Will Adams - The Eden Legacy

‘How much have you got?’ replied the tomato. And there was enough amusement in his voice for Boris to know, even before he looked around, that the Raging Bull and the Beretta would both be aimed directly at his back.

It was late afternoon when the Yvette neared the Eden pass. The sea was getting rougher, waves breaking hard against the reef. A squadron of jellyfish passed like ghosts beneath their hull, provoking Rebecca to wonder what horrors might lie beneath. But then she stamped down on the negative thought. Adam and Emilia were alive. If there was anything on the sea-bed, therefore, it could only be of help in finding them: and the sooner she found it, the more useful it would prove. She opened a bench locker, fished out a mask, snorkel and pair of flippers.

‘What are you doing?’ frowned Daniel.

‘I thought you agreed it was up to us to search this area.’

‘Yes, but not tonight. It’s too rough. And it’ll be dark soon.’

‘My father and sister had to come out of the lagoon this way. I need to take a look.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘No. Now. What if there’s something down there? I owe it to them, Daniel.’

‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘You owe it to them not to take stupid risks that can’t possibly do them any good.’

‘I’m doing this,’ said Rebecca. She stepped up on to the bench before he could stop her, jumped overboard. She took a little water in her mouth, salty and warm. She sank into the trough of a wave, rode it up high. She hadn’t realised quite how big the swell was, or how fast the Yvette had been travelling. Already she was twenty metres away, Daniel’s back bowed as he worked furiously to bring her around.

‘Listen,’ he shouted. ‘You won’t see a thing. Trust me. I know reefs. Wait till it’s calmer, I’ll bring you-’

‘And when that will be?’ She lifted her right knee up beneath her chin to pull on a flipper. ‘Do you know these reefs?’

He scowled at her, but there was nothing he could do. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Keep it brief. Stay away from the coral. The currents will be ferocious when you get-’

‘I did grow up here, you know.’ She pulled on her second flipper, brought her mask up over her eyes, bit down on the mouthpiece of the snorkel, that familiar taste of rubber and salt. She ducked her head beneath the surface. The swell had kicked up sand and silt, yet visibility wasn’t bad. The coral shelf was a dark mass to her right, but it separated into distinct shades as she drew closer: purple, black, lilac, emerald and ochre. The colours didn’t mean they were healthy, however, for much of it came from algae that grew on dead and live coral alike. That was why it was so important to survey fish populations. Racoon butterflies, convict sugar-fish and striped bristle-fish were bad news, for example, because they could live on the algae. What you wanted to see were red-fin butterflies, long-nose filefish, red-banded groupers and black-tail snappers, because they fed only on live coral, or black and white snappers and A large wave simmered and boiled as it passed her, saltwater splashing down her snorkel into her mouth, making her splutter, while all around her the reef fish mocked her struggles with their serene ballet. The shelf grew steeper; she was near the pass. She warned herself to be careful. The whole lagoon virtually drained and filled with each tide, all that water squeezing through this narrow gap like vast crowds through a single turnstile, creating incredibly fierce currents. A translucent plastic bag floated past. She grabbed for it, lest a turtle mistake it for a jellyfish, as they sometimes did, and choke to death. It eluded her, so she swam after it. She heard Daniel shout a warning and looked around just as another wave struck her obliquely across her face. Water gushed in through her snorkel. She spat it out choking and hacking. A second wave broke over her, taking her tumbling her with it, spinning her out of control. She tried to kick away but her left foot hit something immense and solid, and pain spiked up her leg. A third wave threw her backwards on to the reef. Her left elbow took a bang; the back of her crown smacked dizzyingly hard. The swell subsided, backwash dragging her with it over the coral. She pushed to her feet, clumsy from the blow and from wearing her flippers; but she dared not take them off because of all the sponges, urchins and crown-of-thorns starfish that lived upon these reefs and which would leave you limping for days. She stood sideways to the waves instead, spread her feet wide. Her left shoulder began to throb. She’d dislocated it twice before, was terrified of doing it again; but as far as she could tell it was only wrenched and bruised.

A wave smashed against her thigh and waist, almost throwing her from her feet. Its backwash tried to fold her up like a deckchair. She glanced down. Blood was leaking in thin, watery sheets from grazes in her knee and thigh. Coral was sharp as knives; infectious, too. Her palms were already a lattice of thin red lines that quickly spread and merged. Another wave smashed into her thigh. The sun had already half gone behind the western horizon. Clouds were gathering overhead. Daniel and the Yvette were fifty metres away, and it felt like fifty miles.

Boris dropped the Heckler amp; Koch and raised his hands as he turned around. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed the tall man. ‘You will.’

Boris belatedly realised why the man had made him uneasy. His jitteriness wasn’t that of someone involved in a risky transaction, but of an addict needing his next fix. ‘My friends will be angry with you,’ he said. ‘They’ll send more people.’

‘Sure they will,’ scoffed the man. ‘Now let’s have your money.’

‘I left it in the trees,’ said Boris. ‘I’ll go get it for you.’

The tall man said something in Malagasy; the tomato nodded and approached Boris carefully, making sure not to block his comrade’s line of fire. He patted him down with his left hand, felt the wad of banknotes in Boris’s back pocket, pulled it out and held it up in triumph.

There was only one question on Boris’s mind: what plans did these two have for him now? If this was just a heist, no problem. He’d get Sandro to wire more money, start over. But that wasn’t the impression he was getting. When he’d threatened them with his friends, they’d found it funny. Petr had put this deal together, and Petr was his successor as Sandro’s head of security. What if he was worried that Boris might be after his old job? What if he’d put these vermin up to this, and more? Could he take that risk?

It was getting dark, just enough to give him some cover. He stepped abruptly to his side, putting the tomato between himself and the tall man, grabbing his knife from beneath his shirt as he did so, stabbing upwards. The Raging Bull erupted, a blaze of light and noise. The round caught the side of the tomato’s head, splattered it, spun him around. Boris grabbed the Beretta from him as he went down, fired blind twice, not to hit anything, merely to buy himself time. The Raging Bull erupted again. Boris threw himself sideways, rolled on to his back, took a moment to steady himself and then aimed at the tall man’s torso and pulled the trigger three times. The man twisted as he fell, landing upon his front, the Raging Bull erupting a final time beneath him, lifting his body a little into the air like a comic-book hero diving upon a grenade.

Boris held the Beretta out carefully as he went to look, but there was no need. He spat out a curse. The sound of that damned cannon was bound to bring attention; he needed to get clear. He wiped his prints from the Beretta, put it in the tomato’s hand. With luck, the police would assume an argument that had got out of control. He put away his knife, cash and the Heckler amp; Koch, went to the boot for a couple of boxes of shells, pocketing a pack of flexi-cuffs while he was at it, and hurried for his bike.