Clive Cussler - Plague Ship

Eddie turned to partially face Kovac and said, “There is a special lock on the door. We can’t get in.”

“I am familiar with such a device. You can still enter. Talk again and I shoot your left kneecap.” Eddie jammed his left hand in his right pant pocket and fished out the electronic key card and used it. The insert light on the lock flicked from red to green, and he could turn the handle.

“Step back,” Kovac ordered.

Eddie and Max did as ordered. Kovac’s partner entered the suite. In just seconds, they heard Dr. Jenner cry out, “What is the meaning of this?” The gunman ignored him as he made the demand again. Twenty seconds later, the partner shouted out to Kovac, in clear American English, “Suite’s secure. Only the deprogrammer and the kid.”

Kovac flicked the gun barrel, and Max and Eddie entered the room. The Serb inspected the lock Jenner had placed around the door knob and smartly didn’t let the door swing closed.

“Dad?” Kyle Hanley stood from the sofa, looking none the worse for the drugs that had been coursing through his veins for the past twenty-four hours.

“Kyle.”

“How dare you do this to me?” Kyle shouted.

“I did it because I love you,” Max said helplessly, conflicting emotions wrenching his words.

“Silence!” Kovac roared.

He strode up to Jenner, towering over him. Jenner seemed to shrink into his skin, and his latest protest died on his lips.

When the Serb assassin spoke, his rage was barely contained.

“Mr. Severance gave me express orders not to kill you, but he didn’t say anything about this.” He slammed the butt of his pistol into the psychiatrist’s head.

Two things happened at that instant. Jenner started to collapse to the floor, the wound pumping blood, and Eddie Seng took off running, using the momentary distraction to its fullest.

The French doors leading to the balcony were ten paces away, and he’d covered three-quarters of that distance before anyone knew he was moving. Max instinctively shifted a foot to the right to block the second gunman’s aim while Kovac continued to gloat over the collapsing shrink.

Eddie hit the doors at a full run, hunching his shoulders at the last second as he burst through the delicate wood mullions and antique panes of bevel-cut glass. Shards ripped at his skin as a bullet whizzed by, striking the building opposite in a puff of brick dust.

He barely slowed as he reached the railing. Using just his legs, he vaulted over it and twisted around in midair so that he was facing the building as he started to fall. He grabbed two of the countless wrought-iron spindles, his hands slick enough with sweat to allow him to slide down smoothly, while seventy feet of nothingness separated him from the traffic crawling below.

His hands smashed into the concrete deck just as the tips of his toes touched the fifth-floor balcony railing. Without a moment’s hesitation, he let go and stepped back, falling all over again in a headlong plunge toward the sidewalk. As the fifth-floor balcony whipped by his face, he reached out and clutched two of the wrought-iron bars again, slowing himself just enough so that he was in constant control of his descent. It was an awesome display of strength, balance, and a total lack of fear.

He was teetering on the fourth-floor railing, centering himself for the next plummet, by the time Kovac reached the suite’s balcony. At first, expecting to see Eddie’s corpse sprawled on the asphalt, Kovac didn’t spot Seng until he stepped back from the baluster below. The Serb opened fire, raining down a storm of bullets.

Eddie felt the shots ripple the air around him as he slid down the spindles. His hands slammed into the concrete. No matter how he stretched his body, he couldn’t quite reach the next balcony down. His wrists were screaming with the strain, so he let go, falling just an inch before he found purchase. He wind-milled his arms for a second before dropping again. If his hands weren’t broken by the time he reached street level, he’d consider it a miracle.

Kovac couldn’t get an angle, and rather than risk being spotted by passersby who were starting to gawk at Eddie’s insane stunt Kovac holstered his pistol and stepped back into the suite.

For a moment, Eddie considered leaping onto the balcony and entering the third-floor room, but he had no idea how many men Kovac had covering the building. His best chance was to get away as quickly and cleanly as he could and regroup later.

He stepped back again, smearing skin off his now-dry palms as he slid down the spindles. The second-floor balcony was a story and a half above the pavement, to allow for a high ceiling in the hotel’s lobby. The drop was nearly twenty feet. Just off to Eddie’s left was a bright yellow canopy arching out over the sidewalk to protect the entrance from the elements. Like a tightrope walker, he padded across the top of the railing and dove for the canopy, torquing his body so his back slammed into the stiffened fabric.

Sliding down its curved face, he was able to reach between his legs and grab onto the underlying metal frame. He somersaulted over the edge, holding on as tightly as his damaged hands would allow, and dangled for a second before nimbly dropping to the ground. A few in the gathered crowd cheered, not understanding what was happening.

Eddie started running down the sidewalk, dodging through the throngs as best he could. The noise of a powerful engine roared over the din of regular commuter traffic. He whirled to see a black motorcycle jump the curb and start after him, panicked people scattering out of its path as the rider hit the throttle hard. Less than fifteen feet separated him from the bike, and the big Ducati was accelerating.

Making like he was running for the entrance of the bookstore next to the hotel, Eddie leapt to his left instead, flying onto the hood of a parked car. His momentum slid him across the vehicle and dumped him in the road just ahead of a Volvo truck that had found a little room in the congestion to speed up. The driver never saw Eddie fly over the car, so he kept on the gas. Eddie had a second, at most, to twist out of the way of the heavy-duty tires. He covered his head in a vain attempt to protect it as the ten-wheeler rolled over him. Heat from the engine was like the open door of a blast furnace on his back.

The truck suddenly braked, wheels skidding on the asphalt. Eddie heard the bike again. It must have returned to the road between two parked cars right in front of the Volvo.

He scrambled from underneath the vehicle. An open-topped double-decker tourist bus was in the opposite lane. It had paused to let people off. Eddie was near the rear of the vehicle, far enough away from the driver that he most likely wouldn’t be noticed. He jumped hard at the side of the bus, thrusting upward to get himself off of the roadway. He kicked out with his other foot, connecting with the truck, still idling three feet away, gaining himself another foot. He did this again and again, kicking each vehicle in turn, ignoring the startled faces of passengers in the bus, as he used his strength and dexterity to shimmy up the gap between the two trucks until he reached the top of the Volvo. He rolled onto its roof, panting, and would have paused to catch his breath except a sizzling hole appeared inches from his face.

He looked up. Kovac was on the balcony again, taking deliberate aim. With little chance of alerting pedestrians with the shots, he could take his time. Eddie jumped to his feet, running along the top of the truck, and leapt for the bus as it started to pull away. He sailed over a bench seat of Japanese tourists and tumbled into the aisle. He ran to the back of the bus to see the Ducati pull out from in front of the Volvo truck and start after him.