Three steps at a time, Ritter assaulted the concrete stairs to the ground level breathlessly confronting the heavy-eyed ticket collector who controlled access to the hotel garage.
“Tan camper,” he demanded. “You see it leave?”
The man poked an index finger into his right ear, drilling for wax. “Good-looking woman and an old man?”
Old man? Christ. Thompson. Ritter nodded weakly.
“Just left,” said the man, gazing curiously at the tip of his finger, casually examining his find. “About five minutes ago. Headed up that way, toward the mountains.” He nodded his head in that direction.
Ritter swirled, dashing to the taxi rank.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver as Ritter jumped into the cream Opel.
“Straight ahead. Fast,” barked Ritter. “And hurry.”
“Somewhere in particular?” inquired the driver.
“Looking for a tan Volks camper,” urged Ritter. “Just left the hotel garage.”
The driver shrugged and goosed the Opel, speeding up slightly. Ritter was seated behind him, anxiously scanned the road.
God, this was insane. Thompson and Michelle had crossed him. It didn’t make sense. He never imagined she would bug out on him. They had been through too much together. But that was just it. You could never tell about women. He would have been ready to spend the rest of his life with her. To settle down, maybe even start a family.
He exhaled deeply. He couldn’t get over her leaving him. The gold must have mattered far more to her than he realized. Gold. Fucking gold. It did strange things to people. Unpredictable things. He’d seen it a lot of time in the Caribbean.
And Thompson. The shrewd old bastard. Arthritis. Shit.
“Faster,” urged Ritter.
“There’s a speed limit in the city, sir,” protested the driver gently. Behind them a siren screamed. Ritter glanced back. A frantically blinking blue light was closing fast on the cab.
“Ach,” grumbled the driver. “You see!” he shrieked, accusation in his voice. He slowed the taxi.
The police car swept past them, the two uniformed men not giving the taxi a second glance.
“Not after us!” shouted Ritter as he intensely peered ahead. “Follow them! Hurry!”
The road eased through a gentle S curve, the last turn revealing the awful reason for the police activity. A devastating crash in an intersection ahead. Vehicles were burning, blocking the street, the brilliant fire sending up a thick column of dense black oil smoke.
Flames engulfed both wrecked vehicles. One was obviously large, like an oil or gasoline truck. The other was -- oh, God, the camper.
Ritter leaped out of the taxi, sprinting toward the fire. Anyone in either vehicle had certainly perished. Roasted.
A policeman roughly grabbed Ritter by the arm. “Move back,” he ordered sternly. “You can’t go there. It’s too dangerous. That’s a gas tanker. It could blow again.” More sirens. Fire engines rushing.
Ritter stared helplessly. It was all over. Finished. All dead. The two British officers. Poor incompetent Waddell. Voko and his walrus-faced assistant. Greedy Mataxas. The opportunist Italians. Perfidious Khoury. Melanie. And now Thompson and Michelle. All for some lousy gold bars. He was the only survivor.
Suddenly, a voice speaking to him. It couldn’t be . . .
“Brian…Brian…” Stunned, Ritter swirled around. Gasping for breath, he took a step forward. With blood on her face, Michelle limped toward him. This couldn’t be possible. No one could have survived the crash. But somehow, she had.
Michelle grabbed Ritter, wrapped her arms around him. She fiercely held him in a way that suggested she would never let go.
“I’m so sorry. A terrible mistake. I’m so sorry.” Her body was shaking. “Thompson,” she sobbed. “H…he had no intention of sharing the gold. He intended to kill me once we got away from civilization. I jumped out of the camper when we slowed at the turn. The camper kept on going into the intersection.”