Uncharted, page 19
Chloe backed up another step but then Paolo and his steroid-taking friend were on either side of her, grabbing her shoulders. Paolo was grinning like the dumbo he was, fingers digging into her flesh; he had a .40 semi on his hip, a worn Velcro tab keeping it in its nylon holster. She didn’t recognize the make but guessed it was fully loaded with one in the chamber. Eleven rounds? Thirteen? His buddy had a .45 Glock on his hip, a heavy snap over the grip on a brand-new leather holster. So, Paolo then. They stood to either side of her, assuming they had control of her with her hands and legs free.
Idiots.
She let them drag her forward, closer to the sucking wind, to where Jo Braddock and her boys had arrived ahead of the shifting daisy chain. The smell of petrol was whirling through the hold, something broken leaking somewhere. Why weren’t they trying to block the open door? Or cutting the heavy box-chain loose? Maybe searching for the source of the gasoline smell, a serious risk considering the crates of flares and explosives they had packed? No, instead they were fucking with her, because they were greedy and stupid. Psychopaths weren’t forward thinkers.
Braddock saw them coming, saw the small pack on Chloe’s shoulder, and managed to look both haughty and pleased, as if she hadn’t fucked everything up when she’d killed Moncada.
I’m going to kill you, Chloe thought, as the mercs dragged her forward. Braddock had shot Sam Drake, and what were the chances that Nate was still alive? The woman was a ruthless asshole.
Chloe turned her right foot sideways and then dropped like her knee had given out, letting out a pitiful “ow” as she slid out of Paolo and friends’ grubby hands. She planted her boots, shifted her weight.
“Get up,” Paolo sneered. They bent to scoop her up, and when she was halfway to her feet she snapped a kick into the side of Mr. Steroid’s kneecap, and punched Paolo in the jewels, so hard she would swear her knuckles tapped bone.
The weightlifter went sideways but Paolo doubled over, face going white beneath his crappy beard scruff. Chloe came up under him and used his weight to pitch him over her shoulder. She grabbed his heavy semi’s grip as he flew overhead and yanked, the overworked tab ripping open, the weight of the weapon abruptly solid in her hand. She had the safety punched before he finished landing.
Chloe pivoted and double-tapped the big guy in the chest, bam-bam, driving him backward, the recoil lifting the .40’s muzzle in tight arcs. He tripped over his own feet and fell against the blasting current of air between the side door and the ramp. His big body ricocheted off the wind tunnel, mashed into the fuselage, and bounced back into the whipping hurricane, which easily swept him out the back.
Paolo had come up on his feet, but he was too close to mid-cabin, fighting against the sucking wind and the pain of his punched sac. She helped him along with another double-tap to the upper chest, bam-bam!
He wheeled back into the blasting wind, tripped over the flailing crate-line, and skipped out the back like a stone across pond water.
Scotty already had his Sig out and Hugo was reaching for his Glock. Chloe turned and dove, came up running for Moncada’s car. She ducked behind a heavy plastic box next to the driver’s side as rounds clanged across the deck, smashed into the wall behind her.
What the fuck now?! She leaned her head back next to a bag of flares hanging off the side of her cover. At least two guns were trained on her by now, and she had two-thirds of a single mag. Clearly, she should have stayed in the tent box.
* * *
Braddock was furious that Sully had gotten away, that the Drake boy had risked the entire operation in some doomed stand for his brother—and when she saw Alvaro’s men dragging Chloe toward her, she found a focus for her rage, and smiled. The girl had probably snuck Sully aboard, she must have her own plan for stealing the gold… but she was unarmed now, alone, and looked appropriately beaten down. When she pretended to collapse, Braddock stopped smiling.
Chloe danced between the pair of unsuspecting mercs, disabling them handily, one-two, a kick and a blow. She tumbled with one of them and came up armed, then sent both men into the screaming wind behind them, no hesitation. Braddock ducked behind a crate with Hugo while Scotty got his back to a thin partition sticking out of the wall. Both men took aim and fired, ringing crashes above the howling wind.
