Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei
August 25
The gunshot and sound of shattered glass comingled and became one, immediately followed by the tinkling of hundreds of glass fragments on the stone floor.
Peter and Robert fell to the tiles as more bullets streamed through the remnants of glass and lead came that had once adorned the French doors. Chunks of wood were blasted from the billiard table. Other rounds found the stacks of books on the far wall.
Two figures were in the patio garden, converging on the shattered glass doors. They were both wearing uniforms of the palace guard. Sitting with his back against a leg of the once-beautiful game table, Robert raised the Glock and fired off a rapid succession of four shots. Peter watch as the two guards collapsed under the fire.
A shot came from the parlor, quickly followed by a scream. Aaahh! Before Peter or Robert had time to react, the double doors burst open and another palace guard crashed through the opening, landing on his back. Diesel was on top of the gunman, his jaws locked around his right arm. A Glock pistol fell out of his hand and skidded a short distance away. He was attempting to reach it with his left hand, but Diesel wasn’t giving any quarter. The pit bull was shaking his head, furthering the lacerations on the man’s arm.
Peter rose and rushed to aid his companion. He scooped up the pistol, just inches from the guard’s reach, and trained it on the man. “Enough!” Peter ordered, the rapid movement sending burning pain through his side. Diesel released his victim and slowly backed away, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the guard.
Only after Diesel broke off did Peter see the bandages on the right arm. The dog had torn into a fresh wound, perhaps one made only a few days ago by a steak knife slashing across the arm.
The billiard room fell into silence, save for the groaning of the guard. He placed his left hand over the ragged tear. Blood slowly seeped between his fingers.
“You were in London, weren’t you?” Peter said, looking down at the man.
His question was answered with a look of malevolence.
“Of course you were. Well, I know you’re not loyal to the Sultan…”
“What do you know?” came the gruff reply.
“I’m rather certain the Sultan will not be pleased to know some of his trusted palace guards kidnapped his niece.”
“You have no idea what has been set in motion, or the reach of power. You’ll never leave here alive—never.”
“Yeah, whatever you say. I’ve heard it all before.” Peter turned to check Diesel for wounds. He squatted and laid the Glock on the floor, then ran his hands along both sides of his canine. They came back clean, no blood.
Suddenly, Diesel leapt over Peter’s shoulder. He twisted his body to see. Diesel was latched onto the guard’s left wrist, the hand holding a short, curved blade—a karambit. It hooked inward, reminding Peter of a talon or claw. With teeth crushing the man’s wrist, the karambit was useless. Despite the wounds on his right arm, he was desperately slugging Diesel with his free fist.
Peter reached around, trying to locate the Glock. The fist was pummeling the canine’s side. Still, he wouldn’t slacken his bite.
Boom! Smoke wafted from the muzzle of the pistol in Robert’s hand. As the guard stopped moving, Diesel sensed the fight was over. He released and returned to Peter’s side. Blood pooled where the man’s head rested on the stone tiles.
Again, Peter ran his hand over Diesel, only this time the dog whimpered a little when the hand brushed over the ribs that had been pummeled. “Is he okay?” Robert asked.
Peter tilted his head to the side. “Bruised his ribs. I don’t think any are cracked.”
“We have to get outta here. Grab the extra mags from his belt.”
Each armed with a Glock 17 pistol tucked within his waistband, and shirt pulled out to cover the handgrip, Robert and Peter casually walked out the front door of the apartment, Diesel close by Peter’s side.
“Now what?” Peter asked without turning his head toward Robert.
“We go to a safe house.”
“You have a safe house here?”
“I do. My apartment.”
Peter spun his head. “You think these people are idiots? They’re probably already searching your apartment.”
“Nope, not likely.”
“How can you be so certain? It didn’t take long for them to mount an attack on us. And we’re inside the palace grounds!”
“The apartment is not in my name, and the alias is buried deep. Plus, I don’t actually live there.”
Boom! Boom! The two men ran for the cover of a cluster of palm trees. Bullets split the air all around them, but none connected. As they came to a rest, the gunfire became more precise. Bullets were cutting into the trunks, but so far none had penetrated through.
“You have a plan B?” Peter said.
Robert was surveying the grounds. Behind them were more trees and clusters of dense foliage. Beyond that, the entrance to the palace.
“Nothing elegant,” he replied.
Peter sank lower and pulled Diesel in tight as another barrage impacted the palm trunks. “We don’t have the luxury of being choosy.”
Robert shrugged. “We go that way.” He motioned with his chin. “Use the available cover and exit through the gate. Then we hail a taxi.”
“Oh. Sure. Why not?”
“Look, those guards will kill us if we stay here. So, unless you have a better idea?”
Peter exhaled deeply. “You think they’re all gunning for us?”
“Looks that way.”
