Breaking Point (41 page)

“I know,” Gina said, holding tightly to her friend. “He’s okay. They’re both okay.”

So far.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Colonel Subandrio was playing the disdainful courage card, while Max’s hostage had definitely wet his pants.

“I should have known better,” the colonel told Jones. “You don’t really think you’ll get away from me, do you? Two men against hundreds?”

Jones pressed his weapon beneath Subandrio’s chin as he went through the man’s pockets, tossing a knife, a billfold, and a pearl-handled revolver onto the street. “Where’s the radio to contact the tank?”

“I don’t have it,” the colonel said, although his gaze flicked briefly to the interpreter.

Okay.

“And if you think—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jones moved his gun up to the colonel’s ear.

“Order your troops to stand down,” Max ordered Subandrio. “Order the tank personnel to open the hatch and evacuate. Now.”

“I will not,” the colonel scoffed. “Drop your weapons or I’ll order the tank to fire on the house. All I have to do is give the command to—”

Max looked at Jones.

Who didn’t so much as blink as he pumped a pair of bullets into Subandrio’s head.

He lowered the former colonel almost gently to the ground.

Max focused his attention on the CO, who may have soiled his pants yet again. “Order your troops to stand down. Order the crew of the tank to open the hatch and evacuate. Quickly.” It was just a matter of time before one of the hundreds of soldiers surrounding them decided to play hero.

The CO stared down at Subandrio’s body and then up as Jones stepped closer.

“Do it now,” Jones said.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

Jules was too late.

As Rexi Ernalia’s Mini skidded to a stop, Jules saw a body lying in the square, near what was, indeed, a very large tank.

He scrambled from the car, jarring his leg and making himself damn near puke. But there was no time for that—he pulled himself up on the crutches and hobbled a little bit closer and . . .

It wasn’t Max. It wasn’t Jones.

It was a little toad of a man in a fancy uniform, looking even uglier than he’d started the day, with half his head gone.

The house across the square, however—Emilio’s house—was still in one piece. It was clear from the position of the troops that this was where the “terrorists” were “holed up.”

Apparently Max and Co. hadn’t managed to leave after Jules had taken his fun ride down the mountain with Emilio.

“Who’s in charge here?” Jules shouted now.

And no one answered. Of course, he
was
speaking English.

He heard that small-car-backing-up whining sound and looked to see Rexi flash him a peace sign as he pulled away. Hey, thanks, pal. Not, of course, that Rexi could have helped with Jules’s translation problem.

It was wild—almost as if he were on the set of a movie. As if the soldiers strategically positioned around the area were all actors taking five, muttering together and scratching their armpits, having a soda or cigarette.

A man who looked to be an officer finally approached him. “American?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jules said, but the fellow launched into a long explanation, complete with gestures toward the body, the troops, the jeeps, the tank, and the house. He pointed to the road going up the mountain, pointed to the road going down.

And it was all totally not in English. Or even Spanish, which Jules also spoke quite well.

“English, please,” Jules said when he could finally get in a word edgewise. “Does anyone here speak English?”

Again the officer pointed to the tank.

Which, seemingly on cue, roared to life.

Perfect.

“Tell your men,” Jules mimed the words as well, pointing to his mouth and then the array of soldiers, “to stand down.” Okay, how was he going to communicate
that
? He tried again. “To hold their fire.” He pointed to the man’s weapon, pretended he was firing something similar, and then made a giant
no
gesture.

The man seemed pleased to have something to tell the troops.

Except, what about the tank? Who was going to tell them?

As Jules headed toward it, it moved backwards a bit, then jerked to a stop. It moved forward, then stopped. And then the gun turret turned all the way to the right and all the way to the left, as if someone were testing its operating system.

He was right alongside of it now, except how the heck did you get the attention of soldiers inside of a tank?

Knock on its side?

It started moving again. Very slowly. Heading directly for Emilio’s house.

It wouldn’t take too many direct hits from a tank—particularly at a close range—to turn that place to rubble.

“Hey,” Max said to Gina. “Look out the window.”

She and Molly were lying on their backs on the floor in the upstairs room in Emilio’s house, completely cried out.

Max’s voice, coming in clearly over that walkie-talkie had been the sweetest sound Gina had ever heard.

Molly had grabbed it and apologized for threatening to kill him, but had he actually shot Grady out there in the square?

Jones had grabbed the walkie-talkie from Max and reassured her that although, yes, Max had shot him, it was extremely superficial. Max had very good aim. Everything vital was still right where it was supposed to be.

Part A of the plan was a tremendous success. Max and Jones had gotten complete control of the tank. Part B was a little problematic, since it ran on the assumption that there would be a radio in the tank.

