The Lazarus Drop Page 17

  I pointed to the building where, I hoped, Imry would be safely holed up.

  “Slip up there. Kill anybody who comes close."

  “And you?"

  “I'm going to take care of that laser.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. It was a good bet the weapon had a nightscope attached, but if I could move slowly and glue myself to the trees, I might not attract any attention.

  I oozed through the shadows, stopping at irregular intervals, breaking the movements up, trying to avoid anything that would draw attention to me. I reached the last tree before the clearing that surrounded the main house, and got my first glimpse of the weapon that had crisped Torreon and his companion. It was big, all right, resting its long, heavy snout on a tripod. The man using it was one of the Chinese, looking slightly foolish in a formal evening suit, a black one, and a white shirt that gleamed faintly in the night air. He stood facing to my right, looking up the ridge where Noriega's guards moved cautiously toward our people. The laser's barrel moved smoothly upward, and the brilliant beam of red death seared a piece of the hillside. A narrow swath of vegetation burst into flame as the barrel swept sideways.

  Just keep your interest on that hillside, I thought. I circled around behind him, then began creeping in, wanting to get close enough to be sure I didn't miss him with the stinger. I took a silent step, following the drill I had learned years before—ball of foot down, then heel down, then reach out with the other foot and do it all over again—and placed my left foot firmly and deliberately onto something soft that screamed with fury and sank teeth and claws into my leg before it raced off into the gloom.

  I suppose I could have congratulated myself on moving stealthily enough to surprise the resident cat, but I was distracted by visions of death as the man with the laser swung it around and pointed it at me. I hit the ground, squeezed my eyes shut, and waited for a red death that never came. A rifle cracked, cracked again. Then nothing.

  A long moment later I opened my eyes. The laser still stood poised like some evil, long-legged bug, but it stood unattended. The gunner sprawled on the ground next to it, unmoving.

  There was a quick motion on my right, and then Beto was crouching over me, rifle cradled in his arms.

  “You alive, gringo?"

  “You tell me,” I said. A violent shiver wracked my body.

  I stood up and tried to look dignified, then ducked again as a popper came jumping over the trees. It hovered momentarily, slid fifty meters to one side, hovered again, then slid again. Finally I got my brain operating and scuttled over to the laser. I got behind it, located the trigger, and swept the barrel towards the popper. The next time the silver craft paused, I lined the barrel up on it and pulled the trigger.

  The weapon hummed and vibrated so intensely that the vibration sped through my body as well, and a brilliant shaft of ruby light shot out and caressed the popper. The little craft swelled like a balloon, then collapsed in on itself as it burst into flame. It fell straight down, into the barracks building, wrapping it in a flaming embrace.

  I stood there, awe struck, watching it fall. I had never controlled such intense destructive energy before.

  Another brilliant flash of light, followed by a low rolling boom and the insistent shove of a wave of hot air, jerked me back to reality. The blast came from the direction of the popper landing pad, and now bright flames illuminated a dark column of smoke which rose above the trees. If nothing else, the remaining two poppers would be unable to refuel.

  As if to prove the point, a popper skimmed in over the trees, heading toward the landing pad. It shot straight up as it reached the flames, hovered there briefly, it's silver belly turned red in the reflection of the fire, then headed out over the lake.

  I turned the big laser toward the hillside. The nightscope showed figures, but I couldn't tell who belonged to us and who belonged to them. Then Beto grabbed my shoulder and it didn't matter any more.

  “Look!” he shouted. “On the roof!"

  I followed his pointing arm to the building which housed Imry. A figure stood on the roof, swinging a rifle, trying to break through the skylight. I swung the laser again. The man showed clearly through the nightscope, right down to his gleaming, expensive boots. It was the other Asian, dressed for a formal evening the way his partner had been.

  I pulled the trigger as the man raised his rifle overhead again. Through the nightscope, nothing seemed to change at first. Then he just wasn't there any more. I stepped away from the big gun, shaking my head.