“Can Eu-meh help?”
“Once we escape—“
“You mean if we escape.”
“We hold up in my safe house while I contact Eu-meh. She could be in danger, too.”
Peter ran over the different scenarios in his mind. None of the options were good. “You win. Plan B it is.”
Robert nodded. “Angle for the closest cover. I’ll draw their fire until you get there. When I hear you fire off two rounds, I’ll be running for your position while you cover me.”
Peter nodded. “Ready when you are.”
“Good luck.” Robert eased around the base of the trees and fired off in the direction he believed the attackers were located. Immediately, gunfire was returned, the muzzle flashes revealing the shooters’ locations.
Peter and Diesel were up and running. In four seconds they reached another grouping of palm trees, and Peter tumbled to a stop on the far side. He raised the Glock at the same time he came up to a kneeling position. Ahead, Robert was still shooting at a measured pace of about one round a second.
“Clear!” Peter yelled, and he began firing his Glock. The distance was long for a pistol, just shy of 100 yards, he estimated. Still, Peter knew from experience that it took an incredible amount of will power to remain calm and focused when being shot at, even if the shooter was unlikely to hit the target.
In a flash, Robert was running. He moved quickly for a big man, and could have made a respectable tryout performance for professional football. Seeing what was taking place, the palace guards began to abandon their positions and fan out to the sides to get a clear angle on their targets. As they moved away from cover, they became easier marks to hit. Peter tracked one guard and fired. Boom! Boom! Boom! After the third shot, the guard stumbled and fell forward, his rifle skittering across the ground.
After the last shot, the slide locked open on Peter’s Glock. He ejected the spent magazine and rammed home a full load. Just then, Robert slid in and rolled over, bringing his gun to bear.
When the palace guards left the cover of the cloisters, they became easier targets, although the distance was still challenging. Robert was firing aimed shots from the base of a palm tree at the running guards. Two fell to his gunfire, giving Peter needed cover to make his dash.
Peter looked over his shoulder and spied a large fountain not too far away. He pushed to his feet and sprinted. Off to the side, motion attracted his attention. He turned his head without breaking stride and saw a golf cart angling his way. It looked like one of the grounds-keeper machines, used for moving plants, tools, and insulated containers of drinking water around the large property.
Only this one was driven by a guard. Riding shotgun was another guard. He aimed his rifle and squeezed off a short burst. The bullets impacted the grass some distance in front of Peter, no doubt his aim disrupted by the motion of the electric cart as it bounced over the uneven lawn.
With his eye on the fountain, Peter pumped his legs harder, trying to ignore the pain from the bullet wound as the flesh opened anew. More rifle shots, this time striking the earth closer. He reasoned that as the distance decreased, the gunman would inevitably find his mark. It was a race to the fountain, where Peter hoped he could gain momentary protection. If he was lucky, the golf cart would pass by and offer two or three seconds of exposure during which Peter would have seventeen bullets to fire at the guards. Hopefully, only two or three would be needed.
Unexpectedly, the sound of gunfire from the golf cart ceased. Still running, Peter turned his head. The gunman was dropping the spent magazine and pushing a new one in place. The cart was still closing. Peter swung his Glock toward the cart and squeezed off a shot. In that moment, Diesel launched at the electric vehicle and its occupants. The pit bull was running all out—his head down and tail laid flat. A streamlined, seventy-pound missile of teeth, muscle, and sinew.
Peter slowed and faced toward the threat. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. He saw the gunman raise his rifle and aim—not at Peter, but at the dog. The gunman seemed to shout something, and the driver came to a stop. From the stationary vehicle, the guard raised and braced his weapon against one of the steel tubular supports for the sunshade.
“No!” Peter shouted. Diesel stayed locked on, running fast. The gunman took aim and fired.
Diesel closed the distance.
Peter raised the Glock and began shooting, his stance solid, two hands firmly supporting the pistol. On the third shot, he landed a bullet in the guard’s shoulder, throwing off his aim. Peter fired again, this time hitting his chest. He fell backwards, bounced off the seatback, and rolled to the grass.
Diesel sprang into the air, clearing the wounded guard and slamming full on into the side of the driver. The shear momentum of the canine moving at thirty miles per hour carried the driver out of the golf cart. He landed hard, head slamming into the turf. Diesel was on top of him, lacerating his arm amid screams of terror and pain.
Peter sprinted to the scene. The rifle was laying not far from the prostrate body of the gunman. Peter grabbed it and came around the golf cart, his pistol aiming forward. Diesel had the driver pinned to the ground, his jaws locked on the man’s right forearm and wrist. The man had his left arm over his face. Any movement from him, no matter how subtle, and Diesel would shake his head and bite down harder, generating more screams.
