Target: Point Zero (15 page)

The plane ran great—on the water. But what would happen when he took to the air? He got it to seventy miles per hour, gave the throttle a pull and the wheel a push and an instant later, the spiffy little aquaplane rose confidently off the lake.

Big clown-feet pontoons and all, the Macchi cut through the air in a manner that impressed even him. He told himself that he shouldn’t be surprised. The seaplane looked like it was going one hundred mph even when it was standing still. And usually, good looks translated into superb handling in the air.

He took it low and to the north, away from St. Moritz and any unwanted prying eyes. He put it through a series of wild gyrations for the next two minutes, a quick test to see if all the bolts were tight and the lock washes fastened. Apparently they were. Next, he pulled back on the throttle and slowed the plane down to near-stall speed—it was easier to read an aircraft’s deficiencies this way. Once again, his ears were able to provide him the diagnosis: the engine was for the most part intact—about three hours of work would get it to where he wanted it.

He proceeded to the third phase of the flight. He started climbing. Past five thousand feet, then ten, then twelve. The Macchi probably never topped this high, but Hunter was sure it could take twenty-flat, if he could. Still, he played it safe and leveled out at twelve thousand, five hundred. As could be predicted, the view was spectacular. There were mountains surrounding mountains surrounding more mountains—each one snowcapped and majestic, each one beautiful yet eerie in its own way.

Checking the pretty sights was not the priority though. This was recon. He looked off at the northwestern horizon, still dark in the growing morning. Point Zero was out there somewhere. He didn’t expect to see it—he was looking for the means of access to reach the place.

He found three mountain highways and a half dozen backroads that all flowed off to the northwest—mission accomplished. When the two travelers finally did leave town, Hunter was sure they would take one of these paths back to Point Zero.

With all this locked firmly in his brain, he slowly turned wing over and headed back in the direction of St. Moritz. There was no real reason to overfly the city, other than curiosity. And there was always the chance that he might spark a panic or at least a call to the outlying security forces by flying over the city. An airplane in the sky over the fun and sex capital was probably still a very unusual event.

But oddly, none of this deterred him. By the time he was over the frozen settlement, high up in the morning clouds, more hidden than not, he knew he’d headed in this direction for another reason—if he kept going for another mile or two he would be right over the place he knew Chloe would be bathing.

If he flew lower and quieter, he might even be able to take a peek in. And if he shut off the engine and just kind of glided by, then maybe he could see…

Suddenly he felt the airplane veer sharply to the right—a whine of protest from the engine filling his ears. He looked down and saw that it had been his own hand that had put the airplane into the violent, one hundred eighty-degree maneuver. In a flash, he was thinking with his big head again.

What the hell was he doing? What was happening to him? Jeopardizing the mission like this, just to catch a peek at what kind of sex Chloe was having at the moment?
A wave of embarrassment washed over him, thick and draining, right to the core.

This Chloe thing,
he thought, heading back towards the airplane’s dock housing,
really
was
getting serious.

I
T WAS GETTING DARK
by the time Hunter returned to Chloe’s chalet.

He’d spent the afternoon inside the seaplane’s hangar, working with tools three times as old as he was, fixing an engine first designed in 1929.

Despite the advanced age of just about everything he touched, the Macchi’s engine was a breeze to tune-up; he’d had the thing running at one hundred ten-percent of recommended power inside ninety minutes. More tinkering got it up to one hundred twenty-percent. The rest of the plane’s mechanics—the flaps, the steering, the big clown’s feet, plus all the cables and wires connecting one to another—also checked out. Only a few bolts had to be tightened and a few strands unkinked.

He left it just as dusk was falling, confident that the Macchi would get him where he was supposed to go—and with a completely free conscience: the bag of gold he’d left behind before taking off on his trial run was gone by the time he’d returned.

