have exercised more. The problem was his main form of working out was sex. Somehow it didn’t prepare you for long runs over uneven terrain.
He looked around desperately for another way out.
If not the boat, what?
The road out of his estate was not an option. Even now he could hear sirens in the air. He walked slowly along, parallel to the beach, thinking hard.
There had to be some way.
Maybe he should just chance the boat. It would be more maneuverable than a sub, wouldn’t it?
The fact was he didn’t know. But he couldn’t think of a viable alternative.
Then, as he watched, the sub started to sink into the water. It turned and, its tower still visible, rapidly made its way back out to sea.
Maybe they had heard the sirens too, way out there. Or maybe they just assumed that things had gone badly and they had better retreat.
Whatever the reason, Lampert now had his window of opportunity.
Lady Lucky had a steel hull. It could take the pounding of the ocean. He had crossed the Atlantic in it before. Once he reached international waters he would feel much safer. It would take time for Landry and the others to talk to the police. Warrants would have to be issued. Police would have to be sent out. By that time Lampert could be very far away.
He heard the sounds behind him, turned, and saw what was coming.
Frantic, he started running flat out for his precious boat and the open seas.
Lampert looked as though he had seen Satan himself after him.
And in some ways, he had.
Puller had caught up to Mecho and the two men ran side by side.
Mecho did not look at him or say anything to him. His total focus was on the man up ahead.
Puller and Mecho ran like the combat warriors they were. Not the fleetest in the world, they ran with a practiced motion, a fluidity that got maximum results with a modest output of energy. When you were in combat you often had to run. Mobile targets tended to survive. Stationary targets tended to die.
But when you stopped running you usually had to fight. The latter took a lot more energy than the former. Better not to waste all of it on the running part.
They were still neck and neck as they gained on their quarry. But Puller snaked ahead at the last moment and tackled Lampert.
The man went down, the wind knocked from him.
Mecho reached down and lifted Lampert off the sand with a violent upward jerk of his arms.
Puller slowly rose and watched the two men.
Mecho looked at Lampert and Lampert looked back at him.
Mecho’s features were stone.
Lampert’s were fear mixed with curiosity.
“What the hell is your beef with me?” he finally shouted.
Mecho threw him back down on the sand, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the photo. He held it in front of Lampert’s face.
“Do you remember her?” Mecho asked, his voice strained.
Puller kept watching, and waiting. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if Mecho decided to try to kill Lampert. The man was his prisoner, a potential witness against one of the biggest criminals in the world. Mecho was wounded, but then so was Puller. In a one-on-one all bets were off. Puller knew his skills and his limits and he wasn’t sure he could take the bigger man.
But then he might surprise himself.
The thing was, though, Puller didn’t want it to come to that.
Mecho was not his enemy.
Lampert stared dully at the photo.
“Uh, am I supposed to know this person?”
“Her name is Rada. You took her from a village in the Rila mountains in Bulgaria. Her and many others. That was my village.”
Lampert looked at Puller. “Is he serious? You think I’m going to remember someone like that?”
Puller stared stonily back at him. “Wrong answer, Pete.”
Mecho again lifted Lampert up off the sand, held him up with one arm, cocked his other arm back, and hit Lampert so hard that several of his teeth exploded out of his mouth. He flew backward five feet and landed in the sand. He hit so hard on his cuffed arms that he popped both shoulders out of their sockets.
Screaming and crying in pain, he tried to wriggle away.
“Shut up,” said Mecho.
“I have a friend. He pilots a cargo ship. He will take us back home. No questions asked.” “Where and when?”
“Tonight. From Port Panama City.”
Lampert had stopped crying and was listening intently to this.
Through his busted mouth he stammered, “You... you can’t be serious. You’re not going to let him take me to... to Bulgaria.”
Puller glanced down at him. “Why not? You’ve been there. Had a good trip, right? Got everything—correction, everyone—you needed, right?”