American Drifter

by Heather Graham

  If a man couldn’t win, it didn’t make sense to carry on a fight. And yet, he felt guilty. People had held silent too often through the years. They had held silent during World War II because they had been afraid; they held silent now, afraid.

  And wasn’t his role here just as …

  Perhaps not bad, but not right either. He was a silent partner in guilt.

  And yet …

  There was also fighting sensibly. With a plan. With Natal, with her at his side, listening to him, giving him her wisdom, he would find a way to attack Tio Amato.

  One in which he could win.

  With that compromise wisely situated in his mind, he sat in the field and allowed himself his great happiness again.

  She was coming with him. Natal was coming with him.

  He stayed there on that farmer’s field watching the sky and feeling the breeze and the touch of the sun. It was setting in the western sky.

  Soon enough, they’d be on the train.

  When River determined to leave, he had no intention of following Natal. He just had to get back into the city.

  He had a plan. He would walk at first—he was afraid of accepting a ride from a stranger who might or might not be associated with the men in the blue suits, or the police. But a friendly farmer he’d seen before—a man with acreage just past Beluga’s place—saw him walking down the dirt road and offered him a ride. He accepted it gratefully.

  He thought about Beluga. Beluga had been a good friend. But River wasn’t leaving here forever. He would see his friend again.

  He regretted leaving Convict. He had rescued the dog; he was responsible for him. Yet, Convict was better off where he was for now. Beluga had quickly fallen in love with him. This was best; Convict would be safe. If something were to happen to River, if he was taken down somehow by the men, Convict had a good home.

  River knew that he would come back; he just didn’t know when.

  He watched the familiar sights as they came into the city.

  They were just inside the limits—where Tio Amato’s massive house took up a block.

  “Here’s fine,” River heard himself say.

  “I take you further,” the farmer offered in his broken English.

  “Obrigado—but here is fine.”

  River hopped out of the truck, thanking the driver sincerely once again.

  Then he stood on the street, staring at the house.

  The gates opened; one of Tio Amato’s black cars slipped out and onto the street. The gate remained open as the mechanism slowly whirred back into action.

  River didn’t mean to do what he did. But suddenly, he was running.

  He slipped through the gate right before it closed. And then, he was in the yard.

  Tio Amato’s yard.

  There might be security cameras—there were certainly alarms. And he still wasn’t sure why he’d done what he had.

  Natal had told him not to come. She had not wanted him to die over the fact that she had suffered a black eye.

  But Tio Amato had killed people. Many people. The man was far more than a bully who gave beautiful fountains to his bairro to look as if he were a kind and generous uncle—he was a killer. He destroyed those who did not bow to his power.

  Natal couldn’t know; she wouldn’t have stayed here if she had known.

  And he couldn’t just close his eyes and pretend that he hadn’t seen what he had seen. He could be guilty of the crime and cruelty of silence.

  Heart racing, River realized that no matter what he had promised her, he was afraid for her. Reed Amato had given her a black eye. God knew what else he might do.

  Because River knew what he had already done.

  The door opened; someone was coming out. River instantly slid back into his military mode, ducking low and creeping close to the wall. Thankfully, hedges and well-manicured plants adorned the place as well.

  From his vantage point close to the porch and the elegant double doors, River could watch the man. He wasn’t wearing a blue suit; he was dressed in black. Black trousers, a black pullover. He was shaking his right hand. River squinted, trying to see why. Then he saw that the man’s knuckles were bloody—he’d hurt his hand.

  That kind of injury meant one thing—he’d hurt himself beating someone.

  River felt something sink to the pit of his stomach.

  Natal!

  No, it couldn’t be. Not even a man like Tio Amato would have someone else beat up on a woman for him.

  Or would he? River had to be sure.

  No, no … not Natal. There was someone else inside. There had to be someone else inside.

  River crept around the house, heading for the back. There were wide doors facing out to the patio and the pool—and then the forest and trees that hedged the back of the property. The doors were open; the curtains blew out past them.

  He heard rapid, angry Portuguese, then a thump and then … a cry. A man’s cry of pain. Someone was being beaten—that was certain now. Some other poor idiot who hadn’t paid the price that Amato had demanded of him.

  At least it wasn’t Natal.

  Still …

  River looked through the blowing curtains, into the house. Amato was there. He sat casually in a chair, studying his manicured nails. River frowned; it appeared that he had a bandage on the side of his face.