There was not.

Nothing more, at least, than the same sort of walkie-talkie they already had.

So now the new plan was to maneuver the tank in front of the house, like a giant guard dog.

Sooner or later, help would come.

And until it did, they’d be in possession of the biggest gun on the island.

However, Max had told Gina that he was betting help would arrive on the sooner side. Especially considering they’d taken the CO and his interpreter hostage.

But now Max wanted Gina to look out the window.

“The cavalry has arrived,” he told her.

Someone was standing directly in front of the tank. Whoever he was—a boy, dressed like a surfer, on crutches—was holding one hand out in front of him like a traffic cop signaling
halt
.

The tank, of course, had rolled to a stop.

And Gina realized this was no ordinary surfer, this was Jules Cassidy.

Jules was alive!

And here she’d thought she was all cried out.

Max laughed as he peered out through the slit that passed as a windshield for the tank. “He has no idea that we’re in here,” he said.

Damn, Jules looked like he’d been hit by a bus.

“Jesus, he has some balls.” Jones turned to the interpreter, who still didn’t quite believe that they weren’t going to kill him. “Open the hatch.”

“Yes, sir.” He poked his head out.

“Do you speak English?” Max could hear Jules through the opening.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell your commanding officer to back up. In fact, tell him to leave the area. I’m in charge of this situation now. My name is Jules Cassidy and I’m an American, with the FBI. There are Marine gunships on their way, they’ll be here any minute. They have armor-penetrating artillery—they’ll blow you to hell, so back off.”

“Tell him Jones wants to know if the gunships are really coming, or if that’s just something he learned in FBI Bullshitting 101.”

The interpreter passed the message along.

As Max watched, surprise and relief crossed Jules’ face.

“Is Max in there, too?” Jules asked.

“Yes, sir,” the interpreter said.

“Well, shit.” Jules grinned. “I should’ve stayed in the hospital.”

“I hear helicopters!” Gina’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “I can see them, too! They’re definitely American!”

Max took a deep breath, keyed the talk button. And sang. “Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .”

Jones sat in Emilio’s kitchen with his arms around Molly.

She’d helped him clean out his various injuries, and satisfied herself that he didn’t still have a bullet in his leg from Max’s .22.

“Did you know he was going to do that?” she asked. “Shoot you?”

“No,” he said. “It was inspired, though.”

“I thought he’d really killed you,” Molly told him. “It was the first time in a long time that I’ve been that angry. Angry enough to hurt somebody.”

“Welcome to my world,” he told her. “Must be the hormones.”

Molly laughed, but it sounded a little grim. “That’s the last time you’re going to say that. Ever.” She was looking around. “You know, we’re alone.”

“Yup.” Jones knew where she was going, and he really didn’t want to have this conversation. He tried to steer in a different direction. “Why? You want to give the old kitchen table a go?”

She laughed, but her smile faded to serious far too quickly. “I know you told me before that you made a deal with Max but—”

“Nothing’s changed,” Jones said quietly. “If anything, I owe him even more now.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that he’s purposely off dealing with the Marine captain to give you a chance to slip away?”

“So what if he is?” Jones countered. “I gave him my word. And Mol, we talked a little bit in the tank, about me trying to cut a deal. Info on Heru Nusantara in exchange for a clean slate. A chance to go home. Raise this baby with you.”

“It just seems . . . risky.”

“Any riskier than waiting to start chemo until after the baby is born?”

“Fair enough,” she said.

They sat silently for a moment, then Molly cleared her throat. “Do you maybe want to talk about—”

“Were you watching?” Jones asked. Again he knew exactly what she was thinking. About when he’d killed Ram Subandrio.

“No,” she said. “I mean, I
was,
but I didn’t see it. It was just . . . one minute he was there, and the next he was on the ground.”

“That’s pretty much how it works.”

“Does it bother you?” Molly asked.

“You mean, do I feel guilty killing him? No. I once watched him murder a two-year-old. I think when Max and I went out there, I was actually kind of hoping it would go down the way it did.”

“Knock-knock.” Gina poked her head in the door.

“Come on in,” Jones said. “We’ve got all our clothes on for a change. Oh, wait, it’s
you
who gets it on in the—”

“Okay,” Gina said. “Am I ever going to live this down?”

“Eventually,” Molly said. “But Max singing you old Elvis songs over the walkie-talkie? Honey,
that’s
going to be impossible to kill.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Jones told her.

“The singing or the kitchen tabling?” she asked.

“Both,” he said. “Seriously, Gina. He’s all right. I always hated him for making you so unhappy, but . . . he’s a good guy.”

