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Moments later, the armored car crossed back across the median and gave chase, continuing to fire at the fleeing truck.
“We’ll wait for them to get a few miles down the road,” Eddie said.
Juan didn’t have to ask what they were waiting for. He heard it. The throbbing rotor blades of a helicopter.
The smoke dissipated completely with the arrival of the Oregon’s MD 520N, a chopper without a tail rotor that steered itself using the turbine’s exhaust gasses. Gomez, who was wearing mirrored shades and a Houston Astros baseball cap, smoothly settled the aircraft on a field of grass next to the highway and gave a jaunty wave when he was down.
Eddie handed out black balaclavas in case any curious onlookers in traffic were filming the action, and they all pulled them over their heads before rushing over to the helicopter and climbing on.
Juan got into the seat next to Gomez, who pointed at the bloody gauze sticking out of the balaclava.
When Juan had his headset on, Gomez said, “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Juan replied. “Thanks for coming to get me.”
Gomez gave him a movie star wattage smile. “My pleasure, Chairman. Just glad to have you back. The Oregon’s waiting for us twenty miles off the coast. For some reason, Max didn’t want me to rise out of the cargo hold in the middle of Mar del Plata Harbor.”
When the doors were closed, Gomez pulled back on the collective, and the helicopter rose into the air. As they flew east across the highway toward the Oregon and gained altitude, Juan looked south, where he could see the PIG racing down the road with the armored car in hot pursuit.
“Anytime it’s clear,” Eddie said to Raven over the intercom.
She waited until there weren’t any other cars within three hundred yards.
“Activating self-destruct,” she said. “That’ll do, PIG.”
The mortar rounds inside the PIG detonated. In combination with the fuel drums in back, it created an enormous fireball that engulfed the entire highway. The armored car careened off the road to avoid the explosion.
With a blast that huge, there would be
little left of the truck, and certainly nothing to trace back to the Oregon. Still, it was a big price to pay for Juan’s freedom, and he couldn’t help but think of everything that Zachariah Tate had cost them already. He was sick of being on the defensive.
It was time to fight back.
35
THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
Once he got back to his cabin aboard the Oregon, Juan took a long—very long—hot shower, a luxury he had even more appreciation for now after his night in the filthy cell. As he put on his leg and clothes in his bedroom, he heard a knock at the outer door. That would be Maurice with a late lunch specially prepared by Chef.
“Come in!” Juan called out.
He didn’t hear the door open, but the sound of dishes and glasses clinking on the table in his office/living room soon followed.
When he was dressed, he went out to see Maurice completing an immaculate setting for two.
“It’s a pleasure to have you back on the Oregon, Captain,” Maurice said. “I trust that you are on the mend.”
Juan touched the spot on his temple where Julia had put in four stitches.
“Just a little bump on the noggin,” he said. “Thanks for the meal. The jail I was in last night isn’t exactly Michelin-rated.”
“No, I suppose not. Chef has prepared filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, garlic scalloped potatoes, and Brussels sprouts in a blood orange balsamic reduction. I have taken the liberty of pairing it with a Château Montrose Bordeaux.” Maurice poured the decanted rich red wine into large crystal goblets.
Juan’s mouth began to water at the savory aroma wafting from the feast. “I trust your judgment implicitly, Maurice.”
“The feeling is mutual, Captain.”
That was about as gushing a compliment as Juan could ever expect from the unflappable steward.
