Wild Country tq-3

by Dean Ing

  Lufo said the only thing he could: "Lufo Albeniz," and thrust his hand across the table to Sorel. Hell, they all knew his real name anyhow.

  In moments he heard all the aliases he could handle. To Slaughter's casual question he replied that he had just happened by. With the tension palpable as a sheet of ice over the table, not one of them noticed the slender figure in the bulky shortcoat who had appeared in the doorway as Lufo was sitting down.

  Marianne Placidas, knowing the destination of San Antonio Rose, had actually preceded him to Faro and picked him up as he got off the tour bus. And now the man had led her, with breathtaking suddenness, to within point-blank range of Felix Sorel. She did not recognize Quantrill or Longo, but Slaughter was easy to make. Almost as easy as Sorel, next to him. It all came together so quickly after her preparations that she did not give herself time to waver, nor even to tremble. Slaughter's hideously effective weapon was always drawn, so he would bear watching as closely as Sorel. It made no difference what weapons the others might use on her; Marianne had told herself many times that she had died with her beauty in Oregon Territory.

  Her mistake was common among amateurs. Professionals rarely take time to savor revenge; and never before the fact.

  "Felix Sorel, look at me." Her voice was steady. The little automatic was steady, too. Somewhere a waitress bleated, dropped a tray, scuttled for the kitchen entrance. Somewhere else, two patrons bolted for the exit. No one at the table moved quickly, except for their heads.

  "Dios mio," Sorel said. He realized that his expression betrayed a horrified fascination as he looked into that ruined face. The voice he knew well enough, and her eyes removed any lingering doubt. Keeping his hands in view, he fashioned a bright smile for her. It had always worked before. "Marianne Placidas, is it you?" If Slaughter would only make his move, he might have time to draw on this dreadful apparition. Standing only meters away, positioned behind Lufo so that Slaughter would have to swing his arm, the woman faced Sorel, her chin proud, displaying the terrible scars this man had ordained for her. Without glancing toward Slaughter she said, "Not anymore. I wanted you to see what you have done."

  Lufo made his decision then, twisting slowly to look at the woman, perhaps because he was the only man at the table who was not well armed. "Chica, you don't want to shoot a federal agent," he said.

  "Embustero, liar; you are San Antonio Rose," she said without taking her eyes from Sorel's.

  Mierda! So she knew. With his peripheral vision, Lufo saw Quantrill:s face harden in shock. "But this man is Ted Quantrill of the Justice Department," he went on, pointing carefully and slowly. "Let him do his job."

  "You sonofabitch," grated Longo, his face growing choleric as he stared at the man beside him, the man who had iced Mike Rawson. Marianne might have ignored the curse, but the reddening of Clyde Longo's face was a real endorsement.

  Quantrill did not move. A half dozen tumblers within his mind clicked into place. So all these men were old confederates, and he'd been sucked in like a fucking amateur! It wasn't bad enough that he'd placed himself in the hands of Sorel, but his old compadre Lufo was playing both sides of the game. And any second now, that game would be over.

  "Slaughter told me you were dead, novita," Sorel pleaded, hands open in supplication, nodding toward the cold-eyed Slaughter.

  "That's a goddamn lie, Sorel," Slaughter hissed, and shifted his arm a bit.

  "If Slaughter said that, he was right. And now my spirit is content," said Marianne, her face blazing in a ravaged, deadly smile.

  They all heard distant footfalls racing in the hall, coming nearer. Marianne Placidas licked her lips, tossed what could have been a look of pleading toward Quantrill. and saw Harley Slaughter's arm slowly straighten toward the man who might, or might not, be a federal agent. If Slaughter thought so, that agent was now one second from an agonizing death. The muzzle of her little weapon flicked to a new target, and she fired without hesitation. The single slug entered Slaughter's head just above the right cheekbone, blossoming into the base of his brain. The pistol's report triggered instant pandemonium.