Gina nodded. “He’s really thoughtful, and considerate and . . . Speaking of which. He asked me to give this to you.” She handed Molly a cell phone. “He said to tell you that the Marines set up temporary towers, and that it’s currently seven forty-seven
A
.
M
. in Hamburg, and the clinic opens at seven, so . . .” She handed her a piece of paper, too. “The phone number is on there. Ask for Dr. Bloom.”

“They’re not going to give me the biopsy results over the phone,” Molly said. “Are they?”

The test results that would tell them whether or not Molly had cancer—and just how bad it was. Jones was glad he was sitting down.

“We weren’t sure,” Gina said. “Max sent someone from the Hamburg office over to talk to them and explain what’s going on. Dr. Bloom is waiting for your call. He knows you’re out of town in kind of a major way.”

She hugged Molly and started to leave.

But Molly caught her hand. “Stay, okay?”

Jones took the phone and paper from her and dialed.

Marine Captain Ben Webster was pretty laid-back for a guy who looked as if he could bench press the entire Western Hemisphere.

He seemed fine with the fact that although he and his Marines had been sent to Meda Island to kick some terrorist ass, they’d instead been left to clean up after a confusing incident in which a high ranking Indonesian military officer—Colonel Subandrio—was apparently linked to a kidnapping and murder, as well as gunrunners and terrorists.

Max had made sure Emilio’s computer disks were secure. The Marines were settling in to guard the house—at least until a team from the Jakarta CIA office could arrive to search it more thoroughly.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bhagat. I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”

Max looked up from his conversation with Webster to see one of the Marine medics standing nearby. “What’s up, Corporal?” he asked.

“Your associate, Mr. Cassidy, sir? I’ve been recommending that we get him back to the ship’s hospital,” the earnest young man said. “His leg needs to be properly set. Yes, it’s splinted, but it’s got to be killing him. In addition, he’s lost a lot of blood from that gunshot wound, plus he’s had a head injury. They can be real tricky.”

“Good,” Max said. “Get him over there.”

“Yes, sir, that’s the problem. He won’t go. He insists that he’s got to talk to both you and Cap’n Web.”

Speak of the devil. Jules came hobbling over.

He held out his hand. “Captain Webster, once again, it was a pleasure, sir. Your men and women think very highly of you.” The two men shook. “I didn’t want to leave without thanking you,” Jules told him.

“I should probably be thanking you,” Webster said with a smile. “My people are glad to be on shore for awhile. We’ve been ramped up and ready to go ever since the word came down about the dirty bomb plot. We were hoping we’d get ordered back to San Diego, and for a while it looked like that was going to happen. Of course, then when the embassy in Jakarta was hit, we were way the hell over here—too far away to help.”

Jules turned to Max. “I’m not sure if you heard, sir, but there were only a few casualties in that attack.”

“It’s been frustrating,” Webster admitted. “But it’s not every day we get an order direct from the White House.”

A what? Max looked at Jules.

“Yes, well . . .” Jules met his eyes only briefly.

“I’d love to chat more,” Webster continued, “but you know, Barney here, he’s a smart kid. If he says you need to get to the hospital, then you should get going.”

“Thanks again, sir.” Jules shook his hand again.

“You’re welcome again,” the captain said, his smile warm. “I’ll be back aboard the ship myself at around nineteen hundred. If it’s okay with you, I’ll, uh, stop in, see how you’re doing.”

Son of a bitch. Was Jules getting hit on? Max looked at Webster again. He looked like a Marine. Muscles, meticulous uniform, well-groomed hair. That didn’t make him gay. And he’d smiled warmly at Max, too. The man was friendly, personable. And yet . . .

Jules was flustered.

“Thanks,” he said. “That would be . . . That’d be nice. Would you excuse me, though, for a sec? I’ve got to speak to Max, before I, uh . . . But I’ll head over to the ship right away.”

Webster shook Max’s hand. “It was an honor meeting you, sir.” He smiled again at Jules.

Okay, he hadn’t smiled at Max like that.

Max waited until the captain and the medic both were out of earshot. “Is he—”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Jules said. “But, oh my God.”

“He seems nice,” Max said.

“Yes,” Jules said. “Yes, he does.”

“So. The White House?”

“Yeah. About that . . .” Jules took a deep breath. “I need to let you know that you might be getting a call from President Bryant.”

“Might be,” Max repeated.

“Yes,” Jules said. “In a very definite way.” He spoke quickly, trying to run his words together: “I had a very interesting conversation with him in which I kind of let slip that you’d resigned again and he was unhappy about that so I told him I
might
be able to persuade you to come back to work if he’d order three choppers filled with Marines to Meda Island as soon as possible.”