The Devil on Chardonnay

by Ed Baldwin

  Ferreira looked at Boyd, brows furrowed, but said nothing.

  The red truck appeared in front of them as it rounded the corner, wheels spinning. For a moment they stopped, motionless in the middle of the road as the truck approached, picking up speed. Boyd could see Constantine’s bulk in the driver’s seat, and the big pistol came out the driver’s side window and pointed his way. He and Ferreira moved simultaneously, running to opposite sides of the road and leaping over the ever present stone fences that bordered the yards there. A shot ricocheted off the fence as Boyd’s body dropped behind it.

  Automatic fire from the passenger side raised dust in the yard of the house on Ferreira’s side of the street as he rolled back into the wall as close as he could. The truck flashed past.

  Boyd popped up his head, weapon at the ready. A bullet smashed into the trunk of a stubby tree in the yard, and Boyd dived back into the dandelions. Constantine fired blindly back at them two more times as the truck fishtailed up the steep hill toward the house. Another burst from the passenger side, better aimed, kept Ferreira pressed against the wall. In a few seconds, it was out of sight.

  “He’ll get out the back way,” Boyd said, standing, holstering his weapon.

  “The frigate will catch him,” Ferreira said, dusting himself off.

  Boyd turned and looked into the open ocean toward the east and Faial, from which the frigate should be coming. No sign of it yet.

  “How fast is one of those tuna boats?”

  “Twenty knots.”

  “How fast is the frigate?”

  “Twenty-five knots.”

  “Can you get word to the frigate not to let anyone come aboard? We don’t want Ebola off this island. If it gets on your frigate, and back to San Miguel, we’ve got another outbreak to cope with.”

  Boyd vaulted over the fence and stood in the road, legs spread, hands on hips.

  Ferreira, looking older, walked to the gate and opened it, pulling it shut behind him and taking care to close the latch. His eyes flicked up at the house on the hill, then back to the road in front of him, but not toward Boyd.

  “I can call Lajes only.”

  “They could call the navy at San Miguel,” Boyd opened the satchel and handed the radio to Ferreira.

  Boyd paced the street looking up at the house and down toward the waterfront while Ferreira made the call.

  “Let’s go down to his warehouse,” Boyd said, trying to sound positive. “If he’s been running guns ,we should be able to get some heavier firepower.”

  “What for?” Ferreira asked suspiciously. “The navy will be here in two hours, he is finished.”

  “What if he comes back down that hill?” Boyd asked, nodding up toward the house.

  “OK.” Ferreira turned toward the waterfront, a crease of a smile on his face. “Good idea.”

  Armed with Kalashnikovs and plenty of ammunition, Ferreira seemed to feel better. He laughed and joked as they walked to the corner where they’d first seen the truck and leaned against the side of the building, trapping Constantine from returning to the town. They could see the house, and whoever was there could see them. Ten minutes passed.

  Boyd heard distant sounds, so faint at first he thought it was coming from up the hill. That sound made his hair stand; it was the drums again, warning. Ferreira was calmly finishing his cigarette. Boyd’s unease grew.

  Ebola was up there, and the pattern was not true if capture was this easy. How could Ferreira know how fast Constantine’s boat was? How come they couldn’t see the frigate? Why had Constantine been content to leave them armed in the town?

  “We’ve got to go up that hill,” Boyd said, stepping out into the street.

  “Why?”

  “This doesn’t add up. Something’s not right. Look, just back me up. We’ll stay off the road, go around the side over there.”

  Boyd started walking up the street, parallel with the waterfront, shielded from the view above by buildings in town.

  To the east, the most direct route, they quickly were blocked by a cliff that could only be scaled by a technical climb. They retreated through the town and around the airfield. The gradual, grassy approach seemed easy, until an hour had passed, and they were still only half way up. It grew steeper.

  Ferreira stopped for a cigarette, winded. Boyd retrieved the binoculars and scanned the horizon to the southeast. The frigate was a tiny dot on the horizon.

  “There’s your navy,” he handed the binoculars to Ferreira.

  Boyd wondered why Constantine was waiting for the frigate. An answer occurred to him that made him reach for the binoculars.