  Even as Slaughter folded forward, his face shattering the plate before him, three of the men were reacting in almost identical ways, using other bodies for shields. Clyde Longo, without years of military training in close-quarters combat, had the horrendously bad luck to be sitting between two men who had learned from the same instructors. He found himself gripped from both sides as Quantrill and Lufo Albeniz propelled him over backward toward the woman. Sorel hurled himself sideways to the floor, taking refuge behind the inert Slaughter, reaching inside his jacket as he dropped.

  Marianne stumbled back to avoid the stocky Longo as he tumbled backward from his chair, holding her little weapon with both hands. She fired again and Slaughter's body jerked.

  As he released his two-handed grip on Longo's right arm and shoulder, Quantrill continued moving in a side roll. He ended it on one knee. Chiller in hand, and saw Longo on his back near the woman's feet. Longo's teeth were bared as he looked up at her, flexing his legs, reaching into his boot top. She seemed completely unaware of the man as she fired that second round across the table.

  The Chiller coughed twice, the muffled thumps of its tiny detonating slugs lost in Longo's bulk. Quantrill saw the man quiver, then relax. Kneeling between adjacent tables, his eyes above the level of the tabletops, Quantrill fired several rounds between table legs where he hoped Sorel would be; in the killing trade, the expression was "for effect." One of the slugs had its effect all right. It shattered the right rear leg of the chair supporting the corpse of Harley Slaughter, and the slug's detonation sent oak splinters flying. Quantrill selected then from between two options. He could drop prone, the aggressive option, and face Felix Sorel in a forest of spindly table legs. Or he could opt for the prudent move and vault atop a table for a commanding view and a better field of fire.

  Prudence won; Quantrill's leap carried him atop the nearest unoccupied table. But the hangover won, too; he missed his footing and rolled onto his side, cups and plates scattering, the table teetering but remaining upright. At that point, a burst of firing from Sorel's vicinity said that he was still doing business. The woman gave a choking cry and staggered to the side, flinging her gun hand out as she fell toward Quantrill. At the moment, Quantrill was her only hope, and the savagery of her luck was that, in falling, she caught him across the bridge of the nose with the barrel of her pistol.

  Lying on his back, Felix Sorel could see the trousered legs of Marianne Placidas from under the table. Something was happening to his left with the little brick agent, but "Coulter" had shown no deadly potential on the previous day, and the Placidas bitch was already firing in his direction. First things first: he tucked his legs, spreading them enough to fire twice from between them, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman's right leg buckle as he thrust upward with both feet beneath the near side of the tabletop.

  But before he could bring the table crashing over, Sorel was distracted by several thin, sharp reports, one near his head. He felt the peppering of wood and tiny metal fragments from the Chiller against the side of his face, then realized that the body of Harley Slaughter was collapsing on him. He flailed his left arm hard to deflect the corpse, using the impetus to continue in a back shoulder roll.

  Lufo's blade was locked and in flight as the table flipped over, its blade sinking into the oak, pinning the tablecloth in place. His only other weapon was the heavy oak chair he grabbed as he ducked, it might do as a shield until he could tip another table over. He saw Ted Quantrill cut loose against Longo, saw the effects of Sorel's shots as the woman screamed and staggered to her right. Lufo began to swing the chair — it was a heavy devil, and he was out of shape — and then saw Quantrill's head snap hard against the tabletop, pistol-whipped by sheer accident.

  Lufo had not been recruited into T Section for nothing all those years ago. He could reassess a problem as quickly as anyone, and his reflexes had once been almost as fas
t as Quantrill's. He continued the swing of that heavy chair and, instead of hurling it directly at Sorel, tossed it in a high spinning arc before he dived for the revolver poking out of Clyde Longo's boot top. A large object tumbling in a high arc tends to draw attention for a crucial second or so.

  Sorel saw the chair coming as he bounced to his feet near the wall; sidestepped; saw Quantrill stunned on the tabletop and partly hidden by the woman. He fired at the only person who was in furious motion. The parabellum slug tore into Lufo's left pectoral muscle, was deflected by the high second rib, and exited after cutting a shallow trench to the sternum. Sorel skipped to one side, turned his attention to Quantrill, who had struggled to one elbow, blinking his eyes, and then realized that Marianne Placidas was again staring at him down the barrel of her little automatic. Who would have thought the bitch had so much vitality? He made a feint, then jerked back, and her next round buried itself in the wall.

