T2, page 26
No, not rubber. Like a rubber tree.
The thug was a good six inches taller than Dieter, with a shelf-browed, huge-nosed face—a hormone-disease giant. He was built like a pear, but most of the bulk was anything but fat. A hand like the Jolly Green Giant’s flyswatter came around and hit the Austrian over one ear. The room dimmed and Dieter felt his knees begin to buckle. He had them back in working order in an instant, just in time for the next six of Garmendia’s goons to pile on.
Garmendia spat into Dieter’s battered face, then swung at him with all his strength. His fist hit squarely on the big man’s jaw and von Rossbach’s eyes rolled back, his head lolling. The bodyguards let go of his arms and the Austrian fell unconscious to the floor.
Swearing mightily, Garmendia rubbed his fist, then shook it. He turned to Dieter and gave him a vicious kick in the stomach.
“Bastardo!” he shouted, and kicked him again, almost knocking himself off balance. “You are going to die!”
A guard took out his pistol and pulled back the slide.
“NO!” Garmendia said, slapping the gun aside. “Idiota! Too easy, too quick. And not here!” He glared at the unconscious man, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “We’ll take him to the river.” He chuckled. “Something there is probably hungry. No?”
His men smiled. “Piranha?” one asked.
“No, no,” Garmendia said, waving the suggestion away. “Too hard to find. Caiman will do.” His eyes glittered at the thought of the big lizards. “And they take bigger bites!”
They all laughed.
“But first I shall have my breakfast like a civilized man. Lock him in the trunk of the car.” The smuggler turned away, then back again. “And park the car in the sun.”
His men laughed again and began dragging Dieter away.
Whoops, John thought. Looks like we’re going on a boat trip.
He began to back out and found himself having to work very hard at it. The going had been tight heading in, but pushing himself backward seemed to make him fatter somehow. In less than a minute he had himself plugged in the duct. His shirt had rolled up around his shoulders and he couldn’t push it down or pull it off; the excess bulk had him jammed in like a stopper in a bottle.
Great! he thought. Just great. Then he forced himself to calm down and consider the problem as though it was outside himself. He pulled himself forward again and eventually the shirt began to roll back down. When he’d loosened it sufficiently he pulled it up over his head, the sort of exercise that made him wish he was double-jointed. Then he resumed his backward journey, dragging the shirt with him. Thank God my pants aren’t a problem.
After about thirty minutes of sweaty, claustrophobic effort John finally crawled backward out of the hole in the palacete’s wall. For a moment he just lay there, indulging a sense of release as the hot, humid, muggy, wonderful outside air cooled him. Then he forced himself to his feet and began looking for a limo left in the sun.
John found the car with little problem. Unfortunately there was a veritable crowd of thugs around it. One sat on the trunk with his feet on the back bumper while two of his friends leaned against it laughing at his jokes. One of them was big enough to make John blink, wondering if he was an optical illusion. They all had slight suspicious bulges under loose guayabera shirts.
John considered a couple of ideas about creating a distraction, then rejected them. There were two more under a nearby tree. These five were the only ones visible from where he crouched in the bushes, but he was willing to bet that there were more nearby. Plus there were passersby, some of whom might call the police . . . and many of the local police were friends of Garmendia’s. Good friends; affluent friends.
It would have to be one hell of a distraction, he thought. Like maybe holding a gun to Garmendia’s head. If he had a gun, which he didn’t.
The point became moot as the smuggler came out and signaled that he wanted them to start up the car.
Guess Lazaro changed his mind about eating breakfast. Or he’s on a diet. He eyed the sweaty jowls, already blue with beard stubble. Probably just in a hurry.
Unless he’d been in that damned tunnel even longer than he’d thought. His best bet now was to try to follow them, or failing that, to get to the river and hope to catch up with them there. John sprinted for the wall, hoping that most of the goons were fighting for a place in the limo and so wouldn’t notice him; he felt a cold stab of anxiety. This was not going well. Why couldn’t Dieter listen to him for a change?
Using the branches of a bush that had begun to turn tree, Connor was able to get high enough to stretch his hands onto the top of the wall, then he pulled himself over and dropped down the other side.
His heart almost stopped when the limo drove right by him. Miraculously he went unnoticed. Garmendia must have been very distracted by his plans for von Rossbach. His bodyguards wouldn’t have noticed who John was, but only that he was unarmed.
John stood and watched them go, then started to jog down the street, planning the quickest way to the river. As he ran he noticed a woman on a moped speeding toward him and decided that she was about to find herself on foot.
The woman wasn’t young, but she didn’t seem elderly either. She wore a pale blue shirt and beige skirt and a big straw hat tied to her head with a gauzy scarf. Huge sunglasses made her look like a bug.
John dashed in front of her and the woman brought the bike to a skidding stop. “I’m sorry, senhora . . . ” Connor started to say, reaching out for her.
“John?” she said, whipping off her sunglasses. “I’ve been looking all over—”
“Mom?” The relief he felt almost made him weak in the knees. “No time,” he said brusquely, and got behind her on the moped. “Dieter’s in trouble. Follow that car.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “And here I’d hoped there’d come a day when I neither heard nor used that phrase ever again,” she said as she revved up the little machine and started down the road.
