“Didn’t happen in the city. Shouldn’t happen here. The should be on a different band,” I replied.
“Keep your fucking focus,” Weasel growled. “Within a stone’s throw, we got about two hundred maniacs want to fucking barbecue us.”
I followed the curve of the road to the left, coming to a halt between the library and the hill that led up to the main campus and bringing the truck to a halt, motor still running. Then I executed a three point turn, so that we were facing the hill. Big, ugly, armored, bulldog, truck.
The interference returned to the comm set, this time not as static and garbled words, but an addition to the loop that was Stevie, Weasel and me.
Sarah.
She had somehow saved her comm set. We had pulled within her range. She had to be below ground level for the reception to be so poor.
No matter. She was alive.
“Mac. Mac. Be careful. The Babe is in a state of apoplexy, he wants you so bad.”
Her signal was clear, but her voice was muffled, like she had a mouthful of food.
“Sarah. Sarah,” I screamed it, couldn’t help myself. “Are you all right? Where are you? Tell me where they’re keeping you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Weasel. “You just blew my damn ear drum out, Mac. You’re screaming so loud she can hear you without this fancy gear. Let me do the talking.”
“I love you, Mac. I was afraid you were dead. I tried to help you,” she said. “I stayed outside your tunnel until my ammo was gone, then started clubbing at them with my rifle. There were just too many. They couldn’t find you, so they wanted me alive. Lucky break, huh?”
“Sarah,” Weasel interjected, “we really can’t be talking right now. I’m more thrilled than I can say about you being alive, but we got to move on.”
“Weasel’s right,” she said. “This isn’t the right time for conversation. No more talk.” Then she fired a few questions our way, ignoring her own admonition. “Is everybody all right? Tell me Duke and Merlin are all right. Oh, Mac, I’m so glad you’re safe. Where’s Stevie?”
“Here, Sarah,” he said. “We’re going to get you out of there. Duke and Merlin are a little banged up. But they’ll heal fine.”
Weasel sighed, very audibly, very loudly, very theatrically. “Maybe we should all listen to a few tunes before we get back to business. We haven’t even started yet,” he groused. “You people ready to go to work?”
We all remained quiet, relinquishing control to him.
“Stevie,” he began, “set up where you can cover as much of us as possible with the HK sniper without being seen. I think we’re in a central position here. But if we move, you move.”
“Gotcha,” Stevie replied.
He had the HK and telescopic site as well as 20 five round clips taped back to back in a bellows pocket of his fatigues. In addition to the sniper, he was carrying the Galil SAR, 36 round clips, for close-in work if we needed it.
“Sarah,” Weasel continued, “listen to me, hon. We ain’t got much time, sittin’ here in the middle of Messenger City. We have a plan, but it doesn’t involve getting you out right now—unless you feel we can pull it off. You know a hell of a lot more about this set up than we do.”
“Stick to your plan,” she said. “I’m deep in the basement of one of these old buildings. Can’t tell you which one. Heavily guarded. You’ll never get in and out alive. Plus he’s got the children he kidnapped in this building too. You can’t make an assault. The children would be killed.”
“What can you tell us that’ll help?”
“Here’s the deal,” she said, still muddy sounding.
I interrupted. Had to know what was wrong with her voice. “Sarah, what’s wrong? Your voice sounds weird. You OK?”
“Jaw may be broke,” she said, matter of fact tone to her voice. “Couple of teeth gone. But everything else works fairly well. And, I know what your thinking, Mac. They haven’t raped me. So just stay cool. I want you clear headed.”
Not yet they haven’t, I thought, keeping my rage down, repressing my fear for her. She’s alive I told myself. Only reason we’re here is to keep her that way.
“I promise to maintain a level head,” I told her.
“I’ve been listening to the guards,” she said. “In between lewd comments about my breasts and other prominent anatomical features, they complain about how things are going here at Messenger central. All is not well with the troops. There seems to be some lack of faith in the leadership developing. Between the battle in the city at the Amoco Building and their assault on the compound, the Messengers have lost over a third of their soldiers. When you blew the house, we got nearly 40 of them in one swoop.”
