The Oracle (Fargo Adventures #11) - Clive Cussler Page 0,109
were far more dangerous than the typical people they were used to bilking and robbing. Second was that he was going to relish wiping that smug, taunting look off Fargo’s face. “After him.”
Fargo slipped out the door, but Hamida hesitated. “Shouldn’t we wait for Ben?”
“Now. Before he gets away.” He pushed Hamida that direction and turned toward Karim. “I’ll be back.”
Still sore from his earlier encounter with Fargo, Tarek followed at a much slower pace, waving to Ben, who was parked in their SUV down the block. Fargo crossed the narrow street, then darted into an alley, Hamida on his heels. By the time Tarek rounded the corner, the two men were faced off. Hamida was built like a bulldozer. He’d have no difficulty taking down Fargo.
A good thing, because it took a moment for Tarek to catch his breath once he caught up with them. “You’re not”—he gulped in air—“taking . . .”
“Spit it out,” Fargo said. “I’m in a hurry.”
How Fargo wasn’t winded, he had no idea. “Taking that mosaic . . .”
Fargo edged to his left.
Hamida followed him. “You broke into our office.”
“Feel free to tell the police,” Fargo said. “They should be here any minute.”
Tarek wrapped his fingers around the grip of his holstered pistol.
Fargo closed the distance, driving his fist into Tarek’s stomach. Pain shot through him. He doubled over. Hamida charged, but Fargo sidestepped, pulling Tarek in front of him. Hamida’s fist struck Tarek in the ribs and he dropped to the ground, unable to breathe. When Hamida went for his gun, Fargo grabbed his wrist and spun it around. A sickening crunch sounded as Fargo rammed his shoulder into Hamida’s hyperextended elbow. He fell to the ground, his bloodcurdling scream drowning out the faint sirens heard in the distance.
Ben sped down the alley in the SUV as Fargo grabbed Tarek by the collar, ready to drive his fist home. He heard the screech of tires, looked up, saw the SUV bearing down on them, and let loose of Tarek, jumping out of the way.
Ben skidded to a stop, pointing a gun out the window, as the sirens grew louder.
“Forget him,” Tarek called out. He opened the back door and dragged Hamida to his feet. He shoved the injured man into the car and scrambled in after him. “Go.”
Ben hit the gas, speeding out of the alley past the police cars converging on the street in front of the gallery.
When they were safely past, Tarek sat up, ignoring Hamida as he groaned in pain.
Ben looked back at him. “What now?”
“Find someone who can fix Hamida’s arm. Then kill Fargo.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
A close friend can become a close enemy.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
A pity you couldn’t have held them until the police got there,” Remi said to Sam once they were back at their hotel.
“All it would prove is that they were middlemen in selling a stolen artifact. Proving they’re behind the murder’s going to take more effort. One thing’s clear. Amal’s got some serious explaining to do. She’s already lied to us before. When you saw her out at the ruins our first day here.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Remi said.
“Tarek and his men are playing for keeps. We’re past trying to spare anyone’s feelings.”
Lazlo, who was examining the mosaic of Echo’s face, looked up at them. “I daresay, he has a point.”
Remi started pacing the floor. “I know. And we’ve also got Nasha to think of. Her uncle’s flying in tomorrow to take her home. I’ll feel more comfortable once she’s back in her uncle’s care.”
Sam nodded at the open parcel on the table. “Let’s put it in the safe at the front desk.”
“Maybe,” Remi said as she helped Lazlo repack the mosaic, “we could invite Amal to dinner. It won’t seem so intimidating.”
Sam thought Remi was being far too polite, but he learned long ago that her lighter touch often yielded good results.
She put the phone on speaker and placed the call. “Oh, Mrs. Fargo . . .” Amal was clearly crying. “Dr. LaBelle was arrested. She . . . For murder.” She started sobbing.
“We know,” Remi said. “Which is why we need to talk.”
They agreed on a location, and Amal was waiting for them when they arrived later that evening. Her eyes were red, her lids heavy, but she smiled at them as they entered. The four sat in awkward silence until the maître d’ seated them at a table. A waiter brought them drinks and took their orders.