Now he could see a soft stream of smoke rising from the chimney atop Chloe’s place, and he could only wonder how warm and perfect it was inside. Fixing the engine and getting the seaplane in shape had been a distraction, true—but only a partial one. Many times during the tune-up he caught his mind wandering off the spark plugs and generators and back to Chloe’s lovely face. Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her, inside the red bedroom, having sex in that strange, erotic way. As the afternoon progressed, and the day grew longer, it became impossible to keep her out of his mind. She was haunting him. More than once, he cursed himself for not overflying her bathing spot. This only inflamed his passions more.

Now, walking up the path to her house, the streams of condensed breath coming from his mouth rivaled his ROB during the hairiest of dogfights. The back door was unlocked, not all that unusual in crime-free St. Moritz. He let himself in, scanning the big main room and feeling the plunge when he realized Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

He walked over to the huge fireplace, kicked the smoldering logs over and reignited the inferno in a matter of seconds. He stood there, facing the flames for a long time. The warmth penetrated his clothes, his skin, his bones. The only bad thing about St. Moritz was that it was always so damn cold outside. It took him a few minutes to shake out the last of the chill, his eyes mesmerized by the growing, glowing fire.

He was glad she was not around—or at least that’s what he was telling himself. Tonight’s mission in the gambling hall was an important one. He had to perform a triple-cross on the space travelers and needed the fullest of concentration.

Still, he, could not shake the feeling that he would never see her again. That he would complete his duty tonight, sleep on her couch and get up to leave the next morning without her ever coming home, without ever being able to say goodbye. He shivered at that thought, despite the warmth of the flames in front of him. There was more than just the smell of aviation fuel going around this town. Whatever the hell it was in the air, Hunter had caught it and now he had it bad.

He finally sat on the couch, giving his eyes a rest from the hypnotic flames and gazing instead out on the mountains. The peaks were taking on a warmish glow as the city of St. Moritz began to light up, a thousand reflections bouncing off the centuries-old snowpack. He’d been many places in his travels and up until now, had thought he preferred his climate to be just a tad warmer. But here in the frozen bosom of the Alps, he’d found something very alluring, very intriguing.

Cold, but mystifying. Glacial yet…

He felt his heart take another plunge.
Why wasn’t she here when he came back? Didn’t she want to see him?

He shrugged off that last thought and almost unconsciously, removed his bandolier of rifle ammo and set it on the masterfully carved solid oak table in front of him. Retrieving his knife from his boot holster, he pulled a handful of bullets from the ammo ring and began dislodging the tracer rounds from their shells. Behind each cap was a small quantity of phosphorescent powder, the kick that made Hunter’s personalized tracer bullets fire so bright and frightening.

But this powder could do more than just light up the night. When coming in contact with certain types of metal—aluminum, silver, gold—the molecules reacted in such a way as to heat up several degrees Kelvin. This warmth, though minute, was still enough to show up on a FLIR-sight or a pair of NightVision goggles, both of which Hunter was carrying with him—that is, if one knew what he was looking for. It was imperative that he bring at least a couple grams of the bright stuff with him when he met the fellow travelers at the casino tonight.

So he sat, pulling his bullets apart, gathering together the precious compound, perched on the edge of the couch hoping that at any moment he would hear her coming in.

But as it turned out, Chloe was already home.

It was very surprising that he hadn’t heard her when he first came in.

The chalet was big, and some of its bedrooms were way up top, and way in the back, and the sound didn’t travel all that well throughout. But he was extremely surprised that somehow his extrasensory receptors hadn’t felt her presence
somewhere
in the house. It was a disturbing indication of just how much time he’d spent dwelling on her.

He’d just emptied out the last of twelve tracer rounds when a very strange, yet familiar sound came to his ears. It was like loud purring, coming from somewhere at the back end of the chalet.

He was on his feet in an instant, all thoughts of tracer powder and gambling casinos quickly fleeing his mind. Leaving his gun behind, he went to investigate.