  “How much do you know about tuna boats?” Boyd asked.

  “Not much. I have never been on one.”

  “His boat has two diesel engines. What if he’s faster than your frigate? It comes out here,he heads back to the rest of the islands. If he can get to Pico 10 minutes ahead of the frigate, he’s gone.”

  They started climbing again, passing the carcass of a dead mule drawing flies on the side of the hill.

  The red pickup was still at the house when they dragged themselves up the last few yards of the hill at midafternoon and peeked over the top. It was 10 degrees cooler at the top, and the wind was brisk. The Atlantic was a 360-degree panorama that caused them to pause in appreciation of Constantine’s view. They crouched and moved toward the house. The compound was a fortress, the walls and outbuildings arranged to protect from any incursion along the road. Two satellite dishes and some other antennas indicated a sophisticated communications link.

  Behind the house, the crater dropped steeply 300 feet to a bog at the bottom, the sides covered with brush. They slid a few yards down into the crater, hanging on to the sides to traverse the open area around the pool, and came back up behind a small pool house. The main house was built right on the rim of the volcano and was balanced on the only hundred feet of level ground before the hill dropped off at the front. The water in the swimming pool was pristine, its surface ruffled by the wind.

  Ferreira covered the upstairs windows with his AK-47 as Boyd climbed onto the patio. He covered as Ferreira followed. They traversed a covered walkway and entered the open kitchen door.

  Boyd stopped to take in the kitchen. Though Constantine might be a pirate, snubbing his nose at the world and its rules, in his home he was a traditionalist. There was a brick, built-in, open hearth oven for baking bread, like Boyd had seen in the restaurants he’d visited with Ferreira, and a wood-burning as well as gas stove, with copper and clay pots in all sizes. They walked into the dining room and passed a wrought iron gate, locked, leading to a wine cellar. The dining room table seated 12, and the adjacent living room was huge, looking out at the village below and the Atlantic beyond through large windows. A large stone fireplace with stone mantle carried the traditional motif from the ornate dining room. Religious symbols adorned the walls.

  Radio static and the sound of someone talking could be heard up the stairs. Boyd pointed out the front window. The frigate was in sight, a puff of black smoke behind it serving as an accent and indicating flank speed. Moving into the room, Boyd could see two sentries manning the front of the house, watching the road from town. They had Kalashnikovs at the ready.

  A door slammed in the back, and Boyd and Ferreira retreated into the dining room. A Portuguese seaman walked in from the other side of the stairs and ascended in a hurry. He began talking as he went up. Moments later, he came back down, bearing the two metal suitcases. He returned out the other side of the house in back.

  Boyd heard a faint metallic zing and turned towards Ferreira. No longer hesitant, his eyes were alight, and he held a black commando knife from the sheath on his webbed pistol belt. He moved quickly to the side of the stairs just as the back door slammed again.

  The seaman returned through the back door and turned the corner to climb the stairs. Like a spider grabbing a fly, Ferreira was behind him. One hand clamped across the seaman's mouth and yanked the man’s head back, th
e other slashed the throat and caused a cascade of blood down his chest and onto the tile. The second slash nearly severed the head, and a dying gurgle was muffled as the head dropped down onto the chest as Ferreira let him slump backward to drag him into the darkened dining room from which he had just sprung.

  Boyd gaped at the blood covered tile. Even the walls were sprayed. Ferreira reappeared, alone now, and looked up the stairs, then waved his arm upstairs while pointing his weapon at the front door.

  Taking care not to slip in the already congealing blood, Boyd gingerly walked up the tile stairs. He was relieved when the smell of blood gave way to the smell of new masonry higher up. The barrel of the Kalashnikov was right behind his nose as he crouched and looked around the corner at the top of the stairs.

  Mikki was chained to the wall in the master bedroom, nude, bruised, beautiful.

  She saw him and stood; the chains rattled. Boyd’s head reeled. The iron collar and oversize chain attached to a large iron ring buried in the thick stone wall was right out of a dungeon scene, but the perfectly coiffed hair, thick hand-woven Portuguese rug and ornately carved king-size bed fit into a palatial estate. In the moment they stood facing each other, her nipples puckered. She took a breath, and seemed to grow taller. Her eyes flashed.