  Another of Amato’s goons was on duty, so it seemed, slamming his fist into the poor bastard who knelt on the floor, blood streaming from his broken lips.

  River looked back at Amato. Yes, though he appeared calm and relaxed, there was definitely a bandage on his chin and his face appeared to be slightly swollen.

  Natal had said that she’d slapped him. Maybe she’d caused the injury to Amato. And if not, this poor fellow being beaten to within an inch of his life might have been the one to inflict the injury—and now he would pay.

  River’s first instinct was to grab his gun from his backpack and burst in. But they certainly had guns too. And what if Natal was still in the house?

  He didn’t burst in. Reed Amato was talking now—his voice low and easy but River could pick out enough to know that Amato wanted money from the man. There were plastic bags on the table and Amato kept referring to them. Then River understood. The man was supposed to deal drugs for Amato. Either he had refused or he hadn’t come up with the income he was supposed to have provided.

  The man was begging for his life through bruised and swollen lips.

  He was probably bound for the river—just as, possibly, like whatever River had seen tossed from the bridge just days ago.

  He had to do something, River knew. He would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t. And yet, he couldn’t risk Natal.

  Nor did it make any sense for him to get himself killed. He wouldn’t help anyone if he did that. He had to take care and think out his moves.

  The man would have to wait—and River just had to pray that he could put his plan into action before the man was hurt further or—

  Or worse.

  Killed.

  River carefully and silently slipped back around to the front. The other man was still there—lighting up a cigarillo.

  His back was to River; he never had a chance.

  River was upon him in a flash, his death hold on the man’s neck so intense and powerful that the man did nothing but gasp as River dragged him back behind the neatly clipped bushes.

  River looked down at the man as he stared up into his captor’s eyes, astonished at seeing River there—and astonished at being on the ground. “The U.S. trains its troops well,” River muttered, and then moved straight into his demand. “Where’s the woman?”

  The man stared at him blankly. River eased the elbow he had against the pivotal point of the man’s throat enough to let him gasp out words.

  “Woman—what woman?”

  “Amato’s woman. Is she in the house?”

  The idiot still looked at him blankly.

  “Tell me—tell me now. Or you�
��ll die.”

  “Women, yes, Amato has women. They are all gone; there are no women in the house.”

  “All women are out—what about any other men?”

  The hoodlum on the ground—at River’s mercy—just stared at him. His eyes closed and he said. “No one.”

  No. No one else was in the house—not when they were torturing and possibly about to kill someone.

  That was all that River needed. He was done with this man.

  He didn’t know what the man lying at his feet had done in his day; he had probably participated in murder.

  But River didn’t kill the man. He hated killing.

  He grabbed a ceramic frog garden decoration and brought it down on the man’s head. He was careful to hit hard enough—but not too hard.

  The light went out of the man’s eyes as he was rendered unconscious.

  Natal had left; River was safe to create whatever diversion was necessary to get the police to break into the house. If the police came and saw the bloody man and the cocaine everywhere, they would be compelled to act. He had to be careful, however. He intended to meet Natal at the train and leave with her—forever, if necessary. Brazil was huge; there were many places they could go and live where Tio Amato’s power couldn’t reach them.

  He created a diversion in the front—just knocking on the door. He listened and heard Amato bellow; he was directing the thug in the house with him—the one delivering the beating—to the door.

  And, as River had hoped, he came to the door.

  River took the man by complete surprise, springing up from behind him as he stepped up to find out what the commotion had been.

  As River held him, cutting off his air long enough to render him unconscious, he felt tremors streak through him. He fought against the visions that tempted to fog his mind. Visions of black powder in the air, and men running and screaming as the world exploded around them.

  Visions of fighting hand to hand; visions of fighting for his life.

  The second of Amato’s henchmen fell to the ground with a thud. River streaked around to the back like fire out of hell; he was able to watch as Amato rose to go to the front to find out what was happening.

  River burst through the back when Amato went out the front. He dragged up the half-broken man on the floor.

  “Get out of here,” he whispered urgently.

  The man began to mumble in Portuguese. He was too dazed and confused to understand.

  River shook him, sorry to do so but determined to make him move. The man frowned, beginning to understand at last that he was being rescued; he didn’t fully comprehend what was happening until he saw River grab the brandy off the coffee table and cast it over the drapes and Amato’s elegant easy chair.

