Queen Victoria's Revenge Read Free Page B

opening:
    â€œEl chofer se irá detras del camión, lo más lejos posible.”
    â€œHe wants you in the back,” Tony told the gray-haired and unhappy driver. “As far back as you can get.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have to say it twice.” The man moved quite swiftly.
    â€œEstá bien, ya se fué el chofer,” Tony said, and a moment later the door opened a bit wider to reveal a suspicious eye and the muzzle of a machine gun.
    â€œAre you alone?”
    â€œOf course.” Tony tried to sound firm and determined but his voice had a certain tendency to crack. Not without reason, he thought, gloomily.
    â€œYou have the money, all of it?”
    â€œIn here.” He shook the bag in the direction of the eye and tried to ignore the gun. The door moved up and inward and vanished from sight. A hulking, brown-skinned man rose from his knees and waved Tony forward with a sharp motion of the submachine gun that he was holding in an efficient-looking manner. Tony entered.
    It was a scene out of Lawrence of Arabia, lacking only a blown-up railroad and a couple of horses. The Spanish-speaking gunman wore an Arab burnouse with crossed cartridge belts, as did a half-dozen gun-wielding companions. Some of them even had part of the cloth drawn over their faces so that only glittering and deadly eyes remained revealed. Beyond them, to complete the picture, was row after row of similarly garbed men and women, eyes damp with fear, the air rich with moans of despair, the deck thick with prayer rugs being industriously prayed upon, hopefully in the direction of Mecca, their elusive goal.
    â€œOn the deck and open it up.”
    Tony’s attention was brought rudely back from this fascinating scene to the business at hand. He reached in his pocket for his keys and six gun barrels pointed unerringly at his vitals while ugly fingers twitched at triggers.
    â€œThe keys,” he said sweatingly, “I need the keys for the bag and the handcuff.”
    â€œJust pose in that position for a little-little moment while I get the keys and whatever else you have.”
    The burly speaker, apparently their leader, cold of eye and grizzled of hair, swung the machine gun over his shoulder and gave Tony a quick and efficient search. He was not surprised to find the revolver, and stuck it and the holster into his belt, but discovered nothing else to interest him other than the keys. He tossed them to Tony, who opened both locks, then knelt and opened the bag upon the deck.
    Even the faithful were interested in two million dollars in devalued American currency and there were murmurs of appreciation in a number of languages. The leader pushed Tony aside roughly and knelt in his stead, pawing through the bundles, counting the bills in a bundle and then the number of bundles. All must have been in order, for he nodded approval and snapped the bag shut again.
    â€œIt is here, boys, all of it.”
    There were one or two enthusiastic shouts that quickly died away and it was back to business again.
    â€œHold this,” the leader said, thrusting the bag once more into Tony’s reluctant arms. “Up forward with it—you go with him, Jorge. Put him in the flight deck. Let’s move these people out.”
    Urged on by the prodding muzzle of Jorge’s pistol, Tony worked his way forward through the ebb and surge of burnoosed figures. Moist dark eyes stared with fright in his direction, bird-like voices tremoloed incomprehensible remarks. The gun moved him on. At the far end of the cabin a brace of rest rooms framed the door to the flight deck. Two more of the Cuban-Arabs guarded the doorway, a study in contrasts. The one on the right, to whom Jorge was talking, was a small man with tiny feet. His companion stood well over six feet tall and had shoes like canal boats. A turn of cloth covered most of his face, just revealing the blue eyes set in a patch of dark skin.
    â€œIn here,” Jorge ordered,