He was stumbling ahead of them, one leg almost numb, lurching across the lit compound. Every time he slowed, somebody would give him a hard push, knocking him forward. They herded him past the parade ground toward a small wood-frame building.
The house was painted white with green shutters; it had a peaked roof and slanting porch. A bright redbrick chimney completed an out-of-place Iowa farmhouse look.
He was dragged and pushed up the steps, then shoved through the front door.
The living room was American Gothic with a turn-of-the-century rocker and quilted chairs. Framed fox-hunting paintings of jumping hounds and horses dressed the walls. The mercenaries shoved him through an oak and glass door into a small, cozy den and pushed him down onto the floor.
"Abajo solamente, no muevesthe guard ordered.
Shane nodded and waited for what would come next.
A few minutes later the tall Hispanic man walked into the room. He had removed the tan suit jacket; in its place was a blue three-quarter-length silk smoking jacket, belted at the waist. He wore sharply pleated tan pants and a white shirt. His bullshit red silk ascot was still peeking out from underneath. "This is not what I wanted. Please, will somebody remove those restraints?" he said in perfect American English, but now Shane could also hear something else in his speech. Flat Boston vowels tinged his accent.
The guards either knew what he was saying or had been through this so many times before that they knew what was required of them, because they rushed to Shane, pulled him up, and began clipping the wires.
"Gently, gently," Santander said. "We're civilized men; let's try to behave that way." He smiled at Shane as wire cutters snipped the restraints on his wrists.
"Perhaps the armchair," the white-haired man instructed.
The guards led Shane to the chair and motioned for him to sit, then backed off a short distance, their eyes like those of starving men staring at a steaming meal.
"What happened to Jody and Tremaine?" Shane said. The Hispanic man's smile widened, but he didn't answer. A grandfather clock tick-tocked from the corner of the room, its brass pendulum rhythmically slicing up the minutes.
"They are doing just fine," the white-haired man finally responded. "As will you. But first we must get to know one another... Chat for a spell. I look forward to my all-too-infrequent civilized visitors."
"I'd like to believe that, Colonel."
"You should." He smiled. "You see, living out here in the desert, I don't have much opportunity to talk to men who have opinions formed by Western culture or world literature. These men are uneducated." He motioned to the four armed celadores. "They can endlessly discuss sex or the Old Testament, but as a steady diet, even those worthwhile subjects can become pretty stale."
"So you are a colonel, then." Shane's words seemed to surprise him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I called you Colonel, you didn't correct me."
He smiled slowly. "And what do you think that proves?"
"You're the White Angel?"
He began slowly turning a diamond ring on his index finger. "Since I'm a man who has, on occasion, targeted my enemies with extreme forms of death, I have been given many names: the 'White Angel,' the 'Crow,' and earlier, before my promotion to colonel, 'Captain Death.' Childishly colorful, but quite useful nonetheless, because these names strike fear into my enemies. Fear is a useful currency." He seemed to choose each word with great care, delighting in each syllable, like a man tasting a perfectly seasoned dish.
"You take yourself pretty seriously."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do--and for good reason. What I do affects the politics of nations. If you are a wise man worthy of my interest, you will take what I say seriously as well."
"So what is this little talk really about?"
"Weakness," Santa Cortez said softly, his voice now almost a whisper.
"Yours or mine?" Shane asked.
"It will be a shared experience." An evil shine came into his eyes, a penetrating madness that Shane didn't like at all.
"How so?"
"This is hard for a man such as myself to admit... But my weakness has defined me since adolescence. At first it frightened me, even sickened me, because I couldn't control or understand it. Later, I saw it for what it really was and began to take a measure of strength from it."
Shane was beginning to dread what he was about to hear.
"It started when I was a child. I would, on occasion, catch and set fire to a neighborhood pet--a cat or a small dog. I had an uncontrollable urge to administer pain... To watch an animal die painfully... To put my hands on it as it passed over the threshold, to feel it convulse... Take its final breath. It was as close to a feeling of love as I have ever been able to experience.