The stairs leading to the second floor rear were rustic and old and extremely creaky. Hunter went up them without making a sound. The second floor rear was an area used primarily for guests who’d come to ski. The floor was understandably marked up, the walls scraped by hundreds of ski pole impacts. Still, Hunter moved down the hallway with the grace of a cat; the loudest sound coming from him was the beating of his heart. It felt like it was trying to leap right out of his chest.

The purring got louder as he approached the end of the hallway. He’d been doing a lot of this thing lately, both awake and in his dreams, walking down darkened corridors, wondering what would be behind the door he chose to open. He was sure a psychoanalyst could tell him the reason for all this recent skulking. But at the moment he wasn’t too sure he wanted to know the answer.

No surprise the purring was coming from the last bedroom door on the left. His heart was now racing with his brain as to which one was making the most noise—shivers of curiosity, lust, excitement and shame were running through him at the speed of light. He felt like a bomb was about to go off inside his pants.

He finally reached the door and touched the knob. It was warm. The purring was coming from inside and had now risen to a soft growl. He stopped and listened for a moment.
Whoever said that the brain was a human’s most sexual organ was certainly on the mark here,
he thought with a gulp. It was all he could do to turn the knob and open the door.

But open it he did…

It was Chloe doing all the purring. She was naked, lying on her stomach in the middle of an enormous bed, one faceless Nordic type roasting her from the back, while she did another from the front. She saw Hunter—and smiled with delight. This had been a plan all along. She knew he’d come back eventually, she knew that eventually he would find her here. She’d reeled him in like an expert.

Hunter stood there, shocked, but more excited than ever.
What the hell was all this?
He felt like he was caught in a bad porno movie.
Was watching almost as good as doing it? Was it better?
At that precise instant in time, he just didn’t know.

For the next five minutes, Chloe and her companions moved from position to position, without missing a beat. Her eyes remained locked on his throughout, though there were times when the bombastic lust of it all demanded she close them and get lost in it.

To say he had a photographic memory was drastically understating the case; his mind was like four separate cameras running at once, with perfect visual and auditory reception. He was drinking this scene in by the gallon. Very quickly, he lost track of how much time had passed.
Was it really just five minutes? Or ten? Or more?
Hunter had no idea.

Finally, he did take a step backwards, toeing the door with him. There was a limit to everything—and an art in knowing when to go. He went as quietly as he came, turning the knob softly and finally shutting the door again. He stood there, staring at it, fighting the urge to take just one more peek.

That’s when Chloe’s purr-turned-growl became a scream. Or was it a laugh? Hunter pressed his ear back to the door—he’d been hearing this sound for days now, both awake and in his dream.

When he heard it again—the last chorus in a symphony of erotica coming from behind that closed door—he knew at last that it was indeed a laugh.

That’s when he turned on his heel and quickly hurried away.

At least that question had been answered.

T
HE CASINO WAS PACKED
by the time Hunter arrived.

It was hard for him to avoid making a grand entrance. Even though he came in through a side door, he was immediately mobbed by a legion of admiring, well-dressed drunks. They quickly swept him towards the same poker table that had been the center of the action the night before.

A crowd four times as large was on hand for the sequel. The two spacemen were there, too. They were sitting in the same seats, the same confused scowls etched across their faces. It was almost like they’d never left, like they’d been waiting here all day, guarding what was left of their money, anticipating Hunter’s return.

He nodded in their direction then dramatically dropped his own heavy bag of coins on the table. The large felt-lined platform nearly buckled, the $1.5 million weighed that much.

The travelers’ eyes went wide; a gasp went through the crowd. The tuxedoed pit boss snapped his fingers and a gigantic scotch-and-ginger miraculously appeared in front of Hunter. He drank it in two gulps.

“So what’s the game, boys?” he asked them finally.

They both smiled—but nervously. They’d been planning for this moment all day. They
had
to get it right.

“One hand, draw poker,” one replied in a deep European accent. “Winner take all…”

Hunter laughed—he was authentically amused.