MURDOCK'S LAST STAND

by Beverly Barton

  They waited. And waited. Each moment like an hour. No more gunfire. No troops marching. Not even artillery fire in the distance. All Catherine could hear was the sound of her own breathing.

  "Stay behind me, until we reach the jeep. Keep your eyes open and be ready to use your rifle," he told her. "Then as soon as I get the jeep started, hop in quickly."

  She nodded, then followed him down the alley and out onto the sidewalk. The hood of the jeep kissed the smashed storefront window. Shards of broken glass littered the surrounding area. One soldier lay across the steering wheel. Another—the major—hung halfway out of the vehicle, his head almost touching the pavement.

  "I'll clear things away," Murdock told her. "Keep your back to the wall and warn me if you see anything moving. And remember, shoot first and ask questions later."

  Catherine thought her heart was going to leap from her chest, but there was nothing she could do to slow its frantic beating. She scanned the area. Left. Right. Up. Down. Nothing. Only fragments of trash swirling about in the twilight breeze.

  Murdock dumped the lifeless bodies onto the street, hopped into the jeep and tried to start the motor. A groaning hum repeated over and over. Catherine's gaze kept a constant vigil, waiting and watching for any sign of trouble. Murdock tried again. The groaning hum and then a hesitant cough shouted failure. Hurry up and start, dammit, Catherine's frightened inner self pleaded silently. A third try. A growl. A cough. And then ignition.

  Murdock hailed her with a wave of his arm. She scurried toward him as fast as she could run, weighted down by the M-16 and the fear of being shot in the back. The moment she jumped into the jeep, Murdock shifted into Reverse and backed the vehicle onto the street.

  "You're driving, remember," he told her as he indicated for them to exchange places.

  Without saying a word, she removed the rifle from her shoulder, handed it to Murdock and took her place behind the wheel. Before Murdock was seated, she shifted gears and revved the motor. As she took off, Murdock fell into the seat.

  "Floor it," he told her.

  And she did.

  Following Murdock's instructions, she turned right, then left and headed west. She didn't think. Didn't feel. She simply drove. Like a bat out of hell. Just as they neared the outskirts of the city, shots rang out, whizzing over their heads. Crying out, Catherine gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled ferocity. Murdock swerved around, aimed his M-16 and fired at the small band of soldiers behind them.

  Rebel soldiers! Damn! The rebels saw a government jeep with two uniformed soldiers inside. If he tried to identify himself, he and Catherine would be shot and killed before he got out the first word.

  "Those aren't Zarazaian troops following us," Catherine said.

  "Yeah, I know."

  "What are we—"

  "No matter what happens, keep driving. Due west," Murdock told her. "Chota is a straight shot from here."

  Murdock didn't want to kill rebel troops, but he had to defend himself and Catherine. He was a good enough shot to wound without killing. At least he hoped he was. And if he could aim one of the grenades in the back seat so that it would tear up the road and disable their truck, then maybe he could halt the small group of rebels chasing them.

  He crawled over into the back seat, placing his body directly behind Catherine. She could feel his movements, but had no idea what he was doing. He squeezed off another round of rapid fire. Enemy shots pierced the jeep's tailgate and fractured the rearview mirror. In her head, Catherine screamed and screamed and screamed. But while her silent cries reverberated in her mind, she kept her gaze directed on the road ahead.

  Suddenly she heard a rocking explosion. Stealing a quick glimpse in the one remaining mirror shard, she saw fire and smoke in the street behind them. Before she had time to assimilate the facts, Murdock hauled his big body over and into the seat beside her.

  "There are hand grenades in the back of the jeep," he said, grinning. "And a small arsenal of weapons. We hit the jackpot when we confiscated this jeep."

  Tears streamed down Catherine's cheeks, but she didn't even attempt to wipe them away. With the humid wind bombarding her face and the echoes of warfare resonating in her ears, she gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline.

  She sensed an execrable truth—Murdock was in his element right here in the middle of this war. He was a trained soldier. An expert. The horrors of what she was experiencing were nothing new to him.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and noted the self-satisfied expression on his face. His triumph showed plainly in his expression. How could she expect a man like him to ever understand the importance of the gentler human feelings that ruled her life?

