“There’s more than one way of driving it.”
“What? If you’ve an idea worth sharing, now’s definitely the time.”
David responded by pointed straight up at the huge, overhead crane high above them. Following with his eyes, Torres’ baffled expression slowly evolved into an appreciative smile of understanding.
“Son of a bitch!” he said.
The door into the long, blocked off section wasn’t Pilar’s first choice. Not by a long shot. Not even close! In point of Fact, it was simply the nearest refuge that presented itself after she bolted away from Kurtz, only to then run straight into a scene of explosive gunfire. The pulsing wail of the alarm bell only heightened her sense of panic as she pulled the door shut behind her. Momentarily frozen on the inside, she now wondered if her mind had just played a perverse trick on her. Was it merely her frantic imagination, she wondered, or had someone actually shouted the name Manning as she was running?
Please, please, God—let it be so! What else could possibly explain all the chaos going on outside? She felt her adrenalin kick in even stronger. Now what? If this is true, then what can I do to—?
When she turned around, however, Pilar’s hopes of somehow helping the situation plunged dramatically. Save for a large, closed overhead door visible at the back end, the only entrance or exit was the one at her back—and between her and the far wall was a double row of huge steel pallets, each overflowing with a breathtaking array of golden artifacts. Virtually tons of it! Though briefly stunned by this unbelievable sight, its gleaming presence rapidly paled to insignificance as the cold realization of being trapped overwhelmed her.
Worse, she now saw she wasn’t alone.
Not twenty feet away, two thin, balding men stood cautiously watching her from across a heavy wooden table—and by their startled faces both seemed to be more threatened by her appearance than she was of theirs. Before them was an array of weighing scales, plus what appeared to be a stack of gold ingots. Neither of the two showed any inclination to confront her. If anything, they looked on the verge of themselves taking shelter beneath the table.
She could think of nothing to do except hurry down the length of the enclosure and conceal herself behind one of the higher pallets, knowing even as she did so that this would ultimately prove futile. If an armed Kurtz managed to get in, then it would all be quickly over.
Even as she choked back her fears, her pursuer lunged through the door. In his right hand was a revolver, his left palm pressing against a spreading stain of blood seeping from his side. After catching his breath, he then glared at the two men, demanding, “Where is the bitch?”
Without speaking, both nervously pointed in her direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Marino ejected the fourth empty clip from his Beretta 93R machine pistol and inserted another. As he did so, it surprised him to see Manning unexpectedly use this brief respite to dart out from behind the forklift and retrieve the dangling controls for the overhead crane. Too late to prevent this, he again strafed the vehicle. But Manning was already again out of sight.
What the hell was he up to?
Finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate above the din, he first glanced at Ruiz crouched uselessly behind the office desk and then across to the wounded man still concealed within the block cubicle over by the east wall delivery entrance. As much in frustration as anger, he shouted, “For chrissakes, Hogan—turn off that damn alarm!”
When the irritating distraction ceased, he gave his attention back to the forklift, trying to deduce what his unpredictable adversary was planning. The speculation didn’t take long. Manning’s intention became crystal clear as the sound of the crane’s 30hp electrical motor suddenly kicked on high overhead. Moments later, its two thick cables began slowly lowering a substantial pulley—and suspended directly beneath it was a large, steel hook.
Oh, shit! he realized. The massive crane-way ran the entire length of the building—straight toward his office! If Manning managed to get that forklift off the floor and moving—
The crane had to be disabled!
It didn’t escape David’s notice that Marino now concentrated his firepower on the heavy-duty electrical motor high up on the crane. Fortunately, he’d no clear shot, the bullets deflecting off the underside of the thick mounting plate and brackets.
Nor did the change in tactics escape Torres’ attention.
“The bastard is on to us,” he said as he helped David snap the forged steel hook over the closer of two, three-inch pipes that served to frame the forklift’s cab. Formed into two upside down U-shapes, both ended in welded square plates which were in turn attached to the machine’s main body by heavy bolts. Spaced parallel and roughly four feet apart, a perforated steel plate joined them together, forming a protective roof over the driver.
The problem was none of this was designed—nor ever intended—to lift and carry the forklift’s weight.
But there was no other option to secure the hook.
A dubious Torres watched as David worked the hanging control box, starting the hook’s steady rise.
“Think it will hold?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
As both men feared, the results weren’t quite as hoped. Just as it appeared the guard frame might actually take the full weight, one of the four pads jerked free, the bolts stripped of their threads under the gathering strain. Though the other three still held, they were now highly questionable, at best. Raising the vehicle completely off the concrete floor didn’t seem in the cards.
“Any more and the entire cab will rip off. We’re screwed!”
David didn’t believe so.
He placed both hands on the forklift’s tilted frame and applied pressure. No surprise, it wobbled with very little effort—not quite airborne, yet nevertheless damned close. The bulk of its weight was already suspended.
But would this be enough?
He forced himself to think positive.
“Slightly different plan,” he said, again grabbing the control box. “Maybe not quite as effective, Russ, but it should still do the trick. Besides, we’re running out of time.”