  Beto sprinted to the building and pushed on the door, which didn't budge. He lifted his rifle and fired a cluster of shots at the lock, then pushed the door open, dashed inside, and fell on his face.

  I approached more cautiously and stopped a good couple of meters from the door to peer in. The lights were on, Beto was clearly visible, and I could see his shoulders rising and falling evenly as he breathed. Imry had followed directions, and the gas had gotten Beto instead of the attacker.

  “Imry!” I called out. “This is Blue. If you're awake and listening, stay where you are, for now. The gas you released is still active. Everything is under control.” I hope. “I'll be back soon."

  I started off toward the main house, then turned back momentarily.

  “If you do come out, the fellow lying on the floor is a friend,” I yelled.

  Light showed through one window of the main house, but as I approached the light went out. I made my way to the nearest door, which hung open, and moved carefully from the mottled darkness of outside to the deeper black of the building's interior.

  No more cats, please, I wished, and began to pick my way through the building, brushing past furniture, letting my feet feel their way to avoid surprises. My eyes adjusted gradually, and I began to make out the dim outlines of tables and chairs. Through the huge window I could see the lake, where dozens of tiny butterfly boats still bobbed, lamps shining. I wondered what the people out there were making of all this.

  But mostly, I wondered where Noriega and Beg were. I assumed they had been in the building when the fighting started. If they had left it, I hadn't seen them go. I reached the end of the room, and made out the darker form of a door against the wall. I slid my hand along the door, located a long, curved metal handle, turned it gently, and slowly, slowly inched the door open.

  And was knocked unceremoniously on my ass for my troubles as someone slammed the door all the way open, taking a piece of my shoulder on the way, and raced through the room and outside. I had an impression of shortness, and stockiness, and knew without needing to know how I knew that I had just met, and missed, the General.

  I scooted backwards, pressing myself against the wall next to the door. I sat there, massaging my shoulder and getting my adrenalin under control. Then I stood, cautiously, and edged toward the door again. I stopped and listened, and was sure I heard the faint click of another door on the far side of the room Noriega had come jetting out of.

  The question was whether that had been a door closing, or a door opening. Had someone just left that room, which was windowless—or curtained, I couldn't tell which—or had someone just entered it?

  I glued myself to the wall and tried to flow like jelly around the door frame and into the room, and immediately smelled a familiar odor. Beg was either in the room, or had just left it.

  Something scraped. The sound came from in front of me and slightly to the left. I faced that direction, holding the stinger in front of me, and pulled the trigger—one, two, three little phutting sounds, and one, two, three flashes. Two of them were brilliant and accompanied by loud cracks. The third was muted, and accompanied by a scream of pain and the loud noise of a rifle blasting. I hit the floor, but it wouldn't have mattered; the rifle was gouging holes in the ceiling, nothing more.

  Then everything was still, except for a muffled sobbing that came from the direction of my target. I got up and moved my hand along the wall until it touched what I hoped was a light switch.

  It wa
s, and shielding my eyes from the sudden glare, I saw Chandra Beg, sitting in a heap on the floor, rocking back and forth and holding his right hand in his left. He looked up and saw me, and shook his head dolefully.

  “Oh, Mister Blue. You have damaged me. And you have most assuredly gotten me into serious trouble with my employers."

  I just stood there for a while and looked at him. What was I supposed to say? I'm sorry?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 16

  I herded Beg outside. It was quiet, the fighting over, shadowy figures moving out of the trees. Cruz was one of the first, and I waved to him, prodded a snuffling Beg with my gun, and moved across the clearing toward the police chief.

  “It's finished."

  Cruz nodded. “More or less. Noriega is hiding in the bushes somewhere, and we haven't found his son. But I see you have the buzzard, and there's no other resistance on the island. Most of Noriega's men are dead, except for two who got smart and gave up."

  He held up a smart-wire rocket with a somber smile. “We even have one of these left."

  “How many people did we lose?"

