The Lazarus Trap (22 page)

Jocko knew full well what the world thought of him. He was the silent muscle, not meant to have even half a brain. Nobody expected him to speak. Which suited Jocko just fine. He had no time for idle chatter. He wanted a bloke's attention, he clapped him one. That always worked.

Problem was, Matt was always telling Jocko what to do. Even when Jocko had his job down cold. Like now. It was simple enough, really. Clean was clean.

Yammer, yammer, that was Matt in a nutshell. But Jocko was the one seeing to what needed doing. When time came to shut the gob and act, Matt played like smoke. Just like now.

This guy was such an easy target. That was Jocko's first thought when the bloke popped back into view. Haines was already injured, his head patched. Jocko slipped back a notch, to where the coffee bar met the side wall. One little tap and Haines would be laid out clean as you please.

Haines hovered in the doorway leading to the gents'. His eyes were doing the dance, seeing danger everywhere. Jocko snorted quietly. Matt thought he was the brains? So what would he be doing this minute? Telling old Jocko to sort this bloke out, that's what. Give the word and take a giant step back.

Jocko was watching this Haines. Oh yeah. Watching him make all the mistakes.

And he had just made a big one.

Val spied the rushing hulk a split second before impact. The simple fact that Val's senses were on hyperalert granted him just enough time to step back from the door. Or try to.

The attacker's strength was shocking. Clearly he had intended to pin Val between the steel door and the bulkhead, breaking Val's ribs and halting him in his tracks. Instead, the door's glancing blow blasted Val back three paces. The door struck the side wall with the force of a cannonade.

Val could have caught himself on the top stair with the railing for a brake. But he let himself fall. In fact, he used the railing as a slide, stumbling backwards down the nine steps. He hit the bottom landing and sprawled. But the guy was already thundering down from overhead. Val did a crabwise backwards crawl down the corridor.

His foe leapt down the final three steps. The narrow passage made his bulk even more monstrous.

A side door opened. A woman in uniform peered out. She gaped at Val's panic-stricken crawl, then spotted the massive intruder. She started to scream.

The attacker heaved her back with an open-palmed punch to her chest. His strength was such that he catapulted her across the chamber and slammed her against the far wall.

The attacker peered in the open door, a single instant to ensure she wasn't able to give him trouble. Val took this as his only hope for escape. He clawed his way to his feet and raced down the hall.

The thunder behind him added wings to his flight.

The door at the hall's end opened. The young officer stepped into view. Val ducked down and slipped past the man and through the doorway.

On the other side was open space and noise. The landing was metal and about four feet square. A spiral staircase headed downwards. Val ignored the shout behind him, gripped the rails with both hands, and hit every fifth step.

Above him, the officer's second shout cut off abruptly. Val leapt over the railing and dropped the final ten steps. He landed upon a catwalk that ran the entire length of the ship. To either side roared a giant pair of turbine engines painted a monochrome green. They bellowed a constant note.

The metal catwalk bounced like a trampoline beneath Val's feet when the attacker landed. Val did not risk a glance backwards. He knew the man was closing. Val pounded down the metal road.

Up ahead, a mechanic in greasy overalls talked to the senior officer Val had seen by the upstairs doorway. They peered at some valve or meter. The mechanic looked up, spied Val racing toward them, and shouted a warning.

These men were far more experienced than the younger officer. They spread out in a flanking pattern, barring his progress.

Val leapt up and over the metal railing. He hit the lip of the motor, a narrow ledge running down the entire side with bolts protruding like painted traps. The machine's vibrations almost knocked him off his feet. Val could not maneuver on that tight strip. He did the only thing that came to mind, which was to climb the motor's rounded hump to the top.

The motor's tremors traveled up through his hands and legs. They rattled his vision. The two crewmen yelled at him and at the bruiser who was scrambling across the catwalk railing.

The mechanic raced forward and grabbed the attacker's leg. The bigger man kicked him, a casual motion as if he were shaking off a pest. The mechanic went down hard.

The senior officer turned away from both Val and the bruiser and raced down the catwalk. Val kept going in the same direction, hoping for a diversion. The vibrating motor felt like a galloping metal horse. He was threatened with falling into an abyss of pumping iron and oily darkness.

Behind him, the bruiser hesitated in the act of climbing onto the motor's ledge. The ship's officer was headed for a red alarm box. The attacker shouted an oath and clambered off the barrier. He raced after the officer.

Val turned and did a monkey scramble in the opposite direction. He slid off the motor, leapt over the railing, and raced back down the catwalk toward the stairs.

The oil on his hands and feet and knees turned the curving stairs into a nightmarish assault on a slippery metal mountain. Val clawed his way up. The young officer sprawled on the upper landing, moaning and moving slowly. Val leapt through the doorway, left an oily stain on the opposite wall, and plunged down the hall. The young woman in the office-cabin called weakly for help. Val scrambled up the final stairs and reentered the ship's public space. The antechamber was full of passengers astonished by his sudden appearance.