  That could only mean someone was about to die. Boyd had begun to turn before he heard the swish and ducked instead. The sword hit the masonry just above his head with a metallic clank. Boyd rolled away from the stair, dropping his rifle. Constantine’s bulk blocked the light from the other end of the hall, where he’d been sitting in a combination office and radio room. He wore a Kevlar vest with the big pistol strapped to his thigh.

  Boyd aimed a kick at the nearest knee and Constantine shifted weight to deflect it. Boyd scooted toward the bedroom, regained his feet and fled headlong toward Mikki, who stood against the wall, lips curled back in an ecstatic grin.

  Boyd fumbled with the snap on the holster of the 9 millimeter automatic. Constantine entered the room and raised the sword above his head. It was a curved Turkish sword, usually seen hanging over mantles for decoration, but this one was sharp, and the similarity to the dream he’d had caused Boyd to freeze in terror. Two steps and the big man was upon him, and death was about to descend.

  There was a burst of automatic weapon fire from the stairs below, and they were all distracted for a moment. Boyd regained some composure, realizing that at least Ferreira had his back. He grabbed a wooden chair from a make-up table to deflect the blow, and when it came the sword whacked out a great sliver from the leg, but the chair held it from Boyd. Constantine dropped the sword and grabbed for Boyd. He still had the pistol but apparently felt this killing should be done bare-handed. They fell backward over a fainting couch into a corner of the bedroom. Constantine was on top, meaty hands around Boyd’s throat. His dark eyes bored into Boyd, his breath was hard and reeking of fish and garlic as his thumbs found Boyd’s windpipe.

  “Ungghuh!” Boyd grunted as he shifted his weight to free his right hand and draw his pistol. Then he remembered that the safety was on and there was no round in the chamber. With one hand, it was useless. Constantine didn’t know that, though.

  Boyd brought it quickly up toward the big Azorean’s head, and just as the periphery of his vision darkened, Constantine let go and grabbed the gun. Boyd struggled as if to fire it, buying time, gasping in precious breath. He glanced over Constantine’s shoulder and saw Mikki at the end of her chain, crouched, straining to get closer, to see him die.

  “Argghh!” The pistol was now the weapon, and Constantine let out a guttural roar as he raised it above his head with both hands to bash Boyd’s brains out on the tile floor.

  Boyd flexed his knee, and his left hand grabbed a knife from an ankle sheath. He’d learned one thing from Wolf: Always have a little something to fall back on in tough times. His arm was still pinned to the floor, but as the pistol descended, he twisted just enough to take the blow on the side of his head and deflect it, and jab the knife into Constantine’s calf.

  “Yeoohh!” Constantine cried out in pain and extended his leg, pulling his calf away from the knife.

  Boyd stabbed him in the thigh.

  Constantine rolled off and pointed the pistol at Boyd, pulling the trigger. There was no round in the chamber. Boyd flicked out a right cross, his best punch this close. The gunshot from a month before had taken the strength and flexibility from the arm, and the punch was slow and ineffectual. Constantine chambered a round. Boyd rotated to the left and kicked Constantine in the chest. Constantine went down backward on his butt but bought up the gun, cocked and ready to fire. Boyd kicked it out of his hands and across the room.

  Several single shots rang out downstairs, then a long burst of automatic fire. Bullets ricocheted off the tile of the stairs and into the plaster wall at the top.

  Constantine stood, grabbing for his big pistol, but the sheer size of it slowed him down long enough for Boyd to come up from the floor with a full force body punch. A month before, that is what had taken the steam out of Wolf, a smaller but more heavily muscled man. This time, it was nothing. The pain in Boyd’s shoulder returned as if he’d been shot again. He stepped back and gave Constantine a left jab to the face.

  Constantine staggered back. The gun came up. Boyd grabbed it with both hands and pushed forward. Constantine fell back on the bed, and Mikki was on Boyd’s back, arms around his neck. No question now where her loyalties were.

