"But, here we are plotting revenge, planning violent survival, and . . . I figure you will admit . . . enjoying almost all of it."
Byrne pretended intellectual insult. "Enjoying it? Are you nuts, Shepard? I want to go home. I have patients waiting for me. I have a comfortable house, and before I can turn around, hunting season will arrive and I won't have scouted anything. My grass is probably so high coyotes live in it. I like dealing with some puke like Dewey Lavender? I like having to mollify some ancient crone that wants us both dead? Your brain has atrophied, pardner."
Bravo nodded in satisfaction. "Me thinks you protest too strongly, Byrne." He frowned, "Didn't some author say something like that?
"I know you like crawling out of that furrow you have been plowing for the last twenty years. Stick with me, kid. I'll show you the world."
Alpha groaned his disgust.
Bravo said, "Tucumcari? What kind of a name is that? I already hate New Mexico. Let's swing north and hit Las Vegas for a day or two."
They had driven without haste, quitting early and jogging before sleeping. Alpha had complained that his muscles were shrinking worse than they had on their lengthy Noisy Oyster sailing trip. "At our ages, we've got to keep limber and work on endurance, Bravo, or we will stiffen up like dried sticks."
"Tell me something I don't know, Byrne, but I can still put my palms on the floor with my knees straight. Let's see you do that."
Byrne did, but Bravo's retort was, "Hah, I could hear your knee joints popping from across the room."
Once, when Interstate-40 placed them alone on the plains, they had pulled over and fired their pistols. Each impressed the other. Byrne was mildly astonished by Bravo's swift and smooth draw. Shepard silently admired Alpha's ability to hit distant targets with a .45 pistol. Of course neither commented on the other's competence.
Typical US Army soldiers had been horrible shots with their 1911A1 pistols. Both ex-soldiers wondered if the new army did better with their Berettas? Both doubted it. Most soldiers shot only because they had to. Special troops were different, of course, and most Berets and Rangers routinely blew the centers from their targets.
Those had been the troopers Alpha and Bravo had been serving with when someone chose them to bodyguard Charlie, the secret agent. Lean as whippets, wiry as stainless cable, certain of their abilities, and willing to try anything, Byrne and Shepard had chosen to rid the world of some very bad hombres. Now, more than twenty years later, they were paying for their good deed.
Bravo mentioned it to Byrne. "If you hadn't been so anxious to shoot up those drug guys we wouldn't be out here just trying to stay alive, Alpha. All of this misery is your fault, and take note that I am aware of it."
Of course, Don Byrne pretended astonishment. "My God, Shepard, I just made a joking comment, but you jumped on it and simply overwhelmed my better judgment with uncontrolled enthusiasm." He glared at his seatmate. "I'm older now, Bravo, and you can't lure me into dangerous and irresponsible acts."
Shepard was admiring of alpha's reasoning. "You are good, Alpha. I'll bet you learned that evading and bobbing and weaving word talk at that offshore academy you went to. I imagine you polish those word skills on the families of your patients who come after you for medical malfeasance or worse."
"Malfeasance? Where on earth did you encounter a word that large, Bravo? Not from those poor, barely making-it customers that you sell those concrete block California shacks to. Guys like you sold those sub-prime mortgages that are starting to collapse our banking system. By next spring . . ."
Bravo repeated, "What about Vegas, pal? I'm sick of plowing along this endless slab of highway."
Byrne was unsympathetic. "One more day, pardner, and we will be in Palm Springs."
Bravo muttered unintelligibly.
Alpha grinned at his friend. "To ease your traveling, I will tell you how we are going to handle Donna Santos. How will that be?"
Bravo perked up. "At last a plan. I'll bet it's your usual. We creep over her glass-studded wall, slide through her cactus patch, dodge the resident snakes and tarantulas, and jump her six or eight bodyguards while they are napping. Then we . . ."
Byrne said, "Oh shut up, Shepard, and just listen. What we are going to do is step up to her door. I will announce who I am, and we will be invited in. She will be astonished that I am there, and she will probably not have us shot without hearing our story. She will be dumbfounded to discover that you are still alive. I will explain the real story, and she will believe it. She will let us go and promise never to come after us again." Byrne finished and sat smiling confidently at the dumbfounded Bravo.