“How can we use this?” Weasel asked.
“I don’t want to hurt Mac’s feelings,” she said. “But he’s no longer The Babe’s main priority.”
“I’ll survive the insult,” I said. “Who replaced me?”
“The truck,” Sarah replied. “His men are whispering that if he gets the truck, it’s worth several hundred men as an offensive weapon. It’s what he needs to get back on schedule. He figures he can pull all the People clans together by possessing the most powerful weapon any of them have ever seen.”
“That’s definitely something we can…”
“Company,” I said, cutting Weasel in mid-sentence.
Four men appeared at the top of the hill. From fifty or sixty meters they appeared big, larger than me, pair of fat boys, two well-muscled. They took a couple of steps apart, then began a slow march down the hill, toward the truck.
I stood on the running board, the truck’s armored door between me and them. They were all combat ready, two with M 16s, one with an Uzi; the fourth had a Skorpion. All had side arms as well. If we got down to it, the Uzi and the Skorpion would be the biggest problems. Not much bigger than a pistol, each could be brought up quickly and release 30 rounds of 9mm or 7.62mm in our direction in less than a second on full auto.
As they approached, I began picking out details, looking for the leader. There would be one, formal or informal, one man bolder than the rest, a man whom the others would expect to be in charge. Three of them had on hand-to-hand gear, Bears and Raiders helmets, pads, tight leather gloves with the fingers cut out. They felt good in it. You could see it in their walk, more like a strut.
The fourth man, second from my right, eschewed the paraphernalia of battle. T-shirt no sleeves, accentuating heavily muscled arms, fatigues, combat boots, 9mm semi-auto in a shoulder rig, Uzi slung just above his right hand, easy to reach. Jewelry was his trademark. Wide gleaming 14k herringbones hung from his neck along with the heaviest diamond cut rope I had ever seen. From his left ear a thick, golden Spanish cross dangled as he walked.
They stopped ten meters from the truck, close enough for me to pick out more details on the leader. A huge gold lion’s head ring with twinkling half carat diamond eyes covered half of the middle finger of his left hand. Rolex on his left wrist. More significant were the tattoos, the crosses on his fingers, indicating he was one of The Babe’s inner council. The left side of his head was shaved. It glistened in the afternoon sun, highlighting the red and black inverted cross tattooed on his naked skull. The hair on the right side was long and black, brushed sideways, hanging at shoulder length.
He nodded toward the white towel, hanging limply behind me. “That mean you surrender, hombre?” he asked. Only half of his mouth moved when he spoke. A huge scar ran from below his left eye, down across his lips, ending at the point of his chin.
His eyes, as did those of his men, scanned the truck, as ugly and pitted as their hearts, looking for chinks in its armor. They found none. Behind me in the gun turret, Weasel’s head would be in view; and the snout of the HK was poking out, pointed, I knew, at our four adversaries.
“Bilingual,” I said. “Very impressive.” It was easy being a wise guy behind an armored door. “No,” I said in response to the leader’s question about the meaning of the towel. “But
if you wish to lay down your arms, we promise to treat you with dignity and respect.”
Through my earpiece, I heard Weasel’s voice. “He’s the man. Watch him close. Got enough gold on him to buy ten cases of M 16s.”
Sarah was monitoring. Her voice came through, whispering urgently. “The man with the jewelry is Cholo, Mac. Watch yourself. He’s very volatile. Really likes to hurt people.”
“Did he hurt you, Sarah?”
“No.” She was lying. First time either of us had done so. She was lousy at it.
“Where’s the dog?” asked Cholo, the one with the jewelry. “Sure like to meet that famous old pooch.”
“Dead,” I said.
“Shame,” he replied. “Our hearts go out to you in your time of mourning.”
“Painful death,” I replied. “Died of food poisoning after he ate part of The Babe’s face.”
Cholo smiled. Half of his face stayed behind. So did his eyes.
“You are very clever, McCall. But we already know that. You are also a pesky little coyote, nipping at the fringes of the wolf pack. The Babe wishes you to be gone…is willing to forgive your transgressions for your word that you will no longer maintain an interest in our affairs…and a few minor concessions.”