  Sorel fired while diving away, a throwaway shot intended to upset her aim more than anything else. Marianne Placidas spun and sat down hard on the floor, shot through the right bicep, her little weapon clattering onto the table near Quantrill's head. Ted Quantrill saw through watering eyes that his target was scrambling on all fours through the kitchen service entrance. While blinking furiously, he took a groggy sort of aim and fired a full-auto burst. One round carved a grazing welt across Sorel's back before detonating against the swinging door. For the next few seconds, Quantrill could estimate Sorel's success from the wild uproar of shouts, footsteps, and crashing of metal pans that receded through the kitchen.

  Rolling from the table. Quantrill sprinted for the kitchen, went through the swinging door in a fast duck walk, bobbed up, and then stayed up, leaning against the doorframe. The shouts of alarm were now coming from the dusty street outside. Cursing himself, he reseated the Chiller and pushed back into the dining hall. Then he raised his hands. He was facing a very nervous fellow with a security star and an enormous Buntline Special.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Because most security cops knew a Chiller when they saw one, Quantrill had little difficulty making his needs understood. A federal "brick," or undercover field agent, often carried no ID beyond a Chiller, and a few even operated without that. Shaking his head to clear it now and then, mopping away runnels of blood from his nose with a borrowed bandanna, Quantrill sought to patch up the mess he had made. It didn't help that he had to ignore the troubles of Lufo and the woman.

  "We've got casualties here, so I hope there's a chopper on the way."

  "On the bounce," said the Buntline man, who had the look of a retired beat cop.

  "I need two things right now. or there may be some innocent people killed. Get me a good high-gain VHP set, and throw up a cordon around Faro. Nobody, but NObody, gets out unless I see them first. Felix Sorel is armed and extremely dangerous, and I'm calling for as much expert backup as I can get."

  Mr. Buntline hurried out of the room. A waitress was sitting cross-legged with Marianne Placidas's head in her lap, comforting her and thumbing a pressure point in her armpit. "Be sure you release the pressure now and then," he cautioned, and knelt beside Lufo Albeniz.

  The TexMex sat with his back against the overturned table. He had torn his shirt open and was trying to make a pressure bandage of a napkin with his right hand. Now he looked up at his old friend. "Jus' like old times," he said.

  "Not quite. Is it the big one? Let me see."

  Lufo showed him. "The best kind, compadre. One slug, two holes. Listen, you don' believe that stuff about San Antonio Rose. Right?"

  "I know you match a detailed description, you dumb shit. I just never thought about you fitting it. But I'm betting Street didn't send you, so…" Quantrill sighed; placed a hand on the big man's good shoulder. "Thank God you never could stay on one side for long. You helped. Thanks."

  "I was dead slow, Ted. I think I let that crazy woman follow me here. Whatever I had in this business, it's gone."

  "That's not all you've lost. Lufo—why?"

  Lufo shifted for more comfort and managed a crooked smile. "To get ahead. It's not easy when you have wives and kids on both sides of the border, hijo."

  "You'll have years to think on that when you're inside, looking out."

  "An" my kids callin' other guys 'papa'? You know I can't think about that. Drive me loco."

  "You were loco to fuck around with the likes of Sorel," Quantrill said.

  "Yeah. Compadre, you remember when I hauled your drowned ass outa that tunnel, about a thousan' years ago?" He waited; got only a grunt of assent. "You tol' me after that, if I ever wanted a favor, jus' ask. Well, I never asked. I'm askin' now."

  "For what?" As if they didn't both know.

  "For Mexico." He closed his eyes as he said it, drawing the word out softly, "May-zhee-coe," as a child might drawl its mother's name. "I won' come back. I'm not that stupid."

  After a long moment Quantrill said, "Could you make it the way you are?"

  "Never," said Lufo, rolling his eyes upward. "I swear on the honor of Anglos." The crinkles above lean cheekbones said he was not to be taken seriously.