“Meaning—?”
“If it holds together, we’ll use the crane to drag it straight into the office. The result should be much the same.” He assisted Torres onto the driver’s ‘step-up’, careful not to bump his wounded leg. “Keep low and hang on,” he instructed. “Though we’ve seen no evidence so far, that helicopter outside implies Marino isn’t alone in there.”
“Maybe the head-honcho, himself? That Ruiz fellow Ted found?”
“Most likely.”
As both men knew, if this worked it was going to happen fast, calling for complete trust and teamwork. Each understood the critical importance of his assignment. Also the danger involved.
The trick was to keep Marino pinned down right up to the moment of impact—or at least as near as possible. When he became desperate enough, he’d doubtless try escaping before the forklift struck. Considering the machine’s size, it seemed the most likely scenario. If so, Torres would be ready and best situated to nail him, knowing that at this critical point David wouldn’t be in any position to assist. Once they got the forklift that close, his task was to first take out Hogan, then go immediately after Pilar.
“You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
David depressed and held the ‘Forward’ button on the control box, partially riding the machine alongside Torres as the powerful crane performed as expected. Proving itself more than adequate to the job, it dragged the heavy forklift without hesitation toward the office some fifty feet dead ahead. If anything, it actually gained speed, steadily building momentum as it advanced.
Not unexpected, a frantic onslaught of bullets began to ricochet off the cab’s metal tubing and grill-work only inches above their heads—though not so many as to prevent them from picking their spots and returning fire. As they’d previously agreed, in the final seconds D
avid transferred the control box to the waiting hand of Torres and rolled free.
Directly to his right, a shocked and confused Hogan was now visible standing by his block cubicle twenty feet away, unsure just at what—or at whom—he should be shooting. Seeing David crouched on one knee facing him, he raised his revolver and took aim.
This brief vacillation cost him his life.
Two shots from David’s Glock 19 struck him square in the chest, throwing him back off his feet. As a result, he neither saw nor heard the shattering collision of the forklift into Marino’s office that followed an instant later, for he was already dead as he slumped to the concrete floor.
An exhausted Pilar came close to accepting her impending death as a limping Kurtz came straight at her, his revolver poised, his rage-filled eyes staring out from his recently bloodied face. She was clearly trapped, hopelessly cornered with no place to run. But as what should’ve been her final seconds of life elapsed, something odd became apparent to her. Even though she was obviously now a helpless target, no bullets were fired.
The question became—why not?
Then it hit her, the sudden realization that this depraved creature had no intention of killing her. At least not here and now! For God only knew what reason he wanted—needed—her kept alive!
Yet this epiphany arrived a split second too late.
Before this knowledge become a usable weapon to delay re-capture, Kurtz lunged forward with his bloody left hand and grabbed her long hair. Twisting her head back, he then jammed the barrel of his revolver hard into her temple as he pulled her close. With their eyes now only inches apart, she saw the depths of hatred that lay within—plus the unmistakable lust for vengeance from someone not accustomed to being thwarted.
“Believe me,” he growled, “you’re going to pay dearly for all you’ve done. When this is over, I’m going to enjoy making you scream for the release of death.”
A loud crashing sound from outside now distracted Kurtz, providing Pilar the opportunity she wanted. She knew she’d nothing to lose. Aware that the bullet wound in his blood-drenched side was no longer protected, she surprised him yet again by jamming her fingers deep into the exposed opening. A wave of acute pain swept over his blunt features, followed almost immediately by one of uncontrollable rage. Infuriated, he drew back his right hand and smashed his revolver across her face, driving her to the floor.
Glaring down at her, his next intention became a moot point, for the door now burst open and he instinctively swung his weapon around—only to have a bullet rip into his upper abdomen. Shaken, he staggered back, still holding his revolver. What made it finally slip from his hand was the instantly fatal second shot that tore straight into his heart.
David assured himself Pilar was uninjured before lifting her to her feet. Save for the shallow laceration on her temple, she appeared relatively okay—definitely somewhat drawn and ashen from the experience, but otherwise fit.
“Thank God, it’s you, David!” she managed, clinging to him in gratitude. “I prayed so, but couldn’t be certain. Is—is it all over? I still hear shots being—”
Also conscious of the continuing gunfire, he answered, “Not quite yet—but hopefully damn soon.”
Spotting the two older men cowering in obvious fear back to his left, he picked up Kurtz’s revolver and checked the clip. Satisfied it was full, he fired a single round over their heads, forcing them to dive down behind their worktable. Placing the weapon in Pilar’s hand, he said in a voice intentionally loud enough for both men to hear, “If either of them sticks his head up—go ahead and shoot him. No questions asked.”
He made for the door.
“Promise me you’ll be back?”
“Count on it.”
The damage inflicted by the forklift’s forward momentum on the office was even greater than Torres anticipated, the consequences both positive and negative. Though its destructive impact had the desired effect of exposing Marino within his lair, the force it generated was such that the machine’s overhead guard could no longer sustain the load made upon it. Torn completely free by the crane’s heavy hook, the now twisted canopy of bent metal first jumped upward, then fell back onto him, a section of mounting plate stabbing deep into the thigh of his already wounded leg.