  Murdock hated to see her cry. He wanted to wipe away her tears. Longed to take her into his arms and comfort her. But he didn't touch her. Didn't speak to her. Since coming to Zaraza she had witnessed carnage unlike any she'd ever seen before in her life. Not on a TV or movie screen. But up close and personal. Death. Human suffering. The ravages of war.

  A woman like Catherine needed the cleansing relief of tears. God, how long had it been since he'd cried? Since he'd felt that kind of tenderness? Suddenly he saw this war through Catherine's eyes. Fresh. New. Never before experienced. The very thought shattered his reserve. She must think him a monster, a heartless killer.

  Why do you care what she thinks of you? an inner voice asked. You don't owe her an explanation or a justification for the life you've lived. The only thing you owe her is the vow you made to her father—to keep her safe. And he intended to keep that sacred promise, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Despite the sheer terror Catherine experienced during their escape from San Carlos, the trip to Chota came off without a hitch. Not one incident. No sign of either rebel or Zarazaian soldiers, which Murdock had said probably meant the battles were being fought farther inland, and not along the banks of the Amazon. She had never driven at night when the only light came from the quarter moon above and the headlights of her vehicle. The unilluminated road stretched before them, taking them closer and closer to the jungle and ever nearer to the Rio Negro.

  "Chota shouldn't be far now," Murdock told her.

  "Just how big is this town?" she asked. "Will we be able to find a hotel room?"

  Murdock chuckled. "Chota won't have a decent hotel and the place isn't really much of a town. It's more like a large village. And I need to warn you that the natives probably won't be all that friendly to a couple of Americans without money."

  "Great. What should I expect? Flogging in the town square or being tarred and feathered and run out of town?" Humor was the only thing that could save her sanity at this point and she knew it. She was in way over her head in this situation. And truth be told, she was scared senseless.

  "Nothing that drastic. More like some vicious stares and maybe a rotten tomato thrown in our general direction."

  Her arms ached, as did her back and neck. And she suspected that once she removed her hands from the steering wheel, her fingers would be permanently curled.

  "There!" Murdock nudged her arm. "Look straight ahead."

  In the distance she saw the village lights and could hear the faint sound of music. "This village has electricity?"

  "Yep. It's the last civilized village before you enter the jungle," he explained. "And unless things have changed a lot in twenty years, which I suspect they haven't, there's at least one or two boats a day stopping here on their way down the Amazon."

  "Explain to me again why we're taking a boat instead of continuing our trip by jeep?"

  She vaguely remembered that at some point in their two-hour journey, Murdock had given her the particulars of finding Sabino's headquarters. But for the life of her, she couldn't recall the details. Maybe she'd been too busy concentrating on keeping the jeep out of the ditches and her eyes focused on the dark road ahead. Or perhaps her mind had s
imply wandered into thoughts of safety far away from Zaraza. Home in Tennessee. Back at Huntington Academy. Or dreams of a hot bath, a soft bed and a decent meal.

  "There are no roads into the jungle," Murdock told her. "The Sabino rebels are headquartered at a place called Santa Teresa, a mountain hideaway they've been able to defend for twenty years. If we go downriver, we can reach Santa Teresa, by foot, in about three hours."

  "Three hours on foot, climbing a mountain? I can hardly wait."

  Ignoring her sarcastic remark, Murdock said, "Once I've talked to Vincente and exposed Domingo Sanchez, we can hike back to the river, hitch a ride on the next boat going downstream, be in Brazil like that—" he snapped his fingers "—and then we'll take a flight out of the first airport we find in Brazil."

  "Sounds way too simple to me. Expose the bad guy. Save the good guy. Be heroes. Sail off down the river and then fly away to safety. Yeah, sure. What are the odds of that actually happening?" She cut her gaze toward him quickly, then focused back on the road.

  "I gave you the best case scenario," he admitted. "If we don't run into any kind of problems, it could happen that way."

