The little spy ship groaned, turning again before the wind, wallowing in the middle of a vast and unfriendly ocean. There was a lot of tech on board that the Chinese navy would just love to get their grimy hands on — if the typhoon didn’t sink her first.
Whatever happened, the blame rested squarely on Holloway’s shoulders. He was the skipper and he’d disregarded his rule of threes.
Clark estimated it would take him less than a minute to cover the forty meters to the dock. Most people who tried to swim that far underwater ended up flailing around and wasting energy trying to go too fast for fear of running out of breath. Clark would swim at a walking pace, gliding rather than powering through, because if you fought the water, you always lost. Holding his breath wouldn’t be an issue. Staying on course in the chocolate-brown lake water would be the challenge, that and timing his arrival so Muffin Top was facing the other direction.
The heavy beat of rap music was still rolling down the grassy hill when Clark made it to the bottom of the finger ridge east of Zambrano’s. He kept low, on the far side of the hill and out of sight. Hours of surveillance had shown him that each of the triad sentries had his own method of patrol. Muffin Top spent a great deal of time gathering skipping stones on the shore, in between sauntering out the twenty feet or so of pier to walk back and forth a few times on the floating T where the boat was tied. The boat occupied most of the western arm, which made it more difficult to skip stones. Consequently, the chubby sentry spent a hair more time on the easternmost ten feet of floating dock — a fact that Clark intended to exploit.
He entered the water silently, wearing the CamelBak and all his gear. The slow, deliberate movements came as second nature to him, and he was up to his chin in no time without creating even the slightest splash. He ducked his head under once, wetting his hair and face while he took the time to get a feel for the rocky bottom under his boots.
In the Navy they’d almost always had a swim buddy — especially in the perilous world of the SEALs. The hazards of going it alone underwater were well documented. But the real world was a brutal place. Taking three deep breaths to saturate his lungs with oxygen, he worked his way around the point, slowly cutting the pie to bring the docks into view. Muffin Top was on the shore, his back turned, picking up stones. Anyone who hadn’t done their homework might think now was the time to go, but Clark didn’t need the man with his back turned now. He needed him with his back turned in forty seconds.
The chubby sentry turned with his hands full of rocks. The second his lead foot hit the pier, Clark ducked beneath the surface and began his swim.
The poor visibility that made navigation difficult also saved Clark from getting shot as he swam. Even so, he stayed as deep as possible, skimming just inches above the rocky bottom. He concentrated on keeping his strokes and kicks even, making certain to go in a straight line. Forty seconds later, he slipped under the darkness of the dock. It was relatively shallow and he was able to stand with his head above water. Long shafts of light showed through the wooden treads above Styrofoam floats.
Muffin Top hummed softly at the other end of the dock, pitching stones one by one. This was the point where things grew difficult. Sentries were human beings. Enemy or not, they were somebody’s kid, somebody’s brother, uncle, or husband. Some of them sang and skipped rocks. But Muffin Top wasn’t just a security guard who happened to be working for the wrong guy. He was Sun Yee On triad, complicit in the slavery of at least the two girls up by the pool. He’d laughed his fat ass off when one of those girls had almost drowned. No, he could sing like Pavarotti for all Clark cared. That didn’t give him a soul.
Wood creaked and swayed as Muffin Top walked to the east end of the dock. Waiting at the far end, just outside the edge, Clark brought the Glock up a fraction of a second after his face broke the surface, tipping the barrel slightly to let the water drain. The shot struck Muffin Top as he threw his first stone, straight through the bottom of his chin. The triad man teetered there for a moment, the rest of his rocks slipping from his hand, and then fell face-first toward the water. Clark rounded his shoulders, collapsing under the weight of Muffin Top’s body, mitigating the splash. Ready to duck and swim, he glanced uphill and breathed a sigh of measured relief that no one came running down with guns blazing.
Clark stuffed Muffin Top’s body under the edge of the dock and then, without looking back, swam past the boat to exit the water at the other end of the cove. He moved quickly, up the long finger ridge that ran along the west side of the house, opposite his earlier vantage point. He had about ten minutes until the guards shifted posts, if he was lucky.
It took him five minutes to work around to the circular driveway behind the house. He would have put a guard up here, by the vehicles, but was glad Zambrano and Chen relied on a man in the trees a hundred meters away up by the gate. Clark hadn’t actually seen this one’s face, just enough movement when he’d driven by to know someone was there. The gate guy was too far away to be an immediate threat, but Clark would have to remember to watch his six once the rodeo began.
Clark shrugged off the CamelBak in the relative safety of the cedar trees along the driveway. Music still thumped around the corner, muted some by the house. The sun was low, and though it was still plenty light, would soon fall behind the ridge, throwing the little valley into shade. There was a strong possibility Zambrano and Chen would go back in the house when that happened, which put more pressure on Clark. He wanted them outside to make this work.
The half-cup of chlorine granules dumped in the water bottle of brake fluid gave him about a minute and a half. He didn’t bother with the lid, but left the bottle upright beneath the gas tank. The mixture did nothing at first. Clark punched a hole in the rear of the gas tank with his Benchmade, large enough that fuel began to drain into the gravel beside the water bottle. This done, he rolled out from under the truck to crawfish back into the buckbrush along the driveway, well away from what he knew was about to happen. Roughly a minute and a half in, white smoke began to pour out from the edge of the truck. An instant later, Clark heard a rush of sound like a jet engine, and then a hollow whoompf as the fuel tank caught fire. Richie Rich, who was posted near the end of the house, heard the noise and trotted out to investigate, earning him two shots to the face from Clark’s suppressed Glock.
Pigeon poked his head around next, and met the same fate.
It would have been nice if they’d just keep offering themselves as targets, but sooner or later the others would get wise to the fact that their buddies weren’t coming back. When in doubt, Clark preferred to err on the side of action. He decided to press the issue, not wanting to give the folks on the other side of the house time to figure out what was going on. He shot a quick glance toward the road. The guard out there would notice the fire soon enough, and Clark wanted to be done with the other seven by the time he got here.
He turned back around just in time to see Mini Fridge run out of the back door with a fire extinguisher. Instead of dropping the canister and going for a gun, Mini Fridge ducked his head and ran, intent on bowling Clark over. Clark brought the Glock around a fraction of a second too late, getting a shot off, but impacting the extinguisher instead of the man. Mini Fridge growled, lashing out with the aluminum cylinder, knocking the gun out of Clark’s hand and into the bushes.
The short man looked at a now empty-handed Clark and laughed, moving his thick neck back and forth like a wrestler warming up. Surely the younger man was thicker and stronger than Clark. No doubt he saw only a granddad there in the driveway, soaked to the skin, no less. And in some ways, Mini Fridge was dead right. Clark was breakable — and the vagaries of age and passing time had robbed him of his once great strength, made him slower than he’d been.