  Shaking his head, trying not to grin, Quantrill stood up and spoke so the waitress could hear. "For the record, Lufo, I can't let you go. And I'm absolutely certain you're hurt too bad to light a shuck on your own. There'll be a chopper for you any minute, and I have a job to do." Pause: "Any idea where Sorel will go to ground?"

  "He was waitin' for the delta. Could go anywhere now." As Quantrill started for the doorway, Lufo added, "Listen, compadre, you wait for backups. You know how good you were in ninety-six? That's how good he is, I shit you not."

  "I know," said Quantrill. and turned away. From the tail of his eye he saw the big TexMex already struggling to his feet.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Quantrill was patched in to Jim Street's personal circuit within two minutes, holding the VHP earpiece in place. He stood on the outside porch with a man named Bonner, the head of Long Branch security, at his side, in rapid conversation with Bonner until the Gov came on-line. The old man was not pleased with what he heard, and said so. Quantrill knew that the best excuse was none at all.

  "Yessir, I blew it. His two cimarrones are ready for body bags, but Sorel's running loose out here." A pause., "They were wearing good cosmetic cover, that's how. I should have made them anyway. I didn't. One of 'em was Harley Slaughter; the other one… I dunno; from his phenotype, could be Clyde Longo without the beard. Prints will tell you; they're not going anywhere." He said nothing about the woman and especially not about Lufo, who might indeed be going somewhere. Just how he might do it, in a town looking for a Mexican fugitive, was beyond guessing.

  After another pause: "Two civilian casualties, maybe more if you don't get some people here with flak jackets. WCS security's tossing a net around Faro, but you never know, he could get to the airstrip over the hill. You might send mass and motion sensors with the teams. Divert any flights here, especially that delta. He was waiting for it."

  After another pause: "I wouldn't, Gov. Bringing a SWAT team in on a delta would be like building a barricade with sticks of dynamite… Beg pardon?… Oh; because they fill delta dirigibles with hydrogen these days. One round into a gas cell and it's a Hindenburg barbecue. Just send lots of backup, with intruder sensors, and hope I can whack Sorel before they get here." Another pause. Whatever Street was saying now, the little brick agent wasn't enjoying it.

  Now a vein throbbed at his temple. He started to speak twice before, "Jesus Christ, you know I can't do that." he exploded, and paused again. "All right. Yessir. hands off until then. But if he starts offing more civilians in the meantime, Gov, I'm back to Job One, right? Isn't that what I'm for?" He nodded in glum satisfaction. "Yessir. I could use one. I take a size forty-two… Goddammit. I said I would! Can't you take 'yes' for an answer — sir?"

  He flicked off the toggle, handed the VHP set to the security man. hooked thumbs into belt loops, and gazed down th
e deserted streets. "Direct from the attorney general, you can verify if you like." he said. "There'll be three sprint chopper loads of tough meat here in a couple of hours, wearing flak jackets. Until then, nobody leaves here at all. And we don't challenge Felix Sorel; we box him up if we can. No facedowns until the place is crawling with feds carrying intruder sensors. Unless he starts taking out civilians first."

  The security chief had spent twenty years in a Houston homicide detail, and men in that business tended to recall the name of Ted Quantrill. "And you hope he does?"

  "No, I don't," in a flash of irritation. "I don't want some tourist on a slab just so I can slip my leash." Quantrill realized it was true only after he said it, and felt a sense of loss. "You've alerted the people over the hill?"

  "Sure, for all the good it did. Bunch of pussies at the Hilton and the New Driskill, all the good men are here in Faro. I've called for recon flights from the airstrip. They only fire little tracer blanks, but at least they're eyes in the sky. Here," he added, thrusting an old-fashioned tin star in Quantrill's direction, smiling grimly. "Might keep one of our guys from nailing you by mistake."

  Quantrill pinned on the star. It was just one more thing he should have thought of himself. Just as well that Jim Street had put him in a holding pattern; he was definitely not up to mono a mono against Sorel in this condition. Maybe not ever, in any condition. He should have known the previous day, watching Sorel operate in that saloonful of androids.

  An echo stuttered from storefronts with the popping of a far-distant firecracker somewhere on the prairie. Then more of the same. Bonner ran into the street, shouted toward the roof: "Where's that coming from?"