  Chota sprang to life in front of them as Catherine drove the jeep down the main street of the village. Two-story buildings danced with light and activity. Natives swarmed about on the streets and walkways as music drifted from several of the cabañas. She slowed the jeep to a leisurely crawl in order to avoid running over anyone.

  "What is this place?" Catherine asked. "It's lit up like a banana republic version of Las Vegas. Don't these people know there's a war on?

  "Chota is Sin City." Murdock's laughter rumbled from his chest. "Gambling. Prostitution. Drugs. Smuggling. The merchants are rebel sympathizers, but they'll take anybody's money. Even Zarazaian soldiers are welcome if they have gold to spend."

  "You're kidding." Suddenly realizing that she was gazing slack-jawed as she scrutinized the strange town, Catherine shut her gaping mouth. This little town Murdock had called Sin City was flanked by the jungle on one side and the Amazon on the other. How had it developed into a cesspool of illegal vices?

  Gazing out from arched doorways, their faces painted like Kewpie dolls, prostitutes waved and smiled. Some even called out to passersby. One amply endowed woman opened her blouse to give potential customers a preview.

  "Just where are we going?" Catherine asked. "Do I keep driving until we've passed through the village or are we actually going to stop somewhere?"

  "I'm looking for a place called El Paraiso del Diablo."

  "You're looking for what?" Catherine tried to translate for herself. Diablo meant devil, didn't it? And paraiso meant paradise. Good grief! Was he looking for a place called The Devil's Paradise? "Just what is this place?"

  "It used to be a brothel," he replied. "I once knew some of the … er … girls who worked there. And the proprietor was Juan Sabino's sister-in-law's cousin. Hernandez. If the place is still in business and Hernandez is still alive, then he'll help us."

  "You're taking me to a whorehouse?"

  "You'll be perfectly safe there, Cat. If anybody comes on to you, just give him one of those snooty little looks of yours and you'll stop him dead in his tracks."

  "Ha, ha. Very funny."

  "Down there. On the right." Murdock pointed to a building painted a hideous shade of hot pink. "Just pull the jeep into the alley and be sure to pocket the keys."

  El Paraiso del Diablo sparkled like a vulgar pink Christmas tree draped with scantily clad fallen angels in colorful, gossamer silk robes. Women lined the porch of the fuchsia two-story structure. And from every upstairs window, ladies of the evening lured potential customers with their come-hither gestures.

  Catherine eased the jeep into the alley between the brothel and a gambling hall. This is something out of an old western movie, she thought, as she killed the motor and pocketed the key. I must be asleep and having a nightmare. This town can't be real.

  "Give me my rifle," she said. "I think I'll stay here and wait for you. I really don't want to go in there."

  "I know you're joking, honey." He handed her the M-16. "Where I go, you go. Remember?"

  "Yes, but I'd like to forget."

  Murdock hopped from the jeep, checked his weapon and ammunition belt, then rounded the hood and held out his hand to Catherine. She accepted his offer of assistance and stepped onto the ground. "Don't forget that you're my woman." He hauled her up against him.

  "I beg your pardon?" Glaring at him, she snatched her hand from his and stepped backward.

  "Act the part," he said. "Nobody's going to touch you if they think I might blow them to smithereens."

  "I have a gun, too, you know." She readjusted the strap on her M-16. "Maybe they'll think I'd blow them to smithereens!"

  "Yeah, I'm sure they will." He grabbed her arm, jerked her to his side and growled menacingly. "But just in case they don't, then let's get our parts straight right now. Me Tarzan. You Jane."

  Catherine snarled at him. But when he gave her a gentle shove, she fell into step alongside him as they headed toward the brothel. All heads turned in their direction when they walked onto the porch and although the ladies whispered and the ogling gentlemen stared, no one attempted to stop them. The double doors of the establishment stood wide-open, making access to the huge foyer quite easy. The interior boasted the same gaudy colorfulness as the exterior, the hot pink being replaced by varying shades of red and purple.

  When Murdock entered the room containing an enormous bar, a gigantic man with a heavy beard and patch over his right eye laid his meaty hand on Murdock's shoulder. He spoke in Spanish, saying what Catherine assumed translated into something like "What do you want here?"

