“Yes, what about them?”
“They have been found bound and beaten on the vacant second level of the building.”
“Bound and beaten,” blurted Lo Han. “There is no mistake?”
“It looks like the work of a professional,” stated Kung
Chong flatly.
“Are you saying our security has been infiltrated?”
“It would seem so.”
“Launch an immediate search of the grounds,” demanded Lo Han.
“I have already given the order.”
Lo Han slipped the radio into his pocket and gazed at the dock that was still blazing from end to end. There has to be a connection between the men who were assaulted in the prison building and the insane collision of the yacht by the catamaran, he thought. Still ignorant of Pitt's rescue of the doomed immigrants, Han could not bring himself to believe that American law-enforcement agents had sent an undercover team to destroy Qin Shang's operation. He eliminated that thought as unrealistic, considering the situation. That would make them responsible for the murders of Chu Deng and his crew of enforcers, an act not generally conceived by FBI or INS agents. No, if American investigators had the slightest clue of the covert activities taking place on Orion Lake, a tactical assault team would already be swarming over the grounds. It was painfully obvious to Lo Han that this was no professionally planned intrusion by an army of trained agents. It was an operation conducted by one, surely no more than two, men.
But whom were they working for? Who was paying them? Certainly not a competing smuggling operation or one of the established criminal syndicates. They wouldn't be so stupid as to start a territory fight, not while Qin Shang had the backing of the People's Republic of China.
Han's gaze traveled from the burning pier and the sunken ships to the cabin across the lake. He stood there transfixed and recalled the arrogant fisherman who flaunted his catch the day before. He may not be what he seemed. Probably no fisherman or a simple businessman on vacation, Lo Han deduced, and yet he did not act like an agent of the Immigration Service or the FBI. Whatever his motive, the fisherman was Lo Han's only suspect within a hundred miles.
Content that he had eliminated the worst-case scenario, Lo Han began to breathe a little easier. He took his radio and called a name. The voice of Kung Chong answered.
“Are there suspicious sightings of vehicles?” Lo Han asked.
“The roads and skies are empty,” Kung Chong assured him.
“Any unusual activity across the lake?”
“Our cameras reveal some movement among the trees behind the cabin but no signs of the occupant inside.”
“I want a raid on that cabin. I must know who we're dealing with.”
“A raid will take time to organize,” said Kung Chong.
“Buy time by sending in a man to sabotage his automobile so he can't escape.”
“Should something go wrong, won't we be risking a confrontation with the local law authorities?”
“The last of my worries. If my instincts are correct, the man is dangerous and a threat to our employer who pays us and pays us well.”
“Do you wish to terminate him?”
“I believe that to be the safest alternative,” Lo Han said, nodding to himself. “Be warned. There must be no mistakes. It is not wise to incur the wrath of Qin Shang.”
“Mr. Pitt?” Julia Lee's whisper was barely audible in the darkness.
“Yes.” Pitt had parked the watercraft in a small inlet that opened onto the lake beside the cabin, approaching through the woods until he found Julia and her brood. He sat down heavily on a fallen tree and began pulling off his dry suit. “Is everyone all right?”
“They're alive,” she answered in a soft voice with just a trace of huskiness. “But they're not all right. They're soaked to the skin and freezing. Everyone needs dry clothes and medical attention.”
Pitt gently touched the bullet wound in his hip. “I'll second that.”
“Why can't they go inside your cabin where they can be warm and find something to eat?”
He shook his head. “Not a good idea. I haven't been to town for almost two days and my cupboard is bare. Better we herd them into the boathouse. I'll bring them whatever food I have left and every blanket I can find.”
“You're not making sense,” she said flatly. “They'd be more comfortable in the cabin than some smelly old boathouse.”
A stubborn woman, this one, Pitt thought, and self-sufficient too. “Did I forget to mention the surveillance cameras and listening bugs that grow like mushrooms in nearly every room? I think it best if your friends across the lake observe no one but me. If they suddenly see the ghosts of the people they believe they drowned watching television and drinking my tequila, they'll come charging in here with every gun blazing before our side's posse arrives. No sense in getting them all riled up before their time.”
“They've been monitoring you from across the lake?” she asked, puzzled.
“Someone over there thinks I have beady eyes and can't be trusted.”
She looked at his face, trying to distinguish his features, but saw no details in the dark. “Who are you, Mr. Pitt?”
“Me?” he said, pulling his feet out of the dry suit. “I'm just an ordinary guy who came to the lake to unwind and fish.”
“You are far from ordinary,” she said softly, turning and gazing at the dying flames and smoldering embers of the dock. “No ordinary man could have accomplished what you did tonight.”
“And you, Ms. Lee? Why is a highly intelligent lady who speaks flawless English and associates with a bunch of illegal immigrants thrown into a lake with weights tied around her ankles?”
“You know they're illegals?” “If they're not, they don't hide it very well.” She shrugged. “I guess it's useless to pretend I'm somebody I'm not. I can't flash my badge, but I'm a special undercover agent with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. And I would be most grateful if you could get me to a telephone.”
“I've always been putty in the hands of women.” He walked over to a tree, reached up under the branches and returned. He handed her his Indium satellite phone. “Call your superiors and tell them what's going on here,” he advised. “Tell them the building on the lake is a prison for illegal immigrants. For what purpose, I can't say. Tell them the lake bed is littered with hundreds, maybe thousands of dead bodies. Why, I can't say. Tell them the security is first-rate and the guards are heavily armed, and tell them to get here fast before the evidence is either shot, drowned or burned to death. Then tell them to call Admiral James Sandecker at the National Underwater and Marine Agency and say his special projects director wants to come home and to send a taxi.”
Julia looked at Pitt's face in the dim starlight, trying to read something, her eyes wide and questioning, her lips slowly forming the words. “You are an amazing man, Dirk Pitt. A director of NUMA. I'd have never guessed in a thousand years. Since when do they train marine scientists to be assassins and arsonists?”
“Since midnight,” he said briefly as he turned and set off for the cabin. “And I'm not a scientist, I'm an engineer. Now make your call, and hurry. As sure as the sun sets in the west, we're going to have company very soon.”
Ten minutes later Pitt returned from the house loaded down with a small box of food and ten blankets. He had also hurriedly changed into more practical clothes. He failed to hear the silenced pair of bullets that smashed into the radiator of his rental car. He only caught the antifreeze flooding the ground under the front bumper when it reflected off the night-lights he'd left burning on the porch of the cabin.
“So much for driving out of here,” he said quietly to Julia as she distributed what little food he had, and he passed out the blankets to the shivering Chinese. “What do you mean?” she asked.