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Authors: James Rollins
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hoods.”
Graff ’s face looked little comforted by this idea. Though the worst of the toxic event was over, the bay remained a poisonous cesspool. Even the gun, men knew better than to leave the safety of their boat. The masked men were using oars to pry the craft off the rocks, rather than climbing in themselves and lightening the load.
If even pirates refused to go into the water…
Monk suddenly began to question the wisdom of his own plan. Besides, he hated diving. He was a former Green Beret, not a friggin’ Navy SEAL.
“What?” Graff asked, reading something in Monk’s expression. “You don’t think your plan is going to work, do you?”
“Let a man think already!”
Slumping down, Monk found himself staring back toward the worn Buddha statue under its lean-to, protected by its charred row of prayer sticks. He wasn’t Buddhist, but he was not above praying to any god that would get him out of this scrape.
His eyes again settled to the burned prayer sticks. Without turning away, he spoke to Graff. “How did these worshippers get here?” he asked. “There’s no village for miles along the coastline, the beach is protected by reefs, and the cliffs appear too sheer to climb.”
Graff shook his head. “What difference does it make?”
“Someone lit those prayer sticks. Within the last day or so.” Monk shifted up. “Look at the beach. No footsteps but our own. You can see where someone knelt to light their smudge sticks, but no steps head out to the water or along the beach. That means they had to come down from above. There must be a path.”
“Or maybe someone just raised and lowered a rope.”
Monk sighed, wishing for a more dim-witted companion, someone less able to poke holes in his reasoning.
“Water or Buddha?” Monk asked.
Graff visibly swallowed as the speedboat’s engine throttled up. The pirates were almost free.
Graff turned to Monk. “Is…isn’t it good luck to rub the belly of a Buddha?”
Monk nodded. “I think I read that on a fortune cookie somewhere. I hope that Buddha read the same cookie.”
Monk shifted around, raising his pistol. “On my count, you haul ass. I’m going to be at your heels, blasting at the boat. You just concentrate on getting to that Buddha and finding that path.”
“And I’ll pray the worshippers didn’t use a rope to—”
“Don’t say it or you’ll jinx us!”
Graff clammed up.
“Here we go.” Monk braced himself, bouncing a bit to get circulation into his legs. He counted off. “Three…two…one…!”
Graff took off, bolting out like a jackrabbit. A bullet rang off the rock at the man’s heels.
Monk cursed and jerked up. “You were supposed to wait for go, ” he mumbled, squeezing the trigger and firing toward the trapped boat. “Civilians…”
He peppered the boat, driving the snipers onto their bellies. He watched one man throw his hands up and go toppling overboard. A lucky shot on Monk’s part. Return fire consisted of a few wild blasts, fired in an angry panic.
Ahead, Graff reached the Buddha and skidded in the sand, slipping past the prayer sticks. Twisting around, he caught his balance and leapfrogged behind the lean-to.
Monk took a more direct route and crashed through a sandy thornbush. He landed next to Graff.
“We made it!” Graff gasped out with way too much surprise in his voice.
“And pissed them off damn good.”
Monk pictured the man going overboard into the toxic soup.
Possibly in retribution, rifle blasts tore through the lean-to and exploded the vines and leaves draped along the cliff wall. Monk and Graff sheltered together, protected by Buddha’s wide stone belly. Surely there was symbolism in this last act.
But that was about all Buddha had to offer.
Monk studied the cliffs behind the wooden shack.
Sheer and unscalable.
No path.
“Maybe one of us should have rubbed that belly when we ran up here,” Monk said sourly.
“Your gun?” Graff asked.
Monk hefted it up. “One round.
Graff ’s face looked little comforted by this idea. Though the worst of the toxic event was over, the bay remained a poisonous cesspool. Even the gun, men knew better than to leave the safety of their boat. The masked men were using oars to pry the craft off the rocks, rather than climbing in themselves and lightening the load.
If even pirates refused to go into the water…
Monk suddenly began to question the wisdom of his own plan. Besides, he hated diving. He was a former Green Beret, not a friggin’ Navy SEAL.
“What?” Graff asked, reading something in Monk’s expression. “You don’t think your plan is going to work, do you?”
“Let a man think already!”
Slumping down, Monk found himself staring back toward the worn Buddha statue under its lean-to, protected by its charred row of prayer sticks. He wasn’t Buddhist, but he was not above praying to any god that would get him out of this scrape.
His eyes again settled to the burned prayer sticks. Without turning away, he spoke to Graff. “How did these worshippers get here?” he asked. “There’s no village for miles along the coastline, the beach is protected by reefs, and the cliffs appear too sheer to climb.”
Graff shook his head. “What difference does it make?”
“Someone lit those prayer sticks. Within the last day or so.” Monk shifted up. “Look at the beach. No footsteps but our own. You can see where someone knelt to light their smudge sticks, but no steps head out to the water or along the beach. That means they had to come down from above. There must be a path.”
“Or maybe someone just raised and lowered a rope.”
Monk sighed, wishing for a more dim-witted companion, someone less able to poke holes in his reasoning.
“Water or Buddha?” Monk asked.
Graff visibly swallowed as the speedboat’s engine throttled up. The pirates were almost free.
Graff turned to Monk. “Is…isn’t it good luck to rub the belly of a Buddha?”
Monk nodded. “I think I read that on a fortune cookie somewhere. I hope that Buddha read the same cookie.”
Monk shifted around, raising his pistol. “On my count, you haul ass. I’m going to be at your heels, blasting at the boat. You just concentrate on getting to that Buddha and finding that path.”
“And I’ll pray the worshippers didn’t use a rope to—”
“Don’t say it or you’ll jinx us!”
Graff clammed up.
“Here we go.” Monk braced himself, bouncing a bit to get circulation into his legs. He counted off. “Three…two…one…!”
Graff took off, bolting out like a jackrabbit. A bullet rang off the rock at the man’s heels.
Monk cursed and jerked up. “You were supposed to wait for go, ” he mumbled, squeezing the trigger and firing toward the trapped boat. “Civilians…”
He peppered the boat, driving the snipers onto their bellies. He watched one man throw his hands up and go toppling overboard. A lucky shot on Monk’s part. Return fire consisted of a few wild blasts, fired in an angry panic.
Ahead, Graff reached the Buddha and skidded in the sand, slipping past the prayer sticks. Twisting around, he caught his balance and leapfrogged behind the lean-to.
Monk took a more direct route and crashed through a sandy thornbush. He landed next to Graff.
“We made it!” Graff gasped out with way too much surprise in his voice.
“And pissed them off damn good.”
Monk pictured the man going overboard into the toxic soup.
Possibly in retribution, rifle blasts tore through the lean-to and exploded the vines and leaves draped along the cliff wall. Monk and Graff sheltered together, protected by Buddha’s wide stone belly. Surely there was symbolism in this last act.
But that was about all Buddha had to offer.
Monk studied the cliffs behind the wooden shack.
Sheer and unscalable.
No path.
“Maybe one of us should have rubbed that belly when we ran up here,” Monk said sourly.
“Your gun?” Graff asked.
Monk hefted it up. “One round.
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