“So what’s your story?” she asked, pleased by the feel of his arms around her. She’d missed him so much.
“Dieter went to Garmendia to get help in getting back to Paraguay,” John explained.
Sarah frowned. “He went to Garmendia for something like that?” That was like using an ax to swat a fly.
John shrugged. “He thinks of Lazaro as a smuggler and doesn’t seem to think he’s dangerous. Anyway, uh . . . ”
Uh-oh, Sarah thought. When John’s voice petered out like that he was usually going to say something she didn’t like. “What?” she demanded.
He pursed his lips for moment, then plunged ahead. “Garmendia thinks that you’ve told us some big, dark secret of his, so he cooperated with us the first time we came through here and asked for his help.”
“Shit!” Sarah muttered. “That was an incredibly stupid thing to do, John!”
“But this time he took exception.” John winced. That was putting it mildly considering that Garmendia was going to throw Dieter to the crocodiles.
Shaking her head, Sarah said, “If you only knew. I’m surprised you lived long enough for there to be a this time.”
Up ahead she caught sight of the big limo. She took stock of what they knew. Well, we know who’s in the car, we know where they’re going and why. Now what do we do about it?
“Mom, are you carrying?”
“Don’t you know me any better than that?” she asked. “Check the side saddle.”
John opened one of the straw baskets attached to the side of the bike. There, wrapped in a red-and-white-checked napkin, he found a micro-Uzi and three spare magazines, plus a stun grenade.
“What about you?” he asked, flicking the napkin back over the gun.
“I’m covered,” she said grimly.
They rode on in silence for a while as they’d come to a more populated area and the traffic was thick and deadly; you got a license here by paying the jefe a small bribe, if you bothered to get a license at all. Fortunately the limo had to slow down as much, if not more, than their little moped; there were trucks, gaudily painted and often crammed with crates of poultry.
Once Sarah had to stop lest she risk coming up right behind them.
“Mom,” John suddenly said. “I’ve been thinking, and we need to stop them before they get to Garmendia’s yacht.”
Sarah said nothing as she concentrated on the traffic but turned her head slightly to show she was listening.
“If we could take out a tire they’d have to stop.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But we’d still be five to two with Dieter in their hands.”
John blew out his breath. “Yeah, anyway your micro-Uzi wouldn’t do it.” Sarah was silent a little longer, then John felt her relax..
“It’s not the best idea in the world,” she said, “but it’s the best we’ve got. Look in my other saddlebag.”
Leaning back, John rummaged in the basket for a moment.
“Cool!” he said, “One of those collapsible shotguns.” He hugged her one-armed as he examined it. “I might have known you’d have one of these. And explosive shells! Neat!”
Sarah smiled. “Yeah, I’m always on the lookout for something practical that will fit in my purse.”
She sped up as they came into the riverside area of town, deserted this time of the year, drawing even with the limo’s back end. Sarah felt like she had a target painted on her chest, even though the limo’s blacked-out windows made it impossible to tell if they’d even spotted her yet. She felt John adjusting his weight as he prepared to bring the shotgun up from the side away from the limo. Suddenly the huge black car sped up.
“They’ve seen us,” she muttered.
“C’mon, Mom, we’re losing ’em,” John said.
Sarah gunned the throttle; unfortunately, that didn’t mean much on a moped.
“Mo-om!”
“This is our top speed, John! We’re on a moped, for God’s sake, not a chopped Harley!”
He let out an impatient breath. “Gee, this situation seems weirdly familiar.”
“No. That would be them trying to run us down while we’re in a vehicle that seems to be standing still.” She grimaced; her life was probably going out of control again if she was measuring positive and negative by such bizarro standards.
John kept his gaze focused on the limo as though he could slow it by sheer will.
Up ahead the road curved sharply and the limo slowed. Sarah maintained her speed, leaning into the curve like a racer, and they quickly gained back lost ground. Buildings reared on either side, huge decrepit warehouses—from the rubber boom, or perhaps one of the seventies megaprojects gone bust.
“Go, go, go,” John urged, barely above a whisper. He automatically shifted his weight to balance his mother’s and his eyes sought out his target.
“Now, John,” his mother said. “This is as good as it’s gonna get.”
He brought up the shotgun, aimed, and fired. A brief spurt of fire from the dusty, potholed street; a miss. The limo slammed on the brakes, fishtailing slightly, and the moped shot ahead of them, turning down an alley.
“MOM!” John shouted in protest. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sarah didn’t answer; she was too busy trying to get them away from potential disaster. What was I thinking? she berated herself. This is John I’ve got riding behind me! Riding behind her pitting a shotgun against a carload of demented goons. Nothing was more important than John. Nothing! Not even Dieter von Rossbach, who should have known better than to pit himself against a rottweiler like Garmendia. Especially armed with nothing better than a secret he didn’t even know.
How could she forget that even for a second?
“Mom,” John said, leaning close. “You remember how a minute ago we were talking about them chasing us? Well, they’re doing it!”
Shit! she thought.
