Clive Cussler - Pirate

Sam looked over at the two men. Ivan, his right hand in his jacket pocket, smiled at him as though he knew he was the subject of their conversation. And then, as though to prove Fisk’s point, he lifted his jacket, his hand, and the concealed weapon aimed in their direction. A moment later, the fire alarms went off.

“Your decision, Mr. Fargo. Make it quick.”

Remi gripped Sam’s arm as the fire alarms blared throughout the gallery. “I’m not leaving my husband.”

“The choice is not yours, Mrs. Fargo.”

Sam asked, “What happens to my wife if I cooperate?”

“When she dutifully shows up alone out front, they’ll know not to set off the explosives — as long as no police arrive. The better question is for her to ask what happens to you.” He pinned his gaze on Remi. “Stay in sight of the entrance, don’t use your phone, and your husband will be safe.”

“Sam…”

“I’ll be fine, Remi. Go.” He looked toward the exit, where museum employees were guiding the guests out.

She stopped before Fisk, looking him in the eye with a cold stare. The last thing she wanted was to anger him and so she turned to Sam, saying, “Be careful.”

He gave a quick nod, and she forced herself to walk away, finally glancing back as she neared the exit, willing Sam to look at her.

They’d reached the far end of the gallery, and Fisk’s man forced Miss Walsh around, plucking a white key card that was clipped to her pocket, using it to open the door. Finally, Sam looked toward Remi. He crossed his fingers, touched his temple near his eye, then pointed at her.

She did the same. Their own little signal for Don’t worry, I love you .

Forcing herself to walk calmly among the other evacuees, she tried to regulate her breathing, get her fear under control. Sam was very capable, and if anyone could defeat Fisk, he could.

The cool air hit her as she stepped out, and she looked around, hearing sirens in the distance. Guests milled about near the entrance, the sequins and jewels on the women’s gowns sparkling in the lights.

Laughter and quiet conversation filled the air. No one seemed to be panicking.

She saw no ambulance — nor any guest who seemed to be suffering from a heart attack, fake or otherwise.

Fisk had lied to them.

Idiot. Of course he had.

She turned on her heel, walked to the door where security was still ushering other guests out due to the fire alarms.

When she tried to enter, one of the guards put out his hand. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll need to stay outside until the fire department clears the building.”

“My husband,” she said, her hand to her throat, attempting to look as panicked as she felt. “He’s… diabetic. He needed his insulin and said he was going to the restroom to give himself an injection. He hasn’t come out. I–I don’t see him anywhere. Please. It’s the first-floor restrooms in the atrium. If I could just go check…?” Pleading with her eyes. “I’ll come right out as soon as I find him.”

He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “In and out,” he said.

“Thank you! I’ll be quick!”

She walked straight toward the atrium. Glancing back, she saw the guard was no longer paying her any attention. Perfect. She continued on, saw perhaps fifty or so guests coming down the grand curved staircase on the left. Two young women, both museum employees, stood on either side at the base of the stairs, repeating, “Please head to the nearest exit. Thank you.”

Remi wandered up, smiled at the employee closest to her. “Excuse me. I’m worried about my husband. I can’t find him and I’m hoping he’s upstairs.”

“Just wait here, ma’am. They’re clearing everyone from upper levels.”

“Thank you.” Stepping back, Remi stumbled against someone, lost her balance, fell forward against the woman, her purse flying from her grasp to the floor, its chain strap rattling as it slid across the surface. “Oh no,” she said, trying to right herself as the woman helped to catch her. “I’m so sorry!”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Remi said. “More embarrassed than anything. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No. Here. Let me get your purse.”

“I can get it,” Remi said, moving past her, scooping up the chain, then holding the purse against her as she strung the chain over her shoulder. “I can’t believe I did that. Darn high heels.” She glanced upstairs. “I don’t see him. I guess I can wait at the front.”

Remi moved with the crowd toward the exit, hiding the stolen key card behind her purse as she quickly sidelined toward the gallery. After a quick glance back to make sure no one was watching, she made a beeline toward the door leading to, she hoped, Sam. She slid the key card against the lock, hearing it click as the light turned green. Opening the door, she slipped inside, entering a stairwell, then dropped the key card into her purse. She looked up, dismissed that direction, and descended, cracking open the door at the bottom. She saw it was clear, stepped in, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Remi pulled off her shoes before starting down the hallway. She passed several doorways, all closed, following the corridor to a T intersection at the end. An EXIT sign on the wall pointed to the left. Doubting they’d leave the museum — unless they’d already found what they were looking for — she peered around the corner to the right. About ten feet in, she heard the faint sound of voices, floating down the corridor.

Remi stilled, tried to listen. She couldn’t tell who was talking or what they were saying.

At least she was heading in the right direction.

Pressing herself close to the wall, she continued on, the voices growing louder.

“Keep looking.” This voice sounded like Fisk.

“Maybe,” came a woman’s voice, “if you told me what you’re trying to find?”

“I did tell you. Something round with symbols on it.”

Remi edged her way toward the room, her back against the wall. The door was closed, but not tight. Fisk stood with his back to the door, watching Miss Walsh sort through items on a table. Marlowe, his dagger in hand, stood next to them. What Remi didn’t see was Sam or Ivan. She eyed the door. A slight push would be all it would take. She reached out, pressed her fingers against it. A quarter inch more allowed her to see into what was apparently the workroom where they’d been cataloguing the Herbert Collection. Several weapons scattered on the table clearly didn’t make the cut for the upstairs display: a mace detached from the handle, a maul, an old leather shield, and pieces of body armor. Unfortunately, nothing that could readily be used as a weapon on her part — except, perhaps, a brass star that appeared to have been attached to the leather shield at one time, its points possibly sharp enough to do some damage if thrown with enough force.

The door swung open. Ivan shoved the barrel of a small pistol right toward her. “Don’t move.”

Remi glanced into the room, seeing Sam off to one side, seated in a chair, his hands zip-tied in front of him, but otherwise unharmed. “No need for violence,” she said, giving a glance at the gun.

“You should’ve stayed outside.”

“I’d be glad to return.”

“Too late,” he said and yanked her into the room.

Sam forced himself to remain still when he saw Remi stumble past the door, landing against the table of artifacts. As much as he wanted to blast his fist through Ivan’s face, then break his neck, he knew their best bet was to wait. Ivan might only have two shots in that small-caliber handgun that he’d managed to smuggle into the museum, but that was two shots too many.