of normal circulation to his freed extremities. Blood immediately began oozing from ragged welts on both wrists where the plastic tie had cut deep into his skin, but he ignored the wounds, getting to his feet and lingering in the room only long enough to snatch up the Glock that Brown had dropped when the flash-bang had gone off.
He edged past the open door into the hallway beyond, ready to duck back into the office at the first sign of trouble. The noise from the casino, just barely audible through the lingering effects of the flash-bang to his auditory system, was different now. No music now, just a dull roar of confusion. The partygoers had heard the sound of the stun grenade explosion, and King didn’t doubt that a gaggle of steroid-crazed Alpha Dog security men were already rushing down to investigate. For the moment however, the corridor was empty. With the Glock at the ready, he advanced at a jog and headed away from the source of the tumult, toward what he hoped was the path the Russians had followed.
Russians, he thought again, scowling as he ran. In the feverish quest to unmask Brainstorm, it hadn’t occurred to anyone that there might be other interested parties. That should have been obvious really; the Brainstorm network was global in nature, as were Brown’s schemes for world domination. Unfortunately, Brown’s capture would not mean the end of either. Now the Russians would control Brainstorm, with full access to Brown’s incredible mental abilities, his extensive network of operatives, and worst of all, the ability to execute the gambler’s audacious plans. King saw only two ways to stop that from happening; he either had to save Brown from the Russians or kill the man.
A door at the end of the corridor opened onto a narrow flight of stairs, which in turn led him onto the open foredeck of the riverboat. At each blind corner, King paused just long enough to make sure that he wasn’t about to run headlong into an ambush. As he emerged from the stairwell, his caution paid off.
He had barely peeked around the doorpost, exposing only a sliver of his body, when the bulkhead to his left exploded in a spray of wood and fiberglass splinters. King ducked back, but did not allow the knowledge of the danger ahead to mire him in inertia. He thrust the Glock into the open, squeezing off two quick shots, and then immediately somersaulted through the opening. As he came out of the combat roll, he immediately got the pistol up and started a visual sweep for the location of the shooter.
Nothing.
With each second that ticked by, each thump of his heart in his chest, the danger multiplied. He was out in the open, completely visible to a gunman who still remained invisible to him. But no shots came. The gunman had already moved on.
Not good, King thought. He rose from cover and hastened to the railing that ringed the perimeter of the deck.
The dark water of the Seine lapped against the low hull of the riverboat only a few feet away. In the darkness, hidden from the glare of the deck lights by the shadow of the railing, it was hard to distinguish the oblong outline of a boat. It looked like a semi-rigid inflatable Zodiac, though it was impossible to tell since the hull was black, the same color as the clothes worn by its two occupants. One man was just settling in at the prow, his right hand still gripping a compact machine pistol. His comrade sat at the stern, tending an idling outboard motor. In the instant that King’s eyes registered this fact, the man twisted the throttle control and the motor roared to life, the screws throwing up a froth of spray, stark white and glittering against the inky surface of the still river.
King didn’t even pause to think about what to do next. In a fluid motion, he planted his left hand on the rail and vaulted out into the night.
18
As King’s feet hit the hard fiberglass deck, the boat lurched forward, the thrust of the outboard’s screws finally overcoming the craft’s inertia. King pitched backward, stumbling over a low aluminum bench seat, and crashed into the man seated at stern. Their combined weight and the sudden forward thrust nearly sent both men into the river, but the commando managed to wrap his arms around the engine cowling to arrest his fall, and King knotted his fingers in the man’s dark combat uniform to prevent his own.
That was all the help he got from the commando. The man freed one of his arms and immediately started pummeling King with his fist. The strikes were awkward, seemingly desperate, but the rapid impacts sent bursts of pain through King’s skull, further disorienting him and for a moment, all he could think about was holding on tighter. The assault abruptly relented and King felt the man shift in his grasp, trying for a better angle of attack. The next wave of blows would, he knew, be far more decisive.
Setting his jaw in anticipation of the pain he knew was coming, King pulled the man in close and thrust his torso up, ramming his forehead into the commando’s chin. Light exploded across his vision as he made contact, but even over the roar of the outboard, the satisfying crunch of the commando’s jaw breaking was audible. The Russian slumped in King’s grasp, his hold on the engine cowling slipping away, and he teetered back over the gunwale. King released his grip and pushed the man away, hastening the latter’s plunge into the Seine.
There was no time to savor the victory. King twisted around to find the second commando looming above him. Clad in black from head to toe, the man was almost invisible against the backdrop of night, but King had no difficulty making out the glinting steel of the knife in the man’s right hand as it slashed down toward him. He shrank away, pressing himself into the bilge space, but there was nowhere to go.
The knife slashed again but even as he felt its tip snag the fabric of his dinner jacket, King brought his own right arm up and caught the man’s forearm in the crook of his elbow. The commando reflexively tried to pull away, but King trapped his foe’s forearm with the heel of his left hand and then with a savage scissor-action, broke the man’s wrist. The commando howled in pain; the knife fell from his fingers and clattered into the bilge space. King, still on his back, did not release his hold on the injured limb, but drew his knees up, planted his feet squarely in his opponent’s chest, and used his legs to launch the man out into the river.
In the moment that followed, King wanted nothing more than to simply lay still and savor a few seconds where no one wanted to kill him, but he knew that, despite this initial victory, his real objective was slipping further away with every tick of the clock.
He rolled over and struggled to get to his hands and knees. The cramped bilge space at the rear of the boat conspired with the undulations of the craft as if bumped across wakes and ripples in the river’s surface to make it a ridiculously complicated task. He finally managed to grasp the control lever on the outboard and hauled himself into a sitting position.
The inflatable boat was moving at an almost perpendicular angle away from the floating casino. He could make out the city skyline in every direction, but everything in the foreground was shrouded in darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he could make out the ripples left by the wake of another craft. It was moving away in the same general direction he was now traveling, and he followed the ripples to their source: two more Zodiacs, barely more than shadows, a few hundred yards away, just passing under one of the many bridges that spanned the river and connected the city proper with Ile Saint-Louis. He adjusted the tiller to bring his boat into line behind them and opened the throttle wide. The bow of the craft came up as the burst of speed sent it rocketing forward, almost skimming across the surface of the Seine.