  Murdock brushed the man's hand off his shoulder and turned to face him. The two stood eye-to-eye, both the same height. A couple of Mack trucks preparing to collide. But where Murdock was pure muscle, the other man was fat.

  Speaking rapidly in Spanish, Murdock asked for Hernandez. The bouncer shook his head and replied, then grabbed Murdock's shoulder again. Catherine held her breath. Without saying another word, Murdock knocked the man's hand off his shoulder a second time.

  Oh, God, he's going to have to kill this big bear! She cringed just thinking about what would happen to them if Murdock shot the brothel's bouncer. The grizzly man growled like an animal, then spread out his ham hock arms and took a wrestler's stance. Oh, great, Catherine thought, the idiot wants to fight. Didn't he realize that Murdock would wipe the floor with him?

  "Paco!" a strong feminine voiced called out from behind them.

  The bouncer glanced over his hefty shoulder at the woman standing on the stairs. All gazes turned toward her, including Catherine's. Dressed in a tight-fitting yellow silk dress that accentuated every well-rounded curve of her body, the petite brunette descended the staircase and glided over to the bouncer. She placed her hand on his arm and smiled, then spoke to him in a quiet, soft voice. Apparently dismissed, the big man nodded and then disappeared into another room.

  The gorgeous woman, whom Catherine guessed to be only a few years older than she, turned to Murdock and opened her arms. "Murdock! Do you not remember me?"

  "Landra?" Murdock's gaze traveled appreciatively over her full breasts, tiny waist and wide hips. Then he grabbed the woman off her feet and swung her up into his arms.

  Catherine moved away from him as a very ugly emotion took root in her heart and spread quickly through her body. Get your damn hands off him, she wanted to scream. He's mine!

  "Where have you been all these years, viejo amigo?" The lovely Landra planted a welcoming kiss on Murdock's lips.

  Catherine balled her hands into tight fists. Wonder how she'd like to have her cute little button nose rearranged? a demonic inner voice asked. Or maybe she'd like that jet-black hair pulled out by the roots!

  When Murdock set Landra back on her tiny feet, Catherine took a step forward, placing herself directly at his side. He draped his arm around Catherine's shoulder.<
br />
  "Landra, this is Catherine. Catherine, meet Landra."

  The two women sized each other up, like prizefighters preparing to shake hands and come out fighting. Catherine towered over the small, voluptuous Landra.

  "Who is she?" Landra asked, running her gaze up and down Catherine's body.

  Catherine realized that she must look a fright in the ragged, bloodstained, military uniform. She jerked the cap off and raked her fingers through her hair.

  "Catherine?" Murdock rubbed his hand up and down Catherine's arm. "She's my … traveling companion."

  Catherine jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then smiled at Landra when Murdock groaned. "How do you do," she said, with all the good grace she could muster at the moment. She felt like a huge, gawky frump compared to the silk-clad, perfume-drenched Landra.

  "I do very well, señorita. Or is it señora? How do you do?"

  Landra's English was quite good, Catherine thought. Much better than my Spanish, that's for sure. The smile on Landra's face seemed genuine, which puzzled Catherine, considering that she had despised this woman on sight.

  "It's señora," Catherine said, but when Landra's smile widened, she hastily added, "I'm a widow."

  Landra reached out and clasped Catherine's hand. "I am so sorry, señora. I, too, am a widow." Landra winked at Murdock. "You are fortunate to have this one as your man, now. Murdock, he is muy hombre, is he not?"

  Translating quickly in her mind, Catherine figured out that the woman had asked her if she didn't agree that Murdock was very much a man. "Oh, yes. Sí. Murdock is indeed muy hombre."

  Murdock cleared his throat. "Not that I don't enjoy having two lovely ladies discussing my merits as a man, but I'm looking for Hernandez. Is that old buzzard still running the show around here?"

  Landra's smile weakened and a sad, rather faraway look entered her eyes. "Hernandez died five years ago. A knife fight with one of Orlando's men."