  The gun exploded and plaster fell from the ceiling. Mikki’s arms slipped from around his neck, and she stepped back. Constantine’s free left hand began to bash Boyd on the side of his face, while both of Boyd’s wrestled with the right hand, pushing the gun down into the pillows. Two more shots thundered out, filling the room with smoke and feathers.

  “I’m shot,” Mikki moaned from behind.

  Boyd found the trigger and squeezed off three more rounds, then let go of the gun and jumped back, he was gasping for breath and, in spite of the adrenalin, his limbs felt heavy. Constantine jumped up, his eyes diverted to Mikki. Boyd flicked another right. It turned Constantine's head but didn’t stop him.

  Mikki moaned, clutching her side. Blood ran down her thigh.

  Boyd stepped back and ducked a roundhouse right but rose too late to counter and caught a following left. It pushed him back to the door.

  For the first time in his life, Boyd was whipped. He was exhausted from the gunshot a month before, the climb up from Vila Nova da Corvo and now the fight. It was worse than the dream. If he’d had a sword, he wouldn’t have had the strength to drag it, much less swing it. Constantine paused, catching his breath, circling. Now Boyd noticed something else.

  Constantine’s eyes were red, very red. Mikki’s too. She stood, looking at the wound on her left side. It was just at the top of her hip, and appeared to be just a nick. The bruises on her body weren’t from blows. They were blotches like he’d seen on Jacques, irregular at the edges and purplish in the center. He wasn’t just up against a Portuguese pirate and his whore. This was Ebola.

  The breeze blew gauze curtains billowing into the room from French doors that opened to a small balcony overlooking the pristine desolation of the crater and the Atlantic beyond. The swimming pool was off to the side. Boyd took two steps to the window and vaulted over the balcony. Sailing out over the back of the house, he scanned down, looking for a landing site. He’d remembered the brush and the drop-off into the crater, and that’s where he was headed.

  The first bush snapped off and whipped by his face. He couldn’t see anything beyond that as he crashed down the steep hillside. The slope was gradual enough that he hit the ground every few feet, eventually slowing down. He kept his legs crossed and his arms across his face as he was whipped and jabbed and scraped down the hill. Stopped, he slithered under a bush, exhausted, panting, terrified but alive.

  Shots rang out from above as Constantine found his gun and emptied the clip at nothing in particular in the crater. Moments later a
n explosion rocked the house. Boyd was too tired to move. From beneath his bush, he looked up the hill. He heard the back door slam, and the red truck started up and roared down the back road into the crater. Boyd didn’t have the steam to run, and his hiding place wasn’t that good. He pulled himself up the hill to keep the bush between him and the truck, but Constantine had lost interest in Boyd. He spun around the curves, traversed the crater and spun up the road on the other side. In the truck bed were the two aluminum suitcases.

  CHAPTER FIFTY NINE

  Malakal, South Sudan

  “It’s got the turbine nozzle from a GE T700 turboshaft engine off that busted Blackhawk over there, and it’s run by a spare boost pump from a C-130. Jury-rigged, I know, but it’ll pump 10 gallons a minute and spray it into a fine cloud.”

  Ace Digby wiped the grease off his hands onto his coveralls and threw a hose clamp into his tool kit.

  “Flip that switch over there, and it’ll pull out of your auxiliary fuel tank,” he added. “So you don’t get confused and try to run the engines out of the auxiliary tank, I’ve disconnected it from your fuel system. You’re gonna need some help mixing that stuff up in the cramped space here. I should probably rig up another pump so you can just pump the bug spray out of the barrels.”

  “You want to go along on the ride?” Raybon Clive asked hopefully. They stood in the back of the Grumman Albatross in the shade of a hangar in Malakal, South Sudan.

  “Not me,” Digby replied. “I fix 'em, not fly in 'em.”

  “Your country is amazing,” Gen. Oyay Ajak said, stepping off the ramp at the back of the Albatross, agile for his size. “Whenever something must be done, someone who can do it just appears.”

  “I didn’t just appear, general. I’ve been here repairing your Blackhawks for six months,” Digby said, following out of the stifling heat in the back of the Albatross.

  “My country appreciates you Americans and all you can do. I didn’t understand why we needed helicopters, but now here they are, and our pilots have been having a fine time shooting Arabs along the river.”