  “Seven, I think. Five of them to that monster gun,” he pointed at the big laser, which stood silently on its tripod, “and two at the landing pad. They did their job too well—blew the hell out of everything, but didn't get away in time themselves. I guess it was the two of them. They didn't leave enough of themselves around to identify. Everyone else seems to be accounted for, except Carlos. Have you seen him?"

  I shook my head.

  “Here's your special prize, gringo,” a voice behind me said. I turned and saw Beto approaching, a big grin on his face, and Erno Imry in tow. Imry was grinning a little, too, and seemed woozy from the gas.

  “You woke up,” I said.

  Beto rocked his head back and forth, still grinning. It wasn't the tiger grin I had seen earlier. It was a foolish grin, like a happy puppy. I should have realized that he might still be feeling the effects of the gas, too. It might have made a difference later.

  “That stuff worked fast,” he said. “One instant I'm jumping through the door, the next I'm trying to sit up, and this guy,” he pointed to Imry “is revolving around me like the carousel at the feria. Except it wasn't really him revolving, just my head going in circles. Did I miss the rest of the fun?"

  I nodded. “It's over, pretty much. But I thought you might want to spend some time with this one.” I gave Beg a little shove. “He could probably tell you some interesting things about buses. You know what I mean?”

  The foolish grin didn't go away. That's when I really should have stopped to think. But I didn't.

  “Take him into the house and keep him company for a while.” I guess I thought I was doing Beto a favor, leaving Beg to his tender mercies, and at the same time getting the big Indian out of our hair while we mopped things up.

  Beto thought I was doing him a favor too. He approached Beg eagerly, shoved him hard in the ribs with his rifle muzzle, and started walking him back toward the house. Beg was still nursing his wounded arm.

  “What would I know of buses, Mister Blue?” he asked plaintively, looking back over his shoulder again. Beto gave him another sharp jab with the rifle, making him stumble, and they disappeared into the house.

  I turned back to speak to Cruz just as a popper came sliding in over the trees, headed for a clear space just above the burning barracks. A brilliant floodlight etched the ground below the popper in stark silver and black. The machine drifted lower and Noriega emerged from the trees. He darted toward the lighted area.

  Cruz lifted the missile launcher to his shoulder, pointed it at the popper, and fired. The little rocket streaked up and planted itself in the popper, and a blossom of flame engulfed the silver craft, which tilted to one side and fell with a whooshing scream into the trees.

  Noriega stood transfixed as the popper slammed into the ground. Then he dashed into the trees again.

  “We'll get him, one way or the other,” Cruz said. He looked at the rocket launcher with a satisfied smile. “Damn nice little toy."

  I looked out over the dark lake. It was still covered with bobbing lanterns. Cruz’ eyes followed my gaze.

  “They don't know what to do. Sooner or later they will go home. Then they'll wait to be told what to do next. They are not such free spirits, my people."

  “Maybe they can learn to be."

  “One always hopes."

  A scuffling sound came from the nearest trees, and Carlos emerged, his face erratically illuminated by the light of the burning popper. He was dragging Manolo roughly along with him. The boy looked terrified. I couldn't blame him for that; Carlos had that crazy look I had seen on his face a couple of times before.

  “Here's the littlest general,” Carlos said with a laugh. “Little monkey tried to hide up a pine tree, and the branch broke. He fell right at my feet. Where's his papa?"

  “Maybe up another tree,” Cruz replied, waving toward the woods. “He's out there in the dark, somewhere, hiding, hoping we'll go away and forget him."

  Carlos gave Manolo a sharp jerk. “Come on, kid, let's go find your papa. And when we find him, you know what we're going to do to him?” He wheeled the boy around, pushed his own face, distorted with rage, into the boy's face. “Cut his throat. That's what. And maybe we'll cut his balls off first. Maybe we'll even let you do it for us."

  Manolo still didn't speak. He stared up at Carlos in hatred, then carefully spit in his face.

  Carlos’ head jerked back, and for a moment he looked like he might knock Manolo down. But then he laughed—loudly and a little forced—and started toward the trees again with Manolo in tow.

  “Hey! Noriega!” he yelled. “We got your little boy, asshole. You can make a trade. Your worthless neck for his!”

