kiDNApped (A Tara Shores Thriller) (29 page)

Then there was the timing of it. His first thought was to do it at night, when most of the crew would likely be asleep. He could blast a hole in the wall, jump through it, leap over the side and be gone before anyone knew what happened. He would also be harder to spot once in the water. But—and this was a big but, Archer realized—the boat was underway, so there was no guarantee that he would still be near the coast at all by late night, much less near an accessible area of coastline like where he now found himself. Much of the Hawaiian Islands coastline consisted of surf-pounded, razor sharp lava; some areas featured tall sea cliffs.

That left a daytime attack. If he could manage to rig the explosion today, he would have the advantage of knowing he was a swimmable distance to a populated area, and that there might be witnesses to his escape. The disadvantage, of course, was that his kidnappers would instantly swarm the lab upon hearing the explosion.

But those were huge advantages. Archer decided a daylight attack—today—offered the best risk-reward scenario. But how much time did he have? He glanced at the wall clock: 12:46. He figured it would take about a half-hour to rig his improvised chemical-acid bomb. If he wasn’t interrupted, he thought dourly. Summertime, it would be light until about 8:00…he had until about 4:00 when the crowd would start to thin as tourists headed home to get ready for a night out on the town…whatever town this may be, Archer wondered.

He intended to find out.

Archer mentally carried out the preparations before he ever left his stool. Once he set the flasks of chemicals against the wall, there would be no good explanation were one of his captors to make one of their once or twice daily spot checks. He mentally enacted the building of the bomb several times, running through it like a mantra in his head until it was routine.

Fifteen minutes later, he was ready. Fight or flight, he told himself.

He carried various acids and chemicals which he had calculated to yield the desired reaction over to the wall, arranging them next to one another on the floor. He worked quickly, jogging back and forth from the wall to the chemical cabinets. After the chemicals were set, he wadded up some paper towels to use as a fuse.

He was almost ready. He looked around the lab for something large and sturdy—something he could use to smash through any remaining bits of wall that the explosion didn’t take care of. Ragged, open fiberglass would not be pleasant to squeeze through. It would be nice if he blew a clean hole all the way through, but Archer was no demolitions expert and, not knowing exactly what to expect, decided to be prepared. He would not have time for anything after the blast except for escape at any cost.

His eyes darted about the room. He could find nothing. Then he eyed a cabinet door. It would cost him precious minutes, but he decided it was worth it.

Archer trotted over to the drawer of household items and retrieved the screwdriver he’d seen there earlier. Taking it to the cabinet, he patiently worked on the cabinet’s hinges. After the top hinge came off, he almost ripped the cabinet away from the remaining hinge, but decided against it. Might be heard if there was a guard outside the door.

After unscrewing the second hinge, Dr. Archer picked up the cabinet door, hefting its weight. It was large, about two feet by three feet. It would make an excellent shield from the blast. Which reminded him: safety gear and escape dress.

What did he want to be wearing when he jumped? Not that he had much choice. All he had were a few pairs of shorts and T-shirts, and a pair of old sandals. He would skip the footwear, as sandals were not conducive to fast running and would only be an impediment once in the water. In addition to shorts and a T-shirt, he grabbed a second T-shirt and wrapped it around his head, turban style, as a heat and debris shield. Then he donned his tinted lab goggles, a pair of thick yellow rubber gloves, and a cotton respirator to guard against vapors.

That was his outfit.

Weapons? Archer gathered up a spray bottle he had filled with sulfuric acid. He suspected that his captors didn’t wear their masks when they were outside on deck, so the acid spray bottle could make a fine weapon. Then he rooted around in a drawer until he found what he was looking for: a pair of scissors. He tucked them into his waistband.

He glanced around the lab one more time, searching for anything he might have overlooked. Should he take one last look out the porthole? No…not worth the risk. He was going, whatever was out there; it wasn’t far from the tourist beach he’d just seen. It was time.

Dr. William Archer lit the Bunsen burner and held the paper towel fuse over the flame.

…TTTG
53
TTGT …

1:07 P.M.

