Without Warning (53 page)

The number of things she didn’t know about on this yacht was getting bigger and bigger every day.

“Take them through to the gym,” she called down. “We’re using that as an armory for now. One of the Gurkhas will show you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll follow my horn. It always knows the way,” he replied. “Oh, and where the hell is the humidor that Cap’n Fifi told me about? I’ve got four boxes of Davidoff Anniversario Number Ones in my ruck and if they dry out you’ll find out up close and personal why rhinos are surly beasts.”

“Library I think,” she called out at his retreating form as another newcomer, an Indian by the look of him, smiled and nodded shyly.

“Engine room?” he asked.

“Follow the Rhino,” she said, “but take the second stairwell down two decks. You won’t miss it.”

She turned around to ask Fifi if she could spare a few minutes to take her through the crew manifest again, but she was gone. Probably chatting up Dietmar on the way to the galley. Julianne took a few moments to just lean on the starboard rail and stare back toward the coastline. They were a good twenty miles out from shore, giving them enough time to see anyone coming at them. The radar, which was now working much more effectively thanks to the Rhino, was showing dozens of vessels within a few nautical miles, but Mr. Lee constantly adjusted their position to maintain a safe distance from any possible contacts. And, she had to admit, she felt much more secure with Shah’s men and all of the new arrivals on board.

Not that she’d be staying tonight.

They had to take the smaller boat back to the marina to pick up their passengers and Pieraro and his family in the morning.

Although, looking at the baleful light of the burning city, she had to wonder what sort of fresh hell she’d be sailing into, and whether Pieraro would even make it back in time to rendezvous. He had a four-hundred-mile round trip to retrieve his family tonight, and the roads, if not choked with refugees, would almost certainly be stalked by brigands and highwaymen.

She wondered whether he’d make it, and how long she could afford to wait.

College students. More than a thousand of them.

They formed a moat around the entrance of the Fairmont the next morning when she returned with Shah to pick up her passengers and Pieraro. Security had deteriorated all over Acapulco during the night, as though news of the Israeli attack had somehow finally uncapped all of the base animal fears stirred up by the Disappearance. While Mr. Lee and some of Shah’s men supervised her newly hired crew in final preparations on board
the Aussie Rules,
now ten miles offshore, at the marina Fifi and Thapa prepped the launch for a quick dash across the bay. Jules had chosen a rendezvous point much closer to the Fairmont to avoid a confrontation with the mob that had gathered at the gates of the marina demanding to be let in. Driving through the city, she could understand their motivation.

Anarchy was loose.

Whatever remnant of order had prevailed until yesterday was gone, and the madness she had been expecting was finally upon them. It was like moving through a city at war with itself. No. It was worse than that, because there were no sides, just a general eruption, a battle of all against all. Packs of young men fell on individuals caught out alone. Larger gangs fell on them in turn. There had been no uniformed police or city authorities visible for days, but even the sort of organized private muscle that had protected places like the marina and the Fairmont resort were much less in evidence, either hunkered down behind high walls and barricades, or simply dissipated as men flaked away to protect their own immediate interests and families. Gunfire, thick oily smoke, occasional explosions, and the mob sounds of fear and rage lay over the entire city.

Driving was a nightmare, with streets frequently choked and impassable.

Only Shah’s handling of the all-terrain SUV allowed them any headway
through the worst of the snarls. At times he simply mounted the curb and rolled through private yards to dodge some of the blockages. When the roads opened, the former soldier drove quickly and aggressively, twice knocking down small groups of men armed with improvised weapons who attempted to bar their passage along the Escénica roadway as it ran through scrubland in the hills to the west of Revolcadero Beach. The thud of impact as they struck human flesh made her shudder and close her eyes. It was somehow much worse sitting passively in the seat beside Shah. The situation eased somewhat as they came down out of the hills and drove onto the long strip of the dual laneway of the Costera de las Palmas. Sprinklers still sprayed long arcs of recycled water over the empty, bright green golf courses to their left, and the beachfront resorts of Revolcadero on the right had not yet been touched by the violence that gripped the center of Acapulco, but the evidence of accelerating collapse was everywhere. In the long lines of slow-moving cars piled high with personal goods. In the swarms of people sitting on the tarmac at the Aeropuerto Internacional, desperate for flights out, even though no aircraft remained there and none were flying in. And in the mob of seething, chanting American college students laying siege to the gates of the Fairmont, where resort security led a grim effort to hold them at bay.