Only then did Val realize that his head was bleeding again.

Val took the most likely avenue of escape, which was up. The stairs ended in a small antechamber with a door to either side. He flung one open and entered the rainswept maelstrom.

The rain was turned into blinding pellets by the wind and the vessel's speed. To his left, a few passengers huddled within an open-ended chamber and shouted against the din. Ahead, the grey hulk of Jersey emerged from the storm.

Val could not risk becoming trapped in the passengers' steel-sided alcove. He gripped the wet rail and started around the back of the central smokestack.

Val turned the corner and came face-to-face with the second man.

The attacker gripped the railing with one hand and his gut with the other. He gaped in utter shock at Val's appearance, then reached below his jacket and shouted a name, or started to.

Val did not think. He roared his anger and his fear and raced forward until he slammed into the thin man.

The attacker slid backwards until he rammed the opposite rail. Val continued pushing, trying to fling the man into the flying spray and the slate-grey water. To his left, the passengers huddled within the second metal-walled alcove gaped in shock at their struggle.

The man was smaller than Val, but he was streetwise and vicious. He was also fighting for his life. The first punch connected with Val's leaking temple and almost blinded him with the pain. Val hung on and struggled with all his might to shove the attacker over the railing. Below them, the vessel's wake was a constant roaring wave.

Voices shouted and moved toward them. But Val did not loosen his grip until the hands forced him. Countless hands. Too many for him to fight against. The pain in his temple was a great booming force, stronger than the thrumming motors. His vision leaked with the spattering rain.

Val shouted against the wind and other voices, “Who sent you?”

The man struggled against other hands gripping him. He stared at Val with a manic gaze and said nothing.

“
Who sent you?”

The boat slowed as it passed through the Jersey harbor entrance. Somewhere overhead a horn blasted.

The door behind Val blew open. The bruiser from downstairs shoved his way forward. He reached over the knot of people surrounding Val and grabbed for him.

“Jocko!”

The bruiser hesitated.

“Move it!”

The brute flung aside the other passengers and freed his mate. The two of them raced toward the stern. Val watched the pair slip down a ladder, then another, until they stood on the lowest open deck. They stripped off rain-washed jackets, then waited as the boat slowed further. The smaller of the pair turned and looked back up at Val. He leveled a finger and took aim. Then the bruiser gripped his arm.

Together the pair dove over the side.

“SIR, THE PORT AUTHORITIES WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO HAVE A word with you.”

“Fine. I'll talk to anybody you want.” Now that the battle was over, he had to fight the words out around chattering teeth. “But they've got to come here.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible. This boat keeps to a very tight schedule.”

“I have no problem with that.” He nodded his thanks to the orderly who brought him a cup of strong black tea. Val needed both hands to bring it to his mouth. He blew, sipped, said, “Let's take off. Now works fine for me.”

The officer wore short-sleeved whites. They were seated in a room across from where the woman now lay being tended by the ship's first-aid officer. Val's temple throbbed beneath his new white bandage. His duffel had been located, and he wore a dry tracksuit. A blanket was draped over his shoulders. His tremors rocked the cup he held. He did not feel cold now so much as utterly drained. His voice sounded raw and empty to his own ears.

The officer had the no-nonsense air of former navy. He was seated upon the fold-down desk opposite the bunk where Val sat. “You're saying you do not wish to disembark on Jersey?”

“You kidding? Those brutes are out there waiting for me.”

“I presume you mean the pair of men who reportedly attacked you over football.”

“Crazy, isn't it? I had no idea they were that drunk.” Every word needed to be pried from a brain that felt gummed solid with fatigue. He named the only British team that came to mind. “Or Manchester United winning some cup was all that big a deal.”

The officer crossed his arms. “Indeed.”

A young sailor knocked on the open door. “Customs says his documents are in order, sir.”

He reached over and accepted Val's passport. His eyes never left Val's face. “Thank you.”

Val hid his relief at having his passport back within grabbing distance by sipping from his cup.

“My officers confirm that you were the victim and the large man the attacker.” The officer tapped Val's passport on his thigh. “What I fail to understand, Mr. . . .”

“Adams.”

“Is why you felt it necessary to go after the man on the deck.”

“I saw he was going to attack me,” Val said, still examining the dregs of his teacup. “I didn't want to give him a chance.”

“And yet the passengers claim the man had spent the entire voyage being extremely ill.”

“Like I said, none of this makes any sense to me.”

A young woman tapped on the door frame. “Master's compliments, sir. We're ready to begin boarding.”

“Carry on.”

“Sir.” She departed.

“I agree, Mr. Adams. None of this makes sense.” The officer pushed himself off the desk. “But I have no reason to deny you passage home, much as I might like. I can, however, insist that you spend the journey isolated in this compartment.”

“Could you have someone bring me a sandwich?” He tried futilely to dredge up a smile. “I missed lunch.”