Shepard said, "I hope to God that you are just joking, Alpha, because that is the worst scheme I have ever heard in all of my exciting life."
Bravo shook his head as if he had taken a solid right cross. "Here's a woman who has spent big money to have us killed, who believes one of us has already bitten the dust, and who is aching to hear that the second has also had his throat cut and wears his tongue for a necktie, and you plan to sit down and explain to her? Oh that's deep, Alpha, really deep."
Byrne widened his smile. "I knew you would like it, pardner. We'll do just that, and then we can go home leaving all of this behind." He began humming contentedly to himself.
Bravo sat silently, straining mightily to appreciate Byrne's reasoning and obviously hidden logic.
Discovering nothing enlightening, Bravo said, "Sounds like a great idea, Byrne. I'll just wait in the car."
Chapter 20
Bravo said, "I can't believe we are doing this."
Alpha knew what he meant, but he had never found anything better than a straightforward, outwardly honest and peaceful approach to Donna Santos—matriarch of the once dread Santos drug cartel and hirer of professional killers.
The problem was that the Santos, even in their drug-dealing heyday had received little press. Other than the local newspapers Alpha and Bravo had perused, they learned nothing about Donna Santos—apparently a normal upper-class lady who pursued social engagements, and neither Byrne nor Shepard was likely to learn more. A casual word leaked that Mrs. Santos was being asked about could lead to—only God knew what.
Byrne had said, "We will ring her bell or knock gently on her gate, whichever is offered. We will go in, and I will explain the true story of what happened."
"The true story, Alpha?"
"I will do my best to be convincing, Bravo."
"And my job is to hunch menacingly while you persuade with your really rotten Spanish?"
"Your job is to look as innocent as we did in 1985—when you got us into this mess." Alpha tenebrously studied his partner. "Quit looking like a saloon bouncer. We want this lady to believe what I am saying."
Bravo remained gloomy. "Next thing, you will want to leave our pistols in the truck. Well, I'm not doing it. I have a California permit to carry concealed, and if I have to march into a lion's den I'm going in armed."
Shepard scowled mightily. "As a hunter, you might remember, Byrne, that it is the female lion that does the hunting and the killing, and that is the threat level we may be facing."
Alpha responded. "I know that, so make sure you don't stir up some sort of crisis. We come in peace to correct a simple misunderstanding—or that's our pitch, anyway." He added, "We will wear our pistols, but if she, or anyone, springs a serious ambush, we won't have a chance. So keep it peaceful, Shepard."
Bravo answered, "You haven't mentioned how we are going to get out of the place after you tell your story."
Byrne almost snarled. "How in hell could I plan that? I hope we will walk out as quietly as we came in, but we'll do what we have to do."
Bravo considered for a silent moment. "What you are saying is that 'It depends on the situation and the terrain.' Right, pal?
"God, I haven't heard that copout since Basic Training." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then grumbled, "We'll go down without getting off a shot—still smiling at the mob that slaughters us
. We are doomed, Alpha. Doomed."
Donna Maria Santos had been listed among other Santos men and women. Her address appeared to be on a street in a high-end development. They drove out to see.
Alpha had expected to discover a typical Spanish or Mexican structure surrounded by a high wall with iron spear points or broken glass lining the top. Donna Santos lived in an upscale American-style home with a tile roof and stuccoed cement walls. Windows did boast grilled iron bars, and the front door, of regal proportions, appeared heavy and very strong. Similarly protected homes were close on either side.
Alpha was encouraged. Donna Santos lived in a normal American neighborhood rather than the fortified keep, Byrne had expected. Home invasions were increasing across the nation and among those who could afford them protected windows were becoming common. Hers was not a neighborhood that would allow gunfire to pass unreported—which might discourage her from having her unannounced visitors immediately shot down.