“What the fuck?” said Jules as Shah slowed and pulled over to the side of the road well away from the mob scene.

“Spring break,” said Shah by way of explanation. “Many students on cruise ships from America. Cheap cruises. Very ugly.”

“That’s great,” she said. “But what are they doing here?”

She could see some of Pieraro’s street toughs wielding canes and clubs to beat back the Americans, but many of the students seemed prepared to respond in kind. One group in particular had armed themselves with a mix of sporting equipment, some protective gear, and some improvised weapons like baseball bats and even one cricket bat that she could see. They appeared to work as a flying squad, charging from one spot to the next whenever the security men threatened more beatings and mayhem.

“Bit of a fucking cock-up then, Mr. Shah.”

“A bit, Miss Julianne.”

He started the engine again and pulled back into the slow-moving stream of traffic that rolled straight through the center of the crowd.

“Don’t stop,” she ordered him. “I’ll see if I can get Miguel’s attention as we roll past.”

Shah nodded and crunched the stick into low gear. There was no moving any faster than a trot anyway, with the road and the dusty shoulder completely choked with foot traffic and hundreds of vehicles. Dozens more had
stopped from want of gas and been pushed off the road onto the shoulder, creating obstacles around which flowed the slow-moving river of refugees. The exodus from the city poured through and past the huge knot of young Americans, who all seemed to be carrying expensive backpacks and luggage. More than a few were drunk. As Jules rolled down the window she was struck by the stench of so many people packed in closely together.

“It’s bloody hopeless,” she said after a few minutes. “I’ll have to go in on foot. Turn off up ahead and take the car down to the sand. It can run on sand, can’t it?”

Shah nodded. “I shall wait by the cabanas directly out the back. I will not move until you come for me.”

Jules thought about taking the shotgun, but settled instead on a concealed pistol, which she carried in a holster on her hip under a long shirt. She was dressed in desert boots, khaki shorts, and a white sea-cotton top, and didn’t look all that out of place in the young crowd. She waved off Shah and began to push her way forward. He’d been right. They were mostly young Americans, very obviously vacationing students. She supposed there had to be a few thousand of them in Acapulco at any time of year, but their numbers would probably swell during semester breaks. What the hell they were doing camped out in front of the Fairmont she had no idea, but the deeper she moved into the crowd the uglier and more charged with menace the atmosphere grew, mostly thanks to the same street thugs she’d run into with Shah yesterday. She recognized Pieraro’s second-in-command, Roberto, the Colombian guy, standing atop a stone wall, looking splendid in black combat pants and a matching wife beater. His eyes were hidden behind silver sunglasses and he was sporting some fabulous new bling, but there was no mistaking the brute arrogance and cruelty of the man. He seemed to be enjoying himself, siccing small packs of his men on the gringos whenever they threatened to push too far into the complex, although his goons seemed less enthusiastic about tangling with the mob of drunken, fired-up college jocks who had armed themselves with the sporting gear. They were pretty evenly matched.

It was a wonder gunplay hadn’t broken out, but then in contrast with yesterday his men were all armed with clubs and ax handles. The pistols with which they’d manned the roadblock were nowhere in evidence. As Julianne elbowed and squeezed through the crush, she began to attend to the snatches of conversation she heard.

“… totally. They are picking us up here. Coast guard or something …”

“It’s the marines, man, I heard marines.”

“We’re going to Seattle.”

“No way. It’s Sydney.”

Oh, no,
thought Jules.
I have a very bad feeling about this.