"My father eventually caught me. He was an admiral in the Argentine navy, a man of strict discipline and rules. He took me to a doctor, who said I had a disassociative, psychotic disorder. So I was sent to Boston, to a clinic, where I lived until college. In America I learned about democratic principles. I learned to love freedom and a constitutional government. After I returned to Argentina, I chose to fight for democracy in my own country-- to drive the Marxist dictators out of power. As an American, I'm sure you share my hatred of left-wing governments. I fought Marxist thieves in my country, but since my conviction for political murder, I have had to fight them from my neighbor state, Colombia. So you see, I am a freedom fighter much like your own Founding Fathers. I have deep-seated political beliefs, but underneath, I still have my deadly cravings. Pain and death seem to nourish me, so I have made this childhood weakness a political strength."
"You kill people--torture them."
"My violence is labeled madness. Fear is my Trojan horse. My enemies ingest it, absorbing it inside them, where it then spreads and weakens them."
"Why are we sitting in Aunt Bea's den, discussing this? I can't absolve you, and you can't change."
"I find my excitement is magnified when I take the time to interact with my targets."
"So, we're talking about my torture?"
"We are."
"Maybe you and I can make a deal," Shane said as fear suddenly swept through him.
The White Angel smiled, gently touching the longish hair at his temples, brushing it carefully behind his ear with his fingers. "You were saying?"
"I have a million dollars in a bank in Aruba. I'd be willing to arrange a wire transfer. You need funds to fight your war. I can help you."
"Ahh, I see. So you have money to negotiate for your safety?"
"A million U. S. dollars, in cash, to turn me and Tremaine loose."
"And how would this transaction be accomplished?"
"Because of the escrow instructions, it has to be done in person. You, and one or two of your celadores, come back to Aruba with me. We contact Sandy Mantoor, his bank releases the funds, then I turn them over to you. Once you take delivery, you can wire the money to any bank in the world."
"I see." He put a hand up to his delicate mouth. "I'm disappointed you didn't start with your best offer," he said softly. "I know you have much more than that. But you see, Sergeant, it really doesn't matter, because I have already made an acceptable arrangement with Mr. Dean."
"With Jody!"
"You thought he was dead, and he would have been--just like you and the Negro. But Mr. Dean had ten million in kidnap insurance. We concluded a transaction with his insurance company an hour ago. The funds were transferred when I turned him loose. You'll have to admit, it's much cleaner than trying to go to Aruba and deal with that criminal Mantoor family, take a chance on being captured on foreign soil, sold to my Marxist enemies for cash. I put nothing past the Mantoors. So... Thank you, but I must decline your offer."
"Jody paid you?"
"Worse. He also contracted me to kill you and Mr. Lane." He smiled at Shane. "So, like the cat who has cornered his mouse, I can play with both of you for hours, bat you around, watch you try and get away, maybe put a paw on your
tail, chew your head and ears, listen to you squeak. Then slowly you will become tired; shock will numb your nervous system. You will have no fight left, and like the cat, I will become angry with you for not playing. In retaliation, I will make your end... Well... Interesting." He smiled again, and Shane couldn't help noticing that this time the smile was warm, almost as if the White Angel had developed true affection for him.
Then Santander Cortez moved to the window and looked out at the lit compound. "The Negro didn't hold up as well as I would have thought. Sometimes men surprise me... Strength of will is a unique and rare quality."
"Where is he?"
"I'll show you...." He turned to the celadores. "Afuera al Negro, andele."
The guards quickly moved to Shane, yanked him to his feet, and led him out the back door of the house and across the compound.
They went through a locked gate and were soon off the base, moving across the desert. The cold night air lessened the stench of the surrounding town, but it was still there, lingering stubbornly.
Shane didn't know where they were heading or what horrors were in store for him.
Then he saw Tremaine, lit by the light of a portable generator.
He was tied to a chain-link fence, bleeding from a hundred cuts, his head down on his chest, vomit puddling at his feet. Enormous strips of his skin had been removed.