A half dozen rounds smashed into the Gullwing and the back wall, but the girl had disappeared behind a block of industrial gray plastic. She popped up to fire twice, disappearing as Hugo fired a last round, chipping the corner off the container. There was a brief pause.
Braddock made eye contact with Scotty, flicked her gaze to the crate, and he nodded.
“We can patch this up, Frazer!” Braddock called. “Drop the gun! Let’s talk!”
This pause was different. Chloe only had what was left in the merc’s .40, and no way out. Braddock leaned out to look—
—and saw Chloe take aim at her from down low behind her container, her dark eyes narrowed.
Braddock fell back and the shot nicked the very edge of her cover, centimeters from where she’d peeked out. Scotty got a bead on Chloe and fired, but Chloe ducked back in time.
Fuck! Braddock drew her own piece as both men fired again, chipping away at Chloe’s scarce defense.
* * *
Braddock ducked back just as Chloe got her shot off. Too bad, she’d missed by a hair.
“Sure thing!” Chloe responded. “I love teaming up with murderous psychos!”
Sounded brave, but a new volley of shots lit up the roaring hold, and bits of her lifesaving crate went flying. She needed a new plan. The smell of gasoline was thicker at this end of the hold, something close by had been damaged. And there was a bag of flares tied to the plastic crate she’d ducked behind; the helpful fire hazard symbol had finally sunk in.
Fire plus hurricane equals fire hurricane. Bad, but in terms of a diversion…
Chloe aimed toward Hugo and fired over the top of the box, wasting the rounds so she could sneak a look at the hold’s flooring. She spotted the leak by its glistening, shuddering puddle, less than ten meters ahead, to the right. A lone can of petrol knocked from a case of them.
Oh, this is berko! It was a wonder the plane hadn’t crashed already, and she was about to make things a lot worse.
“Crazy to want all of us to have a share?” Braddock screamed, and then more of the plastic in front of Chloe chipped up, the crate jerking against its straps. They were reloading in turns, giving her no chance to line up another shot.
Chloe snatched a flare out of the hanging bag and broke the tip, looking away from the sputter of chemical reaction. She held the hissing stick up, made sure they got an eyeful of the blinding white burn, then stood and whipped it at the wet spot on the floor.
She dropped flat and felt the floor tremble as Braddock and her guys dove away from the sudden fire that swirled to life, shedding in burning droplets against the blasting wind. There was no explosion, but she’d take it.
Chloe leapt up and rolled over the hood of the Mercedes, landed behind a big wooden box on the other side with its own chute—loaded with boat motors, if she remembered correctly. She fired twice more and ducked down, pulling at the netting on the box. If I can get the chute off, maybe…
The chute was double strapped to the sturdy container. It wasn’t budging. Chloe ejected the nameless .40’s mag halfway and cursed. One single bloody round left.
“I gotta give it to you, Frazer!” Braddock crowed, advancing as her men opened fire again. “A fighter to the bitter end! But this is the end!”
Hugo and Scotty absolutely unloaded into her crate. Splinters flew, the crate rocking back on its rail. The release lever keeping it in place was barely holding.
Fuck me. Chloe looked at the useless parachute strapped to the top of the rocking crate. There had to be a couple dozen individual boxes still on board with chutes attached, set onto the rails in front of the Gullwing—
Oh. She saw how it might be done, and it was even more insane than the fire she’d started, that still flickered somewhere ahead of her and poured smoke into the blasting wind. It was a huge risk, barely a chance of survival, but that was more than she could count on where she was.
“Chloe, this is the stupidest idea you have ever had,” she breathed, then reached down and flipped the crate’s release lever.
She aimed Paolo’s piece at the passenger-side window of Moncada’s car and blasted it out with her last round, then dropped the empty weapon. She put her hands to the middle of the giant box and shoved.
The crate started forward. Chloe jammed her feet into the ribbing of the wall and used her whole weight to push it faster.
The box crashed forward. Chloe caught just a glimpse of Braddock and Hugo scrambling out of its way, and then dove through the Gullwing’s shattered window.