She decided to skirt the heart of the mob, pushing out toward the edges and finally getting free of them about a hundred meters farther down the road near the resort’s tennis courts. Cutting through a dense forest of artfully arranged palm trees, she looped around the rear of a large apartment complex, emerging near one of the half-dozen swimming pools. They were all deserted today, even the bars at the edge of the water, but over by the artificial lagoon, on the terrace of the Chula Vista restaurant, she found her passengers, their minder Pieraro, and his family. All fifteen of them.

The vaquero looked furious, but he was not nearly as angry as Jules.

She stormed over, fists clenching and unclenching. Everyone but Pieraro flinched and shuffled aside.

“What the
fuck
is going on out there? And who the hell are these people?” she demanded to know. “You told me you had a wife and a couple of kids. You brought half the fucking village with you.”

The Mexican’s extended family looked to him, with more than a little fear. Jules assumed the woman clinging to his arm was the wife, and the girls crowded around her were their daughters, but the rest had to be a grab bag of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and possibly the village drunk, the village idiot, and the village’s drunken idiotic mayor all thrown in for good measure. None of them looked to have a fucking peso between them.

Pieraro disentangled himself from them and moved forward to intercept Julianne as she bulldozed her way through the tables and chairs overlooking the lagoon, knocking one over with a resounding crash. Normally the terrace would have been crowded with guests taking a late breakfast at this time, but the restaurant was closed and seemingly abandoned. She guessed that very few staff had bothered to show up.

“You’ve got a fucking nerve,” she hissed at Pieraro. “I don’t know what that balls up out the front is about, but there are about a thousand dumb jock college students out there who seem to think they’ll be hitching a ride out of here with us. But they won’t, will they, because you’ve brought half the fucking village
of el Shithole del Diablo
with you!”

Pieraro didn’t flare up or push back, insisting in a steady voice, “There is no need to be offensive, Miss Julianne. I am not responsible for the crowd out the front. That was Cesky’s doing.”

“That putty-nosed toad. What the hell did …”

“It’s true,” called out Phoebe the trust-fund bimbo, looking appreciably less sure of herself than yesterday. “He was so pissed off with you for cutting
him out that he marched off yesterday and started telling everyone about the escape plan. It spread. I got three text messages about it.”

She held up a cell phone as if to explain. Jules was surprised it still worked. Hers had cut out days ago. She sighed internally.
The rich.
They always had a way.

Her other would-be five-star refugees all nodded glumly.

“Right,” said Jules, barely able to contain her exasperation. “Well, we’ve still got to get you away from here. There is already another lynch party back at the marina, waiting to do you all in for a ticket out of this madhouse. So listen up. You do exactly as I say or you
will
be left behind … Miguel. Transport. That was your job …”

“I have two buses,” he said. “They will take everyone.”

“Yeah, and how are they going to get out through that mob in front? I’ve got Shah parked down on the beach waiting for us. No way will your buses run on soft sand.”

“No. But I have not parked them here,” he said. “When Miss Saint John”—he indicated Phoebe—”warned me what had happened with Cesky, I hid them down the beach, at the Alberca Heritage. I know the security chief there. A good man.”

“How much did that cost?” asked Jules, rubbing her eyes.

“A hundred gallons of gasoline,” he answered. “He is leaving with his family this evening.”

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “And the mob out the front?”

“Roberto will hold them there. He has arranged a number of minibuses from the Fairmont at reception. Everyone thinks they are the escape vehicles.”

“And he wants passage, too?”

“No. He sees opportunities here. Mostly he wants me gone. But some payment was involved.”

Jules closed her eyes.

“How much?”

The merchant banker, the one with the silicone-enhanced mistress, suddenly spoke up. “It was nothing. Now can we get the hell out of here?”

Jules struggled for his name. Roger … Roger … Moorhouse.

“So? You paid off Roberto the coke-dealing paramilitary fascist?” she asked incredulously. “Oh, well. That’ll turn out fine, I’m sure. He won’t be back for another bite of the apple, will he! I mean, do any of you actually need me? Everything seems to be running tickety fucking boo without my input. Perhaps I should just piss off and leave you to get on with it.”