Their truck circled through the community, but the handsome homes appeared unoccupied. No children played, and there were no boats or RVs parked in driveways. Backyards were uncluttered by Wal-Mart jungle gyms or trashy swing sets, but swimming pools could be seen through designer fencing or through manicured hedges. Occasionally Alpha and Bravo noted handsome gas grills of expensive models waiting in stainless splendor. All were behind the homes and within the very low and attractively fenced yards.
Bravo admitted, "So far so good. I don't see any short, bowlegged guys lurking with sawed off double barrels."
Alpha agreed, "Mrs. Santos doesn't live like Tony Soprano." This is a nice very upscale community. Most are working and kids are in school, but don't let's go around again. We don't want to draw attention."
They had circled back to the Santos home, and Bravo said, "If we are going, Let's quit jerking around and go for it." He drew his shoulder-holstered pistol, re-checked for a chambered round, and re-holstered.
Alpha nodded agreement. He eased the big Ford to a halt and backed into the Santos driveway before he cut the engine. "We might want to leave in a hurry."
Bravo studied his watch. "Almost twelve noon on the dot. We will interrupt her lunch."
"That's our plan, pardner. Keep 'em off balance." Byrne exhaled noisily and muttered, "Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead."
Bravo chose the customary Marine Corps response. "Outstanding. Ooh-Rah."
Alpha stepped onto the cement drive, and the desert sun struck like a club. No wonder no one was outside. The blasting heat even came up through his shoes.
They marched to the front door. Fifteen paces to the porch; Bravo counted them under his breath. Alpha touched the doorbell, and they heard Big Ben's, four-note chimes from within.
Bravo snickered. Alpha's smile was tense.
"Geez, everybody in America must shop at the same doorbell store. It's either big Ben or the Avon Lady's Bing-Bong."
Alpha said, "Shut up and try to look like you were FBI or the Secret Service."
A middle-aged woman wearing a waitress apron opened the door and smiled at them.
Alpha said, "Good afternoon. I am Doctor Donald Byrne, and I am here to see Mrs. Donna Santos."
For a lengthy instant, the woman's mind searched, and her smile hung on. Then awareness set in. Her mouth fell, and her eyes rolled. Her fingers clenched into fists, and her voice stuttered.
She got words out, but they were garbled and unintelligible. The door slammed, and the Alpha/Bravo team stood abandoned already sweating lightly on the small front porch.
Byrne said, "Did you notice how famous I am, Bravo? She recognized my name."
Bravo stayed serious. "Just don't stand in front of that door until it's wide open, and we can look in. We'll be damned lucky if someone doesn't empty a shotgun into us."
Alpha took the advice to heart, and both men stood aside avoiding the most obvious line of fire. "We'll be lucky if anyone comes at all."
Minutes passed before heels tapped within the house. The same woman opened the door. Her voice was flat and cold. Her eyes had turned dark and somehow bitter. "Mrs. Santos will see you now."
Both men noticed that her right hand was now concealed beneath her apron. Bravo suspected she held a gun. Alpha thought she looked more like the knife type.
The cold-eyed woman's back was stiff as she led them into the house and down a skylight brightened hall toward the back of the home. Her heels clacked on the tile flooring. Byrne kept up, but Bravo dropped behind. Closed doorways were passed, and Alpha hoped Bravo was covering their passage against surprise from the sides. Alpha's back felt safer with Bravo as tail end security.
Despite the chill of the air-conditioned house, Alpha felt himself sweating. This woman had paid big money and hired murderous thugs to kill them. Good God, why had they entered the spider's web at all? What on earth had he hoped to accomplish?
Arrogance, that was all it was. The same self-importance Colonel George Armstrong Custer had demonstrated at The Little Big Horn. An over-confidant windbag was all that Don Byrne was, and he was about to pay for it. His mouth was drying out, and his tongue felt twice its usual thickness.
Byrne wondered if they could just turn around and march out the front door before he faced the vengeful Donna Santos? How many shooters did she keep on hand? It wouldn't take more than one to hit them without warning . . . a buckshot-loaded shotgun would be the right weapon. A fine double barrel used by her long dead husband for dove shooting would be just the ticket. Byrne's nerves twitched. That he, for twenty years a country doctor, could just walk in and talk some crazed person into believing he and Bravo were merely misunderstood guys was as ridiculous as . . .?