The spectacle of a man wearing yellow rubber gloves, safety glasses and a T-shirt wrapped around his head crashing through a fiery hole on a motor yacht and splashing into the water was witnessed directly by no one. Even the
Nahoa’s
crew was caught off guard. By the time the first guards burst into the lab, William Archer was already swimming away from the boat as fast as he could, churning a human wake as he scratched for shore.

Only one crew member had given him any resistance after he leapt through the hole made by his explosion. Archer had defended himself from that man’s blows with his wooden cabinet door shield, held in his right hand. Then archer had thrown the door at the man, sidearming it at his head but missing. Smiling demonically, the attacker moved fluidly to block Archer’s approach to the rail, ducking and darting as he did so, putting into practice some kind of mixed martial arts training that made Archer nervous. He saw the squirt bottle still in his own left hand. He directed the nozzle at the man’s head and squeezed hard, sending a jet of high concentration muriatic acid into his assailant’s left eye.

Archer heard the man scream as the aggressor backed away from his prey, teetering, falling to the deck as he turned an ankle. The scientist dropped the acid bottle and hurtled over the rail. On his way down he was surprised to see an oversize plastic killer whale—a toy float—which he fell onto and promptly bounced off into the water, limbs flailing.

Archer heard the hissing of fire extinguishers behind him as he began to swim. His turban wrapped shirt, once wet, had slipped down over his mouth. He ripped it away so he could breathe; heard the Nahoa’s crew shouting. Archer lifted his head out of the water, tried to get a look at where he was going, but the goggles had collected water and fogged. He tossed them away, squinting with the sudden light intensity.

Archer treaded water for a moment, taking his bearings. A good two hundred yards ahead lie the beach he’d seen from the porthole, and the road, still full of traffic. His head swiveled to the right. A surf break; a half a dozen wave riders oblivious to his plight as a clean head-high set rolled in over the reef.

Left: an old shipwreck lay abandoned on the shallow reef. Its mast protruded from the water at a forty-five degree angle. A dark hole was visible in her hull like a toothless smile. Much farther in toward shore, there were bathers, rafters, paddlers. He wondered if any of them had seen or heard the explosion, but it didn’t look like it.

And then the high-pitched whine of an engine chilled his blood. Coming from behind him, and fast by the sound of it. He turned to look, confirming his fear.

A waverunner.

William Archer struck out again for the lighter colored water ahead of him. Reef. Maybe it would be too shallow for the waverunner. He did see a few coral heads poking out of the water. But he knew that a waverunner needed much less water in which to operate than did a conventional boat, especially when skimming along at cruising speed.

He kicked more rapidly, arms windmilling as he swam faster than he ever had in his life. He looked up to make sure he was still headed for shore and saw the wreck off to his left. He altered his course to head for it. The personal watercraft whined louder somewhere behind him.

Archer reached the beginning of the shallow reef and the knuckles of his right hand scraped coral on the downstroke. He kept going. So did the waverunner.

Archer smacked into a barely submerged coral head and realized that he had to watch where he was going or risk striking his head and passing out. Further compounding his problems, the water was now far too shallow for a conventional crawl stroke. He had to do an improvised breast stroke, fanning his arms out in front of him without penetrating the water too deeply. Once he scraped his chest on the reef below, but he kicked sideways into a depression of deeper water and continued toward the listing wreck. A sizable fish splashed out of the water beside him, but he paid it no mind. As he drew nearer to the wreck, Archer took two precious seconds to assess its condition, lifting his head out of the water like a seal.

A permanent fixture of the reef for some time, the old sailboat—easily accessible from the crowded shore—had long been picked clean. Nothing of any value remained—not a single brass fixture, working piece of stainless steel, rigging, sailcloth, hardwood or anything else that might be resold, reworked or reused. But to Archer, it was a place to hide. He gazed into the gaping maw of the broken vessel and—as he heard the roar of the waverunner close in behind him—decided that right now there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

The last few feet to the stranded boat were too shallow to swim. Archer stood and ran. Painful and dangerous on bare feet, to be sure, but there was no other way to reach the wreck. Jumping and limping toward the hole in the wreck’s side, Archer felt the bow wave from his pursuer’s vehicle wash against his midsection.