Her face landed on the driver’s seat, boots still sticking out into the hold. Chloe forced the shift into first and hit the starter. She jammed her hand onto the gas pedal, and the tiny car’s magnificent engine bellowed. The coupe surged against its straps, wheels squealing.
More shots were fired, screeching holes opening across the door above her head, the smell of hot metal filling the car’s small interior. Chloe pushed down with both hands, to the mat, and felt the nylon straps finally give, left then right, the car jumping to either side before setting between rails and hurtling forward.
The Gullwing smashed into boxes, pushing them into the cargo still waiting to be freed. The bumper crimped and the crates rolled forward, picking up speed as they headed for the ramp.
Chloe yanked one foot in, the move causing the coupe to hop its rails. It landed in a new set, veering around the charging cargo, aimed for the right side of the exit. She kept one hand on the gas and used the other to push herself up, to see over the jerking wheel—
“Nate?”
Nathan Drake stood at the lip of the ramp on her side, wind snapping his sweaty clothes. She registered the fact of him and took her hand off the accelerator, but it was way too late. Nate crashed across the bonnet and then they were soaring out into the wide blue sky.
Nate hugged the hood of the Gullwing as it flew into the open air and immediately tipped forward, aiming for the sea. Boxes were raining down above and below the falling car, the clamor of the plane’s engines fading to the whistle of air in Nate’s ringing ears.
For fuck’s sake, I just got back inside! I was inside!
Chloe kicked open the Gullwing’s door and climbed out, her dark hair streaming,
“What the hell are you doing?!” Nate shouted, even as she yelled back the same thing.
“You don’t have a parachute?!” they yelled in unison, and Chloe shook her head like she was irritated, scanning the sky as they plunged toward the sea, picking up speed in the frigid air.
Without another word she spread her arms, kicked off the dropping car, and dove toward a big, gray plastic crate spiraling down fifty feet away and in front of them, falling just a little faster than they were. The box was strapped with netting and a parachute, Nate saw the red handle as it spun around.
THAT was your plan, catch a ride on the way down? The fuck is that?
And you have what better idea right now, exactly?
The thought process was nearly instantaneous: freefall had a way of hurrying things along. Nate planted his feet on the Benz’s door and pushed off, following her, not looking down but unable to block out the growing blue-green sea below.
Chloe had angled herself in a straight line to the whirling box, arms out. As she neared it, she tucked her arms in and sped up, becoming an arrow.
Nate brought his arms in, too—
—and then he was shooting past Chloe, and the crate.
“Shit—” Nate spread his arms out, trying to slow down, to turn. He looked up, saw more crates way up in the sky, falling, saw Moncada’s Globemaster jetting away, already the size of a toy. Sun flashed off the plunging Gullwing’s side mirror. It was like looking at some weird optical art where the perspective was wrong.
Nate blinked his air-blasted eyes and saw Chloe grabbing the net on the falling crate, twenty feet in front of him. He dove like Superman, even pointing his toes—
—and somehow she was too far left, he was passing her again. Nate made a desperate grab and clipped the corner of the heavy box with his knee.
He spun away, lost track of everything for a second but the gradually warming air and the high whistle of his fall, a terrifying flash of the encroaching sea. How high up did a parachute still work? A thousand feet? Below that and you hit before it has time to—
“Nate!”
He turned to the sound of Chloe’s voice, saw the crate only a dozen feet behind him, Chloe clinging to the side. She had one arm shoved through the netting, the other reaching for him.
Nate kicked like he was swimming which didn’t help at all, but she leaned out and he focused on her strong, slender hand, made touching it his life’s work. His muscles tensed and shifted, body adapting to the air’s resistance as her hand got closer. Nate reached again—
—and touched her hand with his, their fingers locking. Chloe yanked him in and he grabbed the heavy box, digging his boots into the hanging net.