  Carlos paused, cocked his head and listened, but there was no response.

  “Come on, Noriega. Come get your fucking little kid. Show some balls, Noriega. What kind of a man are you?"

  There was still no response. Carlos jerked Manolo roughly around and returned to our group.

  “You, Chavez, hold his arms behind him. Pull them around that tree.” He pointed to a slender pine.

  “What are you up to?” Cruz said.

  “Never mind. You'll see soon enough.” He pulled off his belt. “Hold him there,” he repeated to Chavez, then went behind the tree and cinched Manolo's hands and wrists together with the belt.

  “Now don't go anywhere,” he said to Manolo with that crazy smile. “I'll be right back.” He took off running into the main house and emerged a few minutes later with a can. Before anyone could react, he had the lid off the can and had splashed its liquid contents all over Manolo and the tree. The overpowering stench of gasoline filled the air.

  “Jesus Christ!” Cruz muttered, half to himself, then, louder, “What the hell are you doing, Carlos? Let the boy go!"

  “I'm not going to hurt him. I'm just trying to get the General's interest. Don't worry."

  “I said let him go!"

  “No!” Carlos reached into a shirt pocket, pulled out an electric match, and flicked it to life. “Just mind your own fucking business, Cruz. You give too goddamn many orders around here."

  He turned and extended the sputtering match toward the woods. “Did you see, General?” he shouted. “Did you see what I did? I just gave your little boy a gasoline bath, asshole.” He waved the match back toward Manolo, and the boy flinched violently. We all did. The air was full of fumes and Carlos was still dangerously close to the tree.

  “Come on, General,” he yelled. “Come here, now, or I barbecue your little boy."

  He waited again, and there was another long silence.

  Then, “All right, you son of a bitch. I'm coming. Leave my son alone."

  A figure in evening clothes slipped into view and began walking stiffly toward us.

  Chavez ran out and stationed himself at Noriega's side, rifle at the ready.

  “We don't n
eed that,” Carlos crowed. “Our good General would eat your shit to keep his little bastard safe."

  “Just leave him alone,” Noriega said. “Let him go. You don't need to hurt him. What has he done to you?"

  “What had my father ever done to you, asshole? Answer me that. And what had all those people on the bus done to you? And all the other people you've had killed, year after year?"

  Pilar stepped to her brother's side, grasped his arm. “Carlos, let the boy go!"

  “What the shit! You, too? It was your father, too, that this bastard killed. Don't you care?"

  “This little boy didn't have anything to do with that."

  “Mind your own business!” Carlos swung his arm, hard. The back of his fist caught Pilar in the face and knocked her flat. She sat on the ground, eyes wide with disbelief, blood trickling from her nose.

  “Why the hell doesn't he knock it off?” I asked Cruz, who still stood beside me.

  “He wants to see Noriega suffer. Wants to make him beg. But at this rate, he's going to scare the poor kid to death."

  “You ever burn yourself?” Carlos had turned back to Manolo. “You know how much that hurts, don't you? Even a little burn, no? How much do you think this would hurt?"

  Manolo looked terrified, but he held his head up, trembling lip and all.

  “I don't talk to garbage,” he said.

  “What a little man,” Cruz whispered in admiration.

  Carlos inched closer to Manolo. “Tell your old man to beg,” he ordered.

  “All right! I'll beg,” Noriega was struggling violently to get out of Chavez’ grasp. “Whatever you want.” His voice broke. “Anything you want. Please let my son go. Please.” Tears streamed down his face. “Please."

  “Keep begging, cabron. I like it when you beg. I love it. Do it some more, to keep your brat alive."

  He waved the match back at Manolo again, stepped toward the boy threateningly.

  Noriega gave a final, violent wrench, and suddenly he was free of Chavez’ grasp and charging Carlos with a loud, keening wail of anger and despair. He threw himself into the younger man and then both of them were on the ground, rolling toward the still-open can of fuel. Carlos hit the can first, the lighted match still in his hand.