The renowned geneticist reached the wreck just as the personal watercraft was forced to turn away from the inches-deep water lapping at the high-and-dry vessel. The motorized craft made a lazy turn around the side of the wreck facing the
Nahoa
. Standing at the entranceway to the wrecked hulk, Archer turned around to look at his kidnappers.

There were two of them—one driving and one on the back seat. It was a large waverunner that could accommodate three people if necessary. Archer realized that to anyone observing their activity from the beach, they would look like typical fun-in-the-sun tourists out for a day of adventure—his two friends circling him on the personal watercraft (they were rented all over the islands) while he tiptoed over to check out the exposed shipwreck. His captors did not wear their masks out here, Archer couldn’t help but notice. Caps and sunglasses, but no voice modulators. Those would arouse way too much suspicion, so they’d left them behind, and Archer saw that they were Asian—maybe Chinese.

Archer shouted “Help! Help me please!” a couple of times at the top of his lungs. He doubted anyone would hear him, but you never knew—he could no longer see what was in front of him on the other side of the wreck—and even if no one was there, it would make his pursuers nervous. Sound could carry a long way over water, even if its direction was hard to pinpoint.

Cursing as he stubbed his toe on the bottom, Archer felt something give way. He bent down and picked up a softball-size chunk of loose coral rubble before scooting inside the wreck.

…TTAC
54
TTGG …

1:29 P.M.

“Rob Tanner, pleased to meet you,” the helicopter pilot said. Tanner’s crew cut was framed by a headset and a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. He spoke without actually looking at his new passengers while he flipped switches on the instrument panel. Dave, Lance and Kristen shared the back seat of the A-Star 350 while Tara climbed into the front seat.

“Well if it isn’t the illustrious Rob Tanner himself, master pilot of the Pacific!” Tara said, beaming. “Great to see ya, Rob! If I’d known you’d be my pilot I’d have requested air support a lot sooner, believe me.”

The pilot looked over at Tara, surprised, but smiling warmly. “Tara Shores! Oh, no! If they’d told me you were the agent I’d be flying I’d have turned it down. Jesus, Shores, I still have nightmares.”

The two had worked together a year earlier on a Los Angeles case in the Channel Islands. Tara had pushed the Gulf war veteran’s flying abilities to the absolute limit then, and he wasn’t looking forward to a repeat or anything close to it.

“Hey Rob, you have a side job here in the islands? Reason I ask is because those tourist helicopters are always crashing, so I thought maybe you were moonlighting.”

“Funny, Shores. In fact, my stay in the islands is temporary, they tell me for six months. I’m setting up a new FBI pilot training course here. So I hear you’re looking for a boat. Tell me about it,” he said. He knew they both wouldn’t mind reminiscing over the past case, but chopper time was expensive, they had civilian passengers aboard, and the assignment had come to him labeled high priority, urgent status. Figures Shores was attached, he thought as he watched her become serious.

“We’re looking for a boat named the
Nahoa
. I understand that’s a pretty common name in Hawaii,” she began. Rob cut in.

“Let’s narrow it down. Big boat, small boat?”

“It’ll be big, but not as big as a cargo or container ship. Probably some kind of yacht.”

“Sail, power?”

“Don’t know.”

“And all you do know is that it’s somewhere around the Hawaiian Islands, but you don’t know where?”

“I know it sounds like a needle in a haystack, but—”

“I’m not going to tell you it’s no use. We can zip across channels pretty quick in this little bird,” he said, patting the A-Star’s console. “Do you have a preferred starting point?”

“Kauai Channel,” Dave said from the back.

Rob looked at Tara for approval. This flight was on her authority. She nodded. “Let’s cross that channel, check out the east coast of Kauai, and then come back across, but farther north for the return trip,” she said.

“Roger that,” Rob said, hands taking the helicopter’s collective.

In minutes they were heading west across the Oahu shoreline.

Inside the wreck, the air was cooler. Archer whipped his head back and forth, allowing his vision to adjust to the dim light as he assessed this new space. He stood knee deep in water that became deeper toward the stern of the wreck and shallower toward the bow, which jutted above the reef at roughly a forty-five degree angle.