Up ahead there was a burst of debris from a wall.
“And they’re firing at us,” John added.
No kidding.
“They’ve got automatic weapons,” he went on, as something—somethings—went whackwhackwhack through the air far too close. She began to sway the moped back and forth. That’s not going to help for long, she thought. The limo was already gaining.
John risked a glance behind them. There were gunmen leaning out of the car windows, all of them firing. “Mom?” he said, his voice quavering a little. Bullets whizzed by, spanging up dirt and bits of building around them.
Sarah saw a dark space up ahead that warned of an alley between the tightly packed buildings and she turned into it. Unfortunately it was wide enough for the limo and she knew they’d follow. It wound on and she looked desperately for side alleys, finding none, as they came around a curve only to find a dead end. The moped fishtailed and almost went over, but she managed to bring it to a skidding halt, sideways to the main road. The limo came on and Sarah gasped in horror.
The gunmen, intent now on capturing their targets, ceased firing, but leaned farther out, shouting insults and threats. They came on fast and Sarah wondered if the goons intended to smash them into the wall.
“John!” she said, and hopped off the moped, readying herself to jump onto the limo’s hood. In a second her son stood beside her.
The alley narrowed almost imperceptibly just beyond the deceiving curve. Before the driver could stop, the momentum of the car forced it tightly into the alley; the gunmen disappeared and the glossy sides of the vehicle screeched as they were crushed against the stone walls of the surrounding houses.
“Whoa!” John said, wincing. “That’s gotta hurt!”
Blowing out her breath, Sarah let her head hang for a moment. Then there was a tapping sound from the limo. They, whoever had survived, were trying to break through the windshield. Thank God for bulletproof, shatterproof glass, she thought.
“C’mon,” she said to her son. “Let’s get out of here before they manage to break out.”
John snorted in amusement and took hold of the bike. Together they lifted it up onto the hood and rolled it onto the roof. Within the car they could hear them screaming and pounding on the windshield and roof. When John and Sarah stepped up onto the roof shots rang out, followed by screams and curses as the bullets ricocheted around the armored interior.
It’s like they’re the Keystone Kops, Sarah thought, shaking her head in disbelief. I know Garmendia’s men aren’t the brightest tools in the shed, but John knew better than that when he was seven!
They got down off the back as silence fell within the limo. Sarah glanced at the blank glass and opened her belt pouch. She pulled out a set of lock picks and got to work on the trunk lock.
There was a sudden series of blows on the back windshield.
“I’d just like to remind you, Lazaro,” Sarah said, her voice mild in spite of her having to speak loudly enough to be heard in the backseat, “that that glass is the only thing between you and me.” She looked up at the window. “And you’ve been shooting at my son.”
There was silence for a moment, then the dim imprint of a face as Garmendia got as close as he could to the rear windshield. “You lied to me, Connor! Your brat there, he threatened to tell!”
“I haven’t broken my word,” Sarah said, her voice hard. “The kid was bluffing, Lazaro. I swore that I would never tell and I never will, not even to him.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t give my word often, Garmendia, and I don’t break it when I do. But I’ll break you if you DON’T BACK DOWN!”
The smuggler’s face disappeared from the window and there was silence in the limo. Sarah went back to work on the lock. In less than thirty seconds she had it open.
“You’re out of practice, Mom,” John said as the lid came up.
“Everybody’s a critic,” Sarah groused. Then she sucked in her breath through her teeth at the sight of von Rossbach. “Eeee-ee,” she said.
The big man lay on his side, his hands tied behind his back, his blond hair soaked in blood. As was the side of his face, and his nose and eye had begun to swell.
I could sure use a drink, Sarah suddenly thought. A chaotic snarl of emotion was erupting within her, horror at her friend’s condition mixed with compassion, as well as rage at Garmendia for doing this to him. Not to mention the stiff anger she felt toward Dieter for being so foolish, and John for risking himself, and herself for risking John. It was almost overwhelming. She licked her lips.
A nice drink would sure . . . Do no good whatsoever. A smoke would be nice, too, but that wouldn’t help either. She took a deep breath and pushed the insidious cravings aside. “You awake?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Barely,” he said. Dieter turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were mere slits in the bruised flesh. He tried to smile.
“Oh, Dieter,” she said, her heart sinking.
Reaching in, she checked his bonds. John tapped her on the shoulder, flicking his right hand to set the blade of his balisong. She took the wickedly sharp little knife and cut the sisal twine, unwound the ropes from where they were digging into his wrists. Shaking her head, she stood back to look at him.
“C’mon,” she said, “let’s get you out of there.”
“You sound like a nurse,” he quipped.
Sarah didn’t answer but held on to his shoulder to keep him from falling over. John hastened to lend a hand, supporting him from the other side.
Glancing at the moped, John said, “Mom, we can’t get him away on that. We’ll look like a team of Chinese acrobats.”
Putting a hand to her forehead, Sarah tightened her lips as she thought. “You have a place to stay?” she asked quietly.
John nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Go steal a car. I’ll follow you back on the moped. Once we’ve got him inside, you can return it to the same neighborhood.”