"You son of a bitch," Shane said softly, the spectacle taking his breath away.
"Not a pretty sight, I admit, but fun while it lasted." Santander paused to let the moment sink in. "And there are hidden benefits: these guards will tell the story--how I skinned the pobre Negro, cutting him in slices while he screamed, finding ecstasy in his agony. The story will grow with each telling. The Trojan horse of my legend of terror will be dragged into the depths of my Marxist enemies and fester in their imaginations: win-win."
Shane moved on rubbery legs toward Tremaine. He could barely believe the human wreckage in front of him. Then the destroyed man coughed, and blood ran out of Tremaine's mouth.
"Shit! He's still alive," Shane murmured.
"Go ahead. Get a good look," Cortez whispered. "Ask him how he liked it."
As Shane moved closer to Tremaine, he heard a gasp or a rattle, or maybe it was a whisper. He was close enough to see that Tremaine's right eye was wide open, staring at him, disembodied. Then he heard the rattling sound again, followed by a cough and a sigh. He thought Tremaine was trying to tell him something.
"What?" Shane asked, his own voice a croak. "What is it?"
Shane's left thigh throbbed, so he used his right knee to kneel. He got as close as he could until his ear was next to Tremaine's shattered mouth.
Then he heard the noise again... A weak stirring of sounds against a rush of exhaled air. "Werrrr.. . Riigghh..." Tremaine breathed softly into his ear.
Shane watched as Tremaine's lips trembled.
"Sheee..." the black man said, and coughed up more blood.
"What?" Shane whispered. "She?" "Ifffff..."
"If?" Shane asked.
Tremaine Lane let out what air was left inside him like a long pensive sigh of exasperation. Then his head dropped, and Shane knew he was gone.
Suddenly Shane knew what he had been trying to say.
She... If... Sheriff.
Tremaine Lane was working undercover.
Chapter 46.
THE SOLEMN PROMISE
SHANE WAS YANKED to his feet and pushed toward the floodlit fence, which had been securely anchored in concrete. He was held firmly by two celadores as Tremaine's dead body was unwired, then slumped to the ground at Shane's feet.
"Next/' Santander said, smiling slightly.
Shane was turned and pushed up against the fence. One of the celadores began to wire his right wrist to the top rail as the other one grabbed his left and did the same. The White Angel unsnapped a leather box he had been carrying. When Cortez opened it, Shane could see surgical scalpels mounted on blue velvet. They glittered ominously in the generator's harsh light.
"I think, to start, perhaps the number-three handle with a four-four size-ten blade. It makes a nice, shallow three-millimeter cut." Santander picked a long, bent, chrome-handled instrument out of the case, reached in with his fingers, and selected a small curved blade, then snapped it onto the end, tightening it with the set screw. "I am sorry that I am forgoing normal surgical sterilization techniques. I used to scrub for the fun of it, but it was really just foreplay, because you'll be long gone before any infection could set in."
"Knock yourself out," Shane murmured as the White Angel moved forward, holding the scalpel delicately between his thumb and forefinger. "We'll need to get that shirt off." Santa turned and barked the order. "La camisa!" One of the celadores ripped Shane's shirt. Then the White Angel stepped forward and placed the tip of the scalpel under Shane's nipple. He pressed lightly, and Shane felt the blade pierce his skin.
"Is this not a feeling close to ecstasy?" Cortez said, his voice turning husky with sexual passion.
Shane spit in his face.
Out of nowhere, gunfire erupted on all sides of them. Shane spun his head in time to see half a dozen separate muzzle flashes in the desert. All four celadores standing near him went down quickly, riddled with bullets. Immediately, Santander Cortez fell, blood spurting out of a huge hole in his neck.
Shane heard orders shouted in Spanish and saw movement at the edge of his vision. Then twenty men dressed in faded khaki ran toward him while reloading and firing their auto-mags.
He heard Alexa scream, "Not him! Don't shoot! Not him!"
He thought he saw Luis Rosario, in his porkpie hat, also yelling in Spanish.