“Diesel, enough!” Peter commanded, the Glock pointed at the driver. Diesel relaxed his jaws and backed away three steps. Peter reached down and removed the guard’s pistol and ammunition magazines. Just then, Robert arrived.
“Heard the gunshots, thought you were at the fountain!”
“I got us a ride,” Peter said. Diesel jumped in and Robert took the wheel, pressing down on the accelerator just as Peter hopped into the passenger seat, holding onto the steel support for added security as they crossed the rolling lawn at the maximum speed the cart would deliver. It wasn’t a racer, but still twice as fast as they could run. Quickly they left the other palace guards far behind.
“Where’s the gate?” Peter shouted, his ears ringing from the gunfire.
Robert pointed. “Up there. Not too far.”
Peter saw a paved road; the one they’d entered on. It crossed at an angle to their current direction of travel. Robert slowed and turned onto the pavement, and the ride became much smoother. The road followed a gentle curve to the right where it entered a broad belt of dense greenery—a wide variety of trees, shrubs, and flowering bushes—all planted with the goal of providing visual and acoustical privacy from the bustling city just beyond the palace grounds.
“Get ready,” Robert said. “When we pass around this bend, the guard station will come into view. I don’t know what to expect, but the guard must have been alerted by now.”
Peter nodded. He shifted the rifle in his hand—a U.S.-made M4 military weapon—making sure the safety was off. The electric drive was practically silent, and Peter assumed the guard at the gate would not hear them coming.
As the greenery gave way, the guard station, a small windowed building just big enough for one man, came into view. The door was closed, no doubt to assist the air conditioner in keeping the interior temperature comfortable—a tall order given that all four sides were almost completely glazed. Thankfully, the gate was open.
Upon seeing the golf cart, the guard opened the door and raised his hand, signaling for them to stop. Instead, Robert mashed his foot down on the accelerator and the golf cart sped up. Peter pointed the muzzle at the building and fired, sending bullets into the windows. The gunfire combined with the shattering of glass had the desired effect, and the guard ducked and threw his body back into the meager safety of the building as the golf cart raced by.
Robert turned the wheel and merged the electric cart into the street traffic. After traveling a short block, he turned the corner, repeating this maneuver many times until he felt they had enough distance from the palace grounds and were not being followed.
He steered into a narrow alley between two buildings and parked the golf cart next to a refuse bin. “Toss the rifle in the dumpster,” Robert said.
“Why? It could come in handy.”
“Trust me, okay? It’s too conspicuous. And you don’t want to get caught with an automatic rifle that will be easily traced back to the shootout at the palace. Remember—Sharia law here.”
“Fine,” Peter grumbled. He looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was watching, then heaved the rifle into the dumpster with bags of smelly garbage and rotten food scraps.
“How’s your bandage holding up?”
Peter looked down and raised his shirt. The gauze pad was nearly soaked through but was still in place. “Hurts like hell.”
“I’ve got a decent first aid kit at my apartment. I can close that up and replace the bandage. Plus, I’ve got antibiotics to knock the bugs back.”
Peter lowered his shirt, pulling it over the Glock, which was back in his waistband. “Come on, Diesel.”
Out on the main street it wasn’t long before Robert hailed a taxi. He gave the driver directions, rather than an address, as an added precaution. After many more turns over an unnecessarily circuitous route, the car pulled to the curb. After paying the driver, Robert, Peter, and Diesel exited the taxi and stood on the sidewalk until the cab was lost in the distance.
“Now what?” Peter asked.
“This way.” Robert led the way past several shops and restaurants. He turned into an alley no wider than a car. On either side the buildings rose to a height of three floors. Weaving around bags of garbage, he stopped and pulled down an old-fashioned steel fire escape. It was more staircase than ladder—but very steep, like a ladder onboard a ship. Looking up, Peter saw that the steps stopped at a landing at each floor. With Diesel between Robert and Peter, they climbed to the first landing. Robert inserted a key into the deadbolt, turned the latch, and opened the door. It squeaked, the hinges in obvious need of lubrication. “This way.”
A narrow hall extended into the building. Robert stopped at the first door. “My apartment.” He motioned with his hand. “Not much, but serves my purpose.” He turned a key and opened the door onto a large, dark room. He flipped the light switch.
Diesel sauntered from scent to scent, checking out every corner and along the base of the wall. “Hey, he won’t pee in here, will he?”
“Relax,” Peter replied, and called his dog over. Diesel clung to Peter’s leg. The room was sparsely furnished: A wooden rocking chair, two canvas director’s chairs, and a rickety folding table in the center of the space. There was no kitchen, but a partially-open door revealed the existence of a bathroom. A rolled sleeping bag and a small refrigerator completed the furnishings.
“Have a seat,” Robert said. “There’s water in the fridge.” He disappeared into the bathroom, but left the door open.