“Such as?”
Cholo waved an arm in front of him. “This is such a wide space for us to talk from. You should come down to us, speak with me directly, if you wish negotiate seriously.”
“I’d prefer to talk directly to the fat man.”
“He doesn’t like to be called that,” Cholo replied. “He is resting. It has a been a busy time for us. I am the one you must talk with.”
“You would drop your weapons?” I asked.
“When eagles nest with chickens,” he replied.
“Then I remain up here.”
“Then we must leave,” he said, beginning to back away. “I will tell your slut you were not willing to help her. She is a fine piece, McCall, bountifully endowed. Magnificent tail section. Unfortunately, The Babe will not share. All the men are hard for her.” He grasped his groin, gave it a pull. “Big raging hard-ons. But The Babe is selfish. He has reserved her for himself…when she heals a bit, that is. She is a bit too fragile right now to take such a huge weight.”
“Hold,” I said.
They stopped. A ghost of a smile flicked across Cholo’s face. He had just won a small victory.
I turned to Weasel. “Give me Sarah’s Mossberg.”
He reached down and retrieved the Mossberg, tossed it to me. Late 20th model, it wasn’t a turkey gun. Straight combat, a 12 gage clip fed semi-auto. Sawed down stock and barrel, a canvass sling would put it at a level directly parallel with my arm when it was bent at the elbow. Fourteen shots in the clip, twenty-eight with two taped back to back. If I needed more than two, I would be in trouble.
“Careful,” Weasel warned. “You’re going where he wants you.”
“I know,” I said. “But he thinks I’m willing to talk. He’s not aware that I know he’s here for the truck. They gotta make one try for the truck before they negotiate. That way they get me, you, the truck and still hang on to Sarah.”
“Just blow the bastards away. Then try talking,” Sarah whispered. “Please don’t take any unnecessary chances.”
“Only way to The Babe is through these men, Sarah. If we just mow them down, he’s likely to take it out on you in a knee jerk response. I can’t risk that. If he makes his try and loses, he’ll talk.”
“God, I hate this. I should be there with you.”
“Soon,” I answered and jumped from the running board, began the walk toward the four Messengers.
“Stay to the right,” Weasel said. “The two men on our left are mine. Go for the jewelry store first.”
I nodded, kept on walking.
“Stevie,” Weasel said, “look alive, son. We got a situation here.”
“I’ve been listening,” he replied. “I’m across the tracks. About a hundred meters behind you. Third story window of an apartment building. Got full view of everything. You guys are in the middle.”
When I was within ten feet of the four, I stopped, keeping my hands at my side. Ten feet was what I was looking for. It would give the 12 gage shells a little spread but still maintain their power. Cholo nodded, reached for a pocket on his pants leg. My right hand came up, rested on the breech of the Mossberg.
“Just a long talker, man,” he said, slowly opening the flap of a bellows pocket. “Be cool. Words won’t hurt you. Just tellin’ the man you’re ready to talk to us.”
He spoke one unrecognizable syllable into the device; didn’t wait for a reply. Placing the walkie talkie back in his pocket, he said, “Now we get down to business. I take it you aren’t willing to give us the slit?”
“Mac, Weasel,” Stevie jumped in, “I got five guys high stepping along the tracks, heading your way. I would estimate their intent as less than friendly.”
“Cholo…” I said.
“How you know my name, McCall?”
“It is renowned in the circle of short eyes,” I replied. Baby fuckers.
He tensed up. The scar across his face flared red. “I hope this conversation goes nowhere. I’d like to cut you up a bit.”
Close in, I could see he had a size advantage on me. Inch taller, maybe another twenty pounds. Unlike two of his companions, there was no fat. Right and left of him, his men shifted on their feet, sensing his simmering anger. Their adrenaline would be beginning to flow.
“Cholo, you’ve got five men coming up behind us. Get on your little toy communicator and call them off.”
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, disappeared quickly as he retreated into a lie. “I know nothing of any men. There’s only the four of us here and you and your friend. You must be mistaken.”
