Bones curled his fists as if he might try punching the helicopters out of the sky. “What do we do, Maddock?”
His fingers curled around the medallion. He’d told Alex that it was leverage, and while he had not expected that he would need to use it thus quite so soon, or in such a dramatic fashion, he knew that it was their only bargaining chip. He held it up, turning it so that it gleamed in the afternoon sun, and cocked his arm, ready to hurl it out into the surf.
Somebody must have received the implicit message, for two of the helicopters pulled back, as if to establish a buffer zone. The Huey, however, edged closer, throwing up a tornado of grit that stung Dane’s face and arms, and settled onto the flat ground in the middle of the island just fifty yards from where Dane and the others stood on the beach. Dane kept his arm poised to throw as two black-clad figures emerged from the open fuselage and crept out from under the rotor blades.
As soon as they were in the open, the man in the lead straightened and held his empty hands up, signaling for a truce. He then tugged off his balaclava to reveal a handsome earnest face. The trailing man remained hunched over, as if he didn’t trust that he was actually clear of the whirling rotor. He kept his mask in place, and although he did not draw the pistol holstered at his hip, his hands were not raised in a supplicating gesture.
“Don’t do anything rash, Mr. Maddock!” called the handsome man, shouting to be heard over the noise of the helicopter. “If you throw it, you won’t have anything left to trade.”
“What makes you think I want to trade?” countered Dane. “I’d rather throw it away than let you get your hands on it.”
“Your bravado is misplaced.” The man stopped ten feet away, close enough to speak in a normal voice. He was an American, with a Southern accent and a genteel manner of speech. “I’m certain you don’t even know me.”
“I know him,” said Alex, pointing at the second man. “That’s the bastard that murdered Don.”
The hunched over man stared back at her, his hard eyes betraying nothing. Dane wondered how she was able to make that identification, but then he too noticed something familiar about the masked figure.
“Hey, it’s my old diving buddy. Say, you’re looking a little bent out of shape.”
“What, the guy with the stupid nickname?” Bones studied the man in question, as if contemplating an animal at the zoo.
Dane tsked. “Remember what they say about glass houses, Bones.”
The masked man evidently saw nothing amusing in the banter. He whipped off his balaclava and directed his accusing stare at Dane. The unveiling didn’t immediately confirm Dane’s identification, since in their previous encounter, he had kept his face covered, first with a balaclava and then with a diving mask, but the voice was unquestionably that of the man who called himself Scalpel. “You left me to die down there, Maddock.”
“That was thoughtless of me, and I’m truly sorry. I really should have made sure you were dead.”
“Funny guy. We’ll see who gets the last laugh.”
“Dude, your trash-talking is weak,” remarked Bones. He paused a beat, then continued in a slightly more subdued tone. “I suppose Gabby was working for you all along, right?”
Scalpel sneered. “Uh, oh, someone’s got hurt feelings.”
The handsome man cleared his throat, silencing his lieutenant’s retort. “Ms. Sandoval did agree to keep me informed as to your progress. She had no other obligations to me, so whatever…intimations…she may have made, were completely at her own discretion. I consider my arrangement with her concluded. Now, if we may dispense with the playground posturing, Mr. Maddock, and move on to the matter at hand?”
“What’s there to discuss? I normally don’t make deals with murderers, but if you really want this little trinket, maybe we can discuss price…once I’ve had it properly appraised of course. I’d hate to get suckered.”
“Mr. Maddock, at the risk of belaboring the obvious, you really aren’t in a position to negotiate. I am doing you a great courtesy by even talking to you; by all rights, I should simply let Scalpel here kill you and have done with it. I really have no reservations about…how does that bumper sticker put it? Prying it from your cold dead hands?”
“Is that you’re idea of an opening bid?” Dane made a show of ratcheting his arm back a few more inches.
“Throw it then. I’ve spent years searching for it, and I’ll spend more years sifting every grain of sand on this beach if I have to. The only difference is that you’ll be dead.”
Dane met the man’s stare and saw the truth of the statement. The man wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. So what’s he waiting for? “Who are you? What’s your story?”
The handsome face twitched with a smile. “Why, how careless of me? I feel as if I know you already, Mr. Maddock, even though we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is John Lee Ray. I’ll understand if you want to forego the customary handshake, but I do feel a certain kinship with you. We are both members of the very small fraternity of special warfare operators, though I myself have moved on to more lucrative endeavors in the private sector.”
“Special warfare?” said Alex. She turned a suspicious eye toward Dane.
“Ah, you didn’t tell her?” crooned Ray. “Mr. Maddock and his friends are SEALs, sent on this little errand by the Secretary of the Navy himself.”
Alex seemed to be weighing this revelation, perhaps trying to decide if it somehow changed the status quo, but Dane steered the discussion away from his mission. “And who’s giving you orders? Private sector? That’s a pretty word for mercenary, right? You’re a hired gun. Hired by whom?”
“You’re out of your depth, Maddock.”
There was a hard edge to Ray’s voice, and Dane knew that the accusation had put the other man on the defensive. “Then enlighten me. One warrior to another.”
“We don’t have time for this,” growled Scalpel.
Ray shot a look at his watch, then turned to look at the two hovering helicopters. Dane noted that the Huey was not powering down. Ray was eager to be on his way, and maybe not as willing to wade into the surf to retrieve the medallion as he wanted Dane to believe.
Keep him talking.
“If you want this,” said Dane, waving the medallion, “I suggest you make the time.”
“Give it to me, and I will tell you everything. One warrior to another.”
Bones snorted derisively.
“I give you my word. And while I doubt this assurance will do much to convince the skeptical Mr. Bonebrake, you have my guarantee of safety.” He cast a meaningful glance at Scalpel.
“You’ll just fly away, and leave us alone, is that right?”
“Precisely.”
Dane lowered his hand and gazed at the Templar medallion as if assessing its worth. He realized now that it wasn’t a bargaining chip at all. It was a poker chip, and it was time to ante up. He closed his fingers over it once more, squeezing it until he could feel its points biting into his palms.
There were four possible outcomes.
If he threw it into the sea, Ray would certainly kill them all, after which he might still find the medallion and go on to accomplish whatever it was he was planning. Or he might never find it. One way Ray won, one way he lost, but either way, they were dead.
If he trusted Ray and handed over the prize, Ray might break his word and kill them anyway, or he might let them live. Both ways Ray won, but one way they would live to fight another day.
“He killed Don,” warned Alex. “He tried to kill me. These people don’t leave loose ends.”
“Don’t trust him,” declared Bones, flatly. It was good advice, especially from a man whose ancestors knew all too well the price of misplaced trust.