Peter retrieved a bottle of cold water and sat in the rocking chair. He placed the bottle against his neck and felt the cool blood flow into his head. He had a good angle into the bathroom and watched as Robert opened the medicine cabinet and then, using a screwdriver, removed four screws. Next, he pulled the cabinet forward exposing a secret compartment. He grabbed a white box with a red cross on the lid.
“Let’s take a look at that wound,” he said.
Peter stood and raised his shirt, then in a quick motion pulled off the tape and blood-soaked bandage.
Robert squeezed an antibiotic ointment onto the ragged edges of flesh. “Rub that in. It’s not as bad as I thought.” He pulled the tear together, pinching the edges of flesh. Next, he squeezed several dabs of a cyanoacrylate wound-closing glue to hold the cut closed. He finished the dressing with a sterile gauze pad and more tape. “Here, take these. Three a day for five days. It’ll knock down any infection before it gets out of control.”
“Thank you.” Peter looked around again, as if seeing the room for the first time. A cardboard box of dried-noodle packages was in a corner. And next to that was a single-burner camp stove and a gallon jug of water, the cap still sealed. “So this is your safe house?”
Robert left the first aid kit on the table. “That’s right. In my line of business, a space like this is part of the planning. Like an insurance policy. You hope you’ll never need it, but if you do…” He returned to the secret storage space and retrieved a large navy-blue duffle bag. He lifted the bag onto the table with both hands. “My bug-out bag.”
He peeled the zipper back. Inside was an assortment of weaponry. Robert stuck his hand into a side pouch and pulled out a cell phone and powered it on. “They might be tracing calls from my number,” he explained.
Peter’s impression of the bodyguard had just changed significantly. Whereas he’d originally thought of Robert as merely hired muscle, he now realized the ex-Navy man had a good sense of tactical planning and execution. This safe house was well provisioned, but not flashy. There was nothing about the non-descript apartment to attract attention. And it seemed to be in a relatively quiet neighborhood. Whoever his neighbors were—if he even had any—kept to themselves.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right.” Peter assumed Robert was speaking with Eu-meh. They needed a new plan. It was still a high priority to get onboard the Royal Seeker. Initially, they’d planned to fly in a Hua Ho Holdings corporate helicopter and land on the helipad of the ship. Under the current circumstances, that might be hard to pull off.
Why were palace guards involved in kidnapping Jade from London? Peter was still mulling over the question when Robert completed his call. “Well?” Peter asked.
“Not much to do until nightfall.”
“And then?”
“We take a taxi to the International Airport, just like we were going to catch a flight. Instead, we take the shuttle bus to the P2 Car Park. It’s the farthest from the terminal. From there, it’s a short walk to the RBA Golf Club.” Robert unfolded a map and laid it on the table. “Here’s the car park and here’s the golf course. This hole is right off the access road,” he pointed at the edge of the golf course closest to the airport parking and terminal. A circular green was visible with a water hazard and sand trap on one side. “That’s where the helicopter will pick us up. The pilot will set down on the green. Should be easy—there’s ample clearance from the palm trees on this side of the green.”
Peter considered the plan. It was bold, for sure. But, the approach of the helicopter would not seem out of place next to an airport. And access to the green by foot should be easy. A quick dash from the road, hop on the aircraft, and take off again.
“Okay, makes sense,” Peter said. “What about Eu-meh? Is she safe?”
“She doesn’t think any rogue members of the palace guard will go after her, given that she is the Sultan’s sister. Still, she agreed to go for a long drive to stay on the move. She’ll instruct her most senior pilot to fly the helicopter tonight.”
“Can she trust the pilot?”
“He’s not a member of the palace guard. He works for Hua Ho Holdings, and has been in Eu-meh’s employ for longer than I have. On her personal security detail for fifteen years.”
Peter nodded. “I suppose that will have to be good enough.”
“My thought too,” Robert shrugged. “Now, let me show you what we have.”
He emptied the contents of his duffle bag on the table. There were pistols, ammunition magazines, and a block of white material wrapped in clear plastic. “Is that what I think it is?” Peter asked.
“C4. It’s a great problem solver.”
“As in, it makes the problem go away?”
“Yep,” Robert replied. “We have time-delay detonators and remotely-triggered detonators. Plus a short length of primacord.” He held up a yellow rope, coiled and the ends and fastened with a twisted wire.
Peter reached into the pile and pulled out a black disc. It looked like a hockey puck. “Careful. That’s a flash-bang. There are three more in here.”
“Looks like you’re ready for a zombie apocalypse,” Peter observed.
“Hey, I was a boy scout and I take their motto, ‘Be Prepared,’ seriously. Better safe than sorry and all that.”
Peter gently set the black flash-bang down with the others. “No argument from me.”