The ocean was coming up fast. Nate scrambled around the side of the tipping, rocketing box and saw the chute, a flat, army-green pack with a red handle. He grabbed the handle and pulled hard—
—and a tiny chute puffed out, followed by a billow of folded nylon. The main chute expanded with a whump, suddenly blowing up like a piece of popcorn, and the crate jerked violently out of its fall. Nate was slammed into the crate’s lid and Chloe let out a cry but they both hung on.
We did it, we—
The box hit the sea like a ton of bricks, saltwater splashing up in a plume.
* * *
The hold was a mess—more than half the equipment gone or smashed, burning crates of machine parts that had to be put out, the broken side door—but after Chloe drove off into space, Braddock closed the ramp and the pilots seemed to get things back under control. Braddock sent Scotty up to talk to them, while Hugo dragged Moncada’s body downstairs and stuffed it into a crate. Alvaro and two of his guys had survived, she put them to work on clean up. Fuck the air drop, they’d land and use Moncada’s ship to take them to Demar, to the Golden Cove. Once they found the gold, she could call in whatever she needed to take it out.
Braddock looked over the supplies they had left in the smoky, windy hold, considering the players left in the game. Drake’s brother had to be dead, she’d seem him knocked off the ramp by the Gullwing… Though it was possible that Frazer had survived, if she’d had a chute in the car. The pilots had been extremely off course by the time she’d deplaned, however, and they were now well southeast of the island.
Even if by some miracle she reaches it, she has nothing to dig with; she’ll pilfer a few crumbs and scurry away. Sully was the real issue. He had the map and that nasty, lucky survival habit… But he’d jumped so early, they’d still been out over open water, fifty klicks from anything.
If there’s a way to fuck me, he’ll find it.
Her hatred for Sully bubbled up, but she made herself look at the facts, reminded herself of her current position. Moncada was dead, and Sully and his friends had parachuted into the ocean, whereas she would land in Port Moresby soon and could have a fully re-equipped team ready to set out within twenty-four hours.
And once I’ve got my hands on the gold… Sully wouldn’t matter anymore. She’d find him and kill him just for amusement’s sake, though, of course, she’d make him pay for his stupid cartoon of a life and all the ways he’d undermined her. And she’d take her time…
Braddock didn’t realize that she’d started grinning, staring over the shattered supplies.
* * *
After they’d crashed violently into the sea, and the parachute had floated down over them like a wispy punchline, Chloe dragged her bruised, aching body to sit cross-legged on the lid of their new home—no point in tempting any sharks—and waited for Nate to say something. And kept waiting, as they drifted along through the shining water on their big square chunk of ridged gray plastic.
Nate unhooked the chute and pulled it in, rolled it into a dripping pillow that he dropped between them, then turned his back to her. They both just sat, staring in opposite directions at the misty sea, sun beating down, water lapping at the crate—which was packed with ready-to-eat meals, according to the stamp on top. Vacuum packed and double wrapped, lucky them, since the container had cracked in a couple of places. An entirely different story if the box had been filled with boat motors. And they wouldn’t starve to death… Except, of course, they’d die of thirst long before food became an issue.
Chloe turned her face up to the brilliant, open sky and closed her eyes, listened to the sea birds, the whisper of the wind. Time passed. They were headed vaguely southwest, she thought. And Nate still hadn’t said a goddamn thing.
She glanced back at him, sitting all stiff-backed and silent, gazing out at the endless span of water.
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she said.
Nate half-turned. “You know, I could probably forgive you for what you did in Barcelona, maybe even for knocking me out of a plane with a car… but Braddock? Really? That’s just—”
“I’m not working with her,” Chloe broke in. “Moncada hired us both.”
“I don’t really care about the intricate politics of your bad guy cabal,” Nate sniffed.
“You really think there’s any difference between them and you?” Chloe was gobsmacked. “You and Sully were just as eager to screw me over as they were!”
“Except for the part where we didn’t,” Nate said.
“But you would have,” Chloe said, firmly.
“I’m not Sully,” Nate responded, as if that had anything to do with anything.
“Hallelujah,” she said. “One’s bad enough.”
“So, what is your point?” Nate asked. “You want me to thank you for pistol-whipping me?”