Byrne decided that if anything went bad, he would blame Bravo for the dumb idea.
Their short parade reached an open kitchen that looked into a backyard of flowers. A very old lady sat facing them—enjoying a lunch of steak and eggs. Steak and eggs? Alpha's raddled senses struggled with the concept. The meeting should be within a darkly paneled study with armed and bitter-mouthed men lurking in the shadows. Eating lunch? Absurd!
His eyes swept the kitchen and touched on three older women lined against a wall. All wore aprons like their guide, and their expressionless, Indian-like faces complemented her glittery-eyed intensity. Byrne's nerves again jolted as he noted that all hands were hidden beneath aprons. Pistols? Long and sharp carving knives?
Their guide said coldly, "Mrs. Santos, this is Doctor Donald Byrne." Then, she stepped aside.
Donna Santos had red hair—no one had gray hair anymore. Byrne sharpened his focus and tried to concentrate. She was small and as skinny as a soda straw, but she sat straight and stared at him as if she were meeting the devil himself.
She glared—a glare of Antarctic cold. Yet, with a generous slice of steak impaled on its prongs, her fork rose to her mouth and her jaws closed on the meat. She began chewing—as if his looming presence was no more menacing than an unfortunate scene on a large TV. Byrne noted that her right hand had a firm grip on her steak knife. Cold—colder than dry ice. Donna Santos was in no way intimidated by his unexpected appearance.
Byrne made his voice work.
"Mrs. Santos," Damn it, his voice was as crackly as a teen-aged boy's. So far, Donna Santos had not spoken, and no one had suggested taking a seat. Feeling much like a youth facing an angry superior, Byrne got hold of himself and re-started.
"Mrs. Santos, I apologize for my uninvited appearance at your door. Such an intrusion is never courteous, and it is not my usual way.
"I am here because there has been a terrible, but deliberately planned misunderstanding." The woman chewed on. Geez, she could at least quit eating until he had his say.
Donna Santos turned her eyes to Bravo standing to the rear—his own hand inside his coat and looking as dangerous as a tightly wound rattler.
Ah god, this could explode in an instant. Alpha attempted to divert the tension. Byrne said, "My companion is Mister Tom Shepard who is also involved in .
. ."
Donna Santos' eyes bulged. She choked, and her knife pointed at Shepard. Her arm wobbled, and half rising from her chair she choked again. Discovering Shepard still alive had diverted all right. Far more than Byrne had expected.
With her third choking, Byrne's attention refocused. The elderly woman's face was flushing. The knife and fork dropped from her hands, her eyes bulged, and her fingers clutched at her throat. One of the women started forward, her voice high with anxiety. She cried, "Donna, Donna," and peered into the choking woman's features.
Byrne was also fast. In his decades of doctoring he had never attempted a Heimlich Maneuver to relieve choking on food, but the technique was basic and astonishingly effective.
Byrne used the best method to gain room ever developed. He said, "I am a doctor. Please step away." As usual, everyone stopped helping. Byrne stepped behind Donna Santos and reaching beneath her armpits, he lifted her to her feet. How tiny she was. Her head came barely to his chin.
Byrne slid his arms around her body clenching his left fist within his right hand and placing the fist against Donna Santos' chest, just below where her ribs joined.
It was important that his actions be strong and decisive. The trick was to snap his arms tight, using his strength to drive the clenched fist up and into the patient's chest cavity and explosively empty the lungs. The air blast almost always expelled the food blocking the victim's breathing.
Almost always! Even as he centered his hold, Byrne judged the possible need to perform an emergency-tracheotomy—using the steak knife Donna Santos had been holding? If he were allowed. His mind ignored the appearance of other knives as the women cleared weapons from their aprons.
Byrne snapped his fists toward his own body once, then once again. Donna Santos' body jerked, air exploded from her lungs, and partially chewed steak flew from her mouth onto the table.
Pardners Page 20