Alerted by an uncontrolled scream of pain, Marino and the man with him apparently saw their opportunity. The office’s eastern wall—one that only moments before had defined half of the hallway leading to the facility’s back entrance—was now likewise shattered and had partially collapsed, providing them escape route. After Marino fired a distracting spray of bullets in Torres’ direction, they both scrambled for the breach.
Despite the waves of agony from his pinned leg, Torres was nevertheless ready and waiting. Concentrating solely on Marino, he steadied his wrist with his left hand and unloaded four controlled shots into the side of the darting figure. All hit their mark, the last entering two inches beneath the man’s right ear, driving a thin jet of blood outward as it exited the opposite side of his neck.
Too late, he saw the second man clamor unscathed out through the opening.
Mere seconds later, David saw Marino inside the rubble, now clearly dead and no longer a threat to anyone. Torres had accomplished what he’d intended—yet paid a price.
Crouching over him, he set his revolver down and slowly eased the jagged piece of metal up and off, watching Torres’ sweat-drenched face grimace in fresh pain as the sharp edge of the plate came free of his thigh. A flow of blood began to pulse out from the opening at an alarming rate, indicating it needed to be quickly staunched. To do this, he unbuckled Torres’ belt and made a tight tourniquet above the wound. It seemed to work.
“Pilar—?”
“She’s fine, Russ. No longer in danger.”
Torres gave a satisfied smile of relief.
Then he abruptly said, “I hoped to nail both of them, yet the fucking head honcho got away. Last I saw, he appeared to be limping. I’ll be fine. There may still be time for you to go after him.” As David rose to do so, he added, “But be careful, my friend. I’m not sure—but I think he might’ve snatched up Marino’s machine pistol on his way out.”
Unable to contain her growing fears for her lover’s safety a moment longer, Camilla threw her sedan into gear and drove over the parking lot curb, the tires squealing on the pavement as she headed straight to intercept the slightly limping figure exiting the back of the facility. That her brother held a large revolver in his hand didn’t hinder her panicked determination to learn what was happening.
Why had absolutely nothing gone as planned?
First there had been the distinctive sound of an alarm bell. Then came uncounted minutes of hearing what could only be interpreted as scarcely muffled gunfire emanating from deep inside—and all of that now followed by a enormous crash only minutes earlier, one so loud it bordered on an explosion.
Slamming on her brakes within feet of her surprised brother, she leaped out and screamed, “Where’s John? Tell me! I have to know he’s all right!”
Ruiz was so baffled to see his distraught sister here, of all places, that for a split second he could only stare, thinking of no sane reason to account for her sudden appearance. What in hell was going on? he wondered. Nothing about this made sense! Were she and Marino somehow linked together without his knowledge? And if so, for what purpose?
The flood of unanswered questions grew exponentially, the distinctly foul smell of betrayal now in the air. Yet he knew unraveling all the fine details would have to wait for a better time. Thus he grabbed Camilla by the arm and began forcefully pulling her toward the helicopter, using his gun hand to wave back the approach of his concerned pilot.
“Fire it up!” he shouted. “Quickly! Quickly!”
She struggled to break free, but to no avail.
“Where’s John?” she repeated. “Is—is he injured back in—”
“He’s dead. You’re coming with me.”
“No, he can
’t be dead!” she cried, even though the assurance in his voice turned her insides cold. “It’s not possible! I want to see with my own—”
“The fool only got what he deserved! If he’d done his job properly, this disaster would never have happened.”
They were almost at the helicopter when Ruiz glanced back at the heavy, steel door, seeing it beginning to open. Wheeling around, he instinctively jerked her closer and let loose with a small barrage from the machine pistol, subconsciously using her body as a protective shield as he backed closer to the now revved-up craft. In the distance was the gathering sound of police sirens—which only made achieving a rapid departure all the more critical.
Forced back into the debris-littered hallway by a sudden pinging of bullets striking metal, David waited for it to cease. When his chance came, he knelt on one knee and pushed the door open, quickly aiming his revolver toward the sound of the helicopter’s whirling blades, hoping for at least one clear shot.
But what he saw negated any opportunity.
Now what?
Inexplicably, Ruiz wasn’t alone. A screaming woman was visibly struggling to escape his clutches. To facilitate dragging her up and into the helicopter, the man struck her hard across the face with Marino’s machine pistol, disabling her enough to accomplish the task.
With no inkling as to who the woman might be, no shot was possible.
Unable to intervene, David could only watch in helpless frustration as the craft then lifted off, becoming airborne. Pivoting as it rose, it swung to the southwest, rapidly gaining speed and altitude.
Escaping back to Mexico?
Apparently so.
David lowered his revolver in abject disappointment as the helicopter retreated into the distance. Where was the justice in this? he wondered—only to have his eyes again drawn skyward by a sudden bright flash followed by a corresponding fireball. Stunned, he watched as entire sections of the burning craft blossomed outward and tumbled to the ground.
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