I slowly raised my hand, showing two fingers.
“Stevie,” Weasel said. “Take two of ‘em down. If the rest don’t stop, finish it off.”
Two shots shattered the pre-dusk silence. The distinctive cracks of the 7.62 rounds of the HK PSG-1 sniper echoed off the concrete and brick walls of the Wheaton College buildings. The next sound was the squawk of the walkie talkie, followed by a scratchy voice, high volume.
“Andre and Two Toes is down, Cholo,” the box screamed. “What you want we should do next?”
I raised my eyebrows at Cholo and smiled.
His face twisted in fury. His mouth worked to get some words out. His brain didn’t oblige. He settled for a roar of anger, reached up for the Uzi. I sensed a paralysis in his men, a momentary hesitation as their brains cautioned them about responses that could end their lives.
As Cholo’s hand approached the Uzi, mine slipped back two inches on the Mossberg, found the trigger guard. Keeping my eyes on Cholo, charting the progress of his hand to the trigger of the Uzi, I directed my finger into the gap, found the smooth groove, the little curved switch and pressed twice, aiming between Cholo and the man to his left.
At the same time, I heard the sound of a burst from the machine gun on the truck, felt the passage of the bullets as they cut the air inches from my left ear. From the corner of my eye, I caught the motion of the two men Weasel was covering as they were blown back by the impact of the shells.
Cholo was still standing, his back to me now, the impact of the two 12 gage blasts from the Mossberg having spun him half way around. I moved forward, the Mossberg ready, to get a closer look. The other soldier was on the ground, his right side a soupy mess of tattered clothes, blood and unrecognizable internal organs. Cholo was momentarily frozen, shocked into submission by the alacrity of our response and the wounds he had suffered.
The lower half of his left arm was gone. He lifted the shattered appendage, raising it to the level of his eyes, then screamed and turned, the Uzi still clutched in his right hand. He spun clockwise, and I went with the turn, like the kid who taps another on the shoulder and then turns the same way so it appears no one is there.
Cholo ended up facing the truck, looking up at its mass, straight into the barrel of Weasel’s machine gun. Before Weasel could fire, I brought the barrel of the Mossberg down on Cholo’s right wrist, snapping the bone with a loud crack. If he wanted to fire the Uzi now, he would have to use his toes or teeth.
I ripped the shirt from his back, using it as a tourniquet for his left arm. He offered no resistance, though his eyes bore into mine. “Cholo,” I said by way of parting, “I ever run into you again, I’ll take another one of your appendages. You keep it up, and pretty soon you’ll be nothing but a stump. Maybe someday we’ll play softball. You can be third base.”
I reached into his leg pocket and extracted the walkie talkie, then pushed him toward the hill. I wanted him back with the Messengers, wanted them to see him dragging himself up the long hill into their midst—beaten, bloody, hopeless and helpless. It would give them something to think about.
“Jesus,” Sarah whispered from her basement prison, “that was fucking intense. My heart’s thumping like a bird’s.” She paused. “I take it you didn’t believe me about Cholo not hurting me?”
“None of us did,” Weasel said. “He won’t be bothering you anymore, Sarah. Mac, you’re one fucking juggernaut when you get your dander up. Ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
I looked up at him. “Thanks for saving my butt. You too, Stevie. Good work. But we still got work to do. Sarah’s not back yet.” I thumbed the walkie talkie. “Hey, fat man. Cholo’s coming back. He needs a hand. This isn’t getting done til you and me talk face to face. I’m willing to trade the truck for the woman.”
It took him a few seconds to respond. I wondered which way he would play it. He surprised me. He kept his cool.
“McCall,” he replied, “McCall. That Cholo’s a loose cannon. I didn’t order him to throw down on you. I’d be happy to negotiate for the woman. We can do it like this—at a safe distance. No sense in endangering…”
“Face to face,” I shot back. “You’re not down here in five minutes, we’re coming in.”
No way would he call the bluff. His army couldn’t stand up to the truck. His dreams of conquest would be shattered.
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 41