Seconds later, hands were pulling at his wrists, untwisting the wire. He fell, with his wounded leg buckling under him. Then Shane was on his back, looking up into Alexa's blue eyes, her hand cradling his head as he lay in the sand. Jo-Jo Knight appeared over her shoulder, a smoking Uzi clutched in his fist.
"Ahh, damn... Lookit you," Alexa said sadly, studying his beaten face. "I can't leave you alone for a minute."
He forced a weak smile just as more automatic weapons cut loose. Soldiers standing near him were now being cut down by a vicious barrage of machine-gun fire coming from the direction of the garrison. The troops around him dove into a shallow wash, proned out, then began returning fire. Jo-Jo Knight and Luis Rosario grabbed Shane.
"Let's get this gringo outta here," Rosario said. They lifted him quickly and began carrying him as best they could away from the fire-fight.
Alexa spun and emptied a 9-millimeter clip in the direction of the fort, trying to set up some cover fire but at the same time exposing herself dangerously. Miraculously, she wasn't hit. They began moving across the uneven desert terrain, stumbling in the dark, Rosario and Knight half-carrying, half-yanking Shane along, dragging him like a sack of vegetables.
"Will you guys put me down? I can walk!" he yelled as Rosario and Knight, each supporting a side, kept running until they were a safe distance away, then stopped to help Shane get his feet under him. Alexa pushed the eject button on her Astra, dropped the empty clip onto the sand at her feet, then slammed in a new one. They kept moving, but more slowly now, Shane struggling to keep his leg working under him until they finally came to an old English lorry with primered fenders parked by the road with several other army surplus trucks.
"Let's take this one," Rosario said. They helped Shane onto the back of the truck while Jo-Jo Knight got behind the wheel. He turned a switch on the dash, which substituted for an ignition key on most military vehicles. The engine started.
Alexa and Luis jumped up on the back of the flatbed next to Shane.
"Roll it!" she yelled.
The lorry rumbled across the desert, past three or four other deserted military vehicles. They could hear the sounds of the fire-fight receding behind them.
"Who were those guys?" Shane asked.
"Marxist rebels," Alexa said. When Shane looked surprised, she added: "We take hel
p wherever we find it."
Soon they were back on the dirt road, heading out of Maicao. The old English lorry creaked and groaned and bounced through potholes. A few miles farther they hit pavement. The heavy sand tires vibrated on the two-lane concrete road that announced the beginning of Maicao's unconventional airport.
Shane saw a small blue and white Citation jet with U. S. tail markings taxiing on the ground near them, already turning around, and readying itself for takeoff. The lorry swung under the starboard wing and stopped.
Somehow, they got Shane out of the back, carrying and dragging him to the waiting plane.
"Will you guys let go of me?" he demanded. They ignored his request and pushed him roughly up the ladder into the jet.
"Okay, 'Darker Than Me,' let's do this dust off," Rosario said to Jo-Jo Knight, who was pulling the Citation's cabin door closed behind them.
Almost before the door was latched, the jet was rolling. They hurtled down the poorly lit runway, engines screaming to rotation speed, and then the small executive jet lifted off the tarmac. The strange, six-lane runway fell away beneath them as the government pilot banked right, heading north toward the Caribbean Sea fifteen miles away.
"Thank God you found me," Shane said.
Alexa grinned. "I told you that pill would locate you within a meter." Shane smiled and took her hand.
"We found out from a CIA internal briefing in Washington that this garrison was being used to billet a right-wing Colombian death squad, commanded by an ex--Argentine colonel named Raphael Aziz," Alexa continued.
"Aziz?" he said. "Is he the White Angel?"
She nodded. "We knew from the satellite tracking that you were on that base. Rosario has some very interesting contacts. He got us hooked up with that band of Marxist guerrillas through a drug source he has in Medellin. So we made a deal with Aziz's guerrilla enemies, who were already near here. They agreed to give us some backup in return for finding out where Colonel Aziz was. We surrounded the place, but before we could move, out you came."
the Viking Funeral (2001) Page 25