Chasing Gold

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Michael Crouch found that he was gripping his seat hard enough to turn his knuckles white and stop the blood flow to his fingers. He was leaning well forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what had become of Alicia’s helicopter. All he could see was dust and a huge chunk of metal that appeared to hurl itself toward the sky.

Frustrated, he slumped back into the seat.

Across the way, Terri and Cutler regarded him with increased fear. It had been a traumatic trip from St Louis, but every time they reached another destination both of them began to fear it might be the end of the line. Crouch wished he could tell them the final destination, but didn’t dare risk it for now. Out of the two of them, Terri was his best chance; the most switched on. Cutler appeared to be mostly out of it — traumatized by everything that had happened. Crouch wasn’t impressed with the well-built American.

Faith was everything now. The fact was — Alicia and the others had followed him this far, picking up on all of his hastily scribbled clues. He couldn’t let them down now.

Wouldn’t let them down.

Another merc had died back there. That left six in total, the pilot and the boss, Omar. Crouch wondered if this mountainous stop was planned, but the pilot brought the chopper drifting in gently and touched down onto a manicured lawn.

Between the mercenaries, however, there was no calm.

“Damn, we lost ole Vinny back there. That bitch shot him between the eyes!”

“Nah, it was the neck, mate.”

“You sure? I thought it—”

“What does it fucking matter?” another cried. “We gotta move fast. Gonna be a long fucking drive to Vegas with those assholes on our tail!”

Omar leaned over, all six-foot-six of him, elbow draped across the seat as the chopper came to total stillness. “Keep it professional. This is the plan, and we can’t deviate. Driving, flying, driving again, whatever. It was planned and necessary. It’s what the bosses wanted. Our pursuers are… irritating, yes, but to get that pay day we have to earn it.”

“He’s right,” a man seated beside Crouch said as the Englishman sat in absolute silence, as unobtrusive as an ant. “We’re almost there, guys. We’ll hand the banner off to the real terrorists, then let ’em burn it in their fuckin’ propaganda video. And whilst America quakes and moans and burns, we’ll be sipping mai tais on a white sand beach.”

Crouch tried to remain still as a terrible surge of fear and hatred swept through him. Sell the banner to terrorists… let them burn it… no, no, no!

“Beach?” A man laughed. “Nah, boy, I’ll be staying right there in the Stratosphere. Doubling up my dough.”

Laughter greeted that statement as the mercenaries slowly began to extricate themselves from the chopper. “Don’t be an ass, Rick,” someone said. “At least take a vacation before you give it all back.”

“Fuck you.”

Crouch, so far, had gleaned that these men were the hired mercs he had initially thought they were, tasked with grabbing the banner and handing it over to real terrorists. Terri and Cutler were simply extra remuneration — an unexpected payday. The exchange appeared to be happening at the Stratosphere Hotel in Las Vegas, which was the next stop. He played good prisoner as he was pulled out and made to wait for the rest of them. Once they had grouped, Omar looked around.

“There,” he said simply.

Crouch saw a large hotel with discreet signage, something a little more upper class expensive than usual. The parking area was half full, but Omar started off toward the far side, where a pair of black Cadillac sedans were waiting. Inconspicuous, powerful and roomy they would prove ideal for the long trek to Vegas.

“We still on target?” another merc asked.

“Very much,” Omar replied. “We’re two hours ahead thanks to the chase.”

Laughter greeted that one. Crouch understood that these men were only talking about their situation, their current job, and exactly what was coming up. It was natural. Everyone did it. He waited as long as he could for more information, but when it didn’t arrive felt an urge to force it.

“The Stratosphere?” he said quietly. “I can’t do heights.”

It was simple, but in current company, stood a good chance of being effective.

“Shut it, dickhead. And don’t worry, it’s still a couple of floors from the very top.”

He laughed raucously, along with three of the others. Omar was too focused to hear the exchange and, when Crouch begged for a toilet stop, all the mercs hesitated and looked to their leader.

He checked his watch. “Five minutes,” he said, and came along with them. It had been a long flight from St Louis and everyone wanted to take advantage of the break. Crouch glanced back at the chopper’s position, noting the hotel was closest but that there were a couple of houses closer still. It couldn’t matter. His team would figure it out.

Inside, they followed the directions of the receptionist to the nearest set of restrooms. Crouch and Terri made sure they smiled and laughed enough to catch the woman’s attention, joking about a skiing accident to explain away their cuts and bruises. Omar patted his pocket warningly. The mercs refrained from dragging Crouch along but only just.

The ‘gold’ clues were in short supply now. Crouch had a line or two in mind for the clue, but no easy place to plant them. A stroke of luck came when the gender door plaques gleamed a golden color, but it was pretty damn thin.

He was holding on to his crew by the very tips of his fingernails. If they could just follow for one more stop — one more trip — then Omar and his mercs would be stagnant for a while, caught inside a hotel and hopefully a room. There would be no more running.

Or chasing.

Crouch assumed the Hawaii reference he’d heard at the beginning was where the mercs intended to meet up. Or perhaps it was where the terrorists were headed. Either way, each successive step was bringing them closer.

Inside a tiny cubicle, he quickly scribbled the next clue.