  The beaten man ran as fast as he could toward the back as River picked up Amato’s half-smoked cigar. He touched the burning embers to the chair and the drapes. The fire slowly began to lick at the alcohol-drenched fabric.

  Assured that a blaze would quickly begin in earnest, River fled the house.

  It was going to burn and possibly explode with whatever arms and gunpowder or more that Tio Amato kept in the house.

  As he slipped out himself, River saw the man who had been beaten still stumbling and holding his head. Afraid that something might blow and explode violently, River pushed him down to the grass before running on.

  When he turned back, he saw that he’d been right about explosive material in the house—there was a blast. The fire began to burn in earnest.

  He had done what he could for the beaten man. He’d been down and it was unlikely he’d been hit by flying debris.

  Now, there was nothing to do but hope that he would be all right—that the paramedics would find him, or that he’d be long gone by the time it all came down.

  River was determined to be gone himself.

  And he was. He tore through the trees behind the house and was over the back wall by the time he heard the first sirens. Looking back, he saw that the house was quickly becoming engulfed in flames. River made his way to the street. People were rushing toward the house, and the sound of sirens was blaring louder and louder.

  It occurred to him then that the men he’d knocked out would come to—and if they saw him, they would recognize him. He hoped that it wouldn’t matter—that the great Tio Amato would be under arrest, that some kind of evidence would remain.

  He lowered his head, praying that he hadn’t made a mistake. Natal had left—for him. She had made him promise that he wouldn’t take vengeance for what had been done to her.

  It wasn’t vengeance. He had seen what was going on—he just hadn’t been able to stomach it. And Beluga had told him that the police wouldn’t have investigated the possible body that had gone into the water, even if they did discover it. If the body washed up, they might suspect Tio Amato, but even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to prove he had been involved.

  River had done all that he could do. The police would all have to be corrupt not to know the extent of the drug paraphernalia and arms that had been in the house for it to explode and burn as it did.

  Still, River was afraid.

  It wouldn’t be a good thing to hang around and wait for whatever was going to happen next. He hurried along. He didn’t wear a watch; he always knew about what time it was by the sun and the sky. But now he worried about his own abilities—he was so anxious to make sure that he didn’t miss the train.

  He came across one of the big building clocks and exhaled in relief. He’d been so afraid of being late, but there was still time before the train.

  He needed to get away from where he was—away from the chaos that was Amato’s house now. How would it go down? he wondered.

  There was no way that Tio Amato and the goons had escaped burst eardrums at the least; the men he had downed were certainly going to suffer the aftereffects. As to Tio Amato, he had hopefully flown pretty far after the explosion—he had to be hurting. Hopefully, he’d suffered some broken bones.

  But what would they say? What would they tell the police and the paramedics?

  Most likely, no one would report to the authorities that he’d been there. If the knocked-out goons were going to jail, they’d probably keep their mouths shut to the cops but tell Amato. And Amato would see that he was chased.

  He was already being chased.

  But by Amato’s men, the police—who?

  He didn’t know. He did know that he couldn’t wait for Natal to meet him; he couldn’t wait for the train to come and the two of them to be on it.

  Thankfully, the streets were wild. There were several parades going on, passing through a number of neighborhoods.

  People were out and about in abundance.

  Many were on the far side of inebriated. It was easy to walk with one crowd and then another; easy to appear to be part of those celebrating as he made his way through the streets.

  There was a heavy police presence, but they were there to control the crowd. He smiled at one officer who smiled in return and waved to him as he crossed a parade route with a number of other people.

  Eventually, he made his move across the city.

  The little station was on a quiet street. River was careful as he approached it, taking twists and turns and even backtracking to make sure he wasn’t followed.

  He wasn’t. Here, there were no trendy restaurants; he wasn’t on a parade route.

  No police were about and he didn’t see any men in blue suits.

  Breathing a little easier, he headed to the station, a little outpost of an office. He remembered that he needed another ticket for Natal. With his hood up and his head down, he approached the window. The clerk barely seemed to notice him. He only spoke his native language.

  River simply said, “Natal, Rio Grande do Norte, por favor.”

  The clerk was not his charming young woman from the kiosk in any way. He barely looked up when he barked out something about the cost.

  River didn’t understand hi
m but he knew what his ticket had cost. He put money on the silver tray before the glass-enclosed counter; he received a few coins in change.

  He was ready. The time was drawing near.

  But there was no sign of Natal.

  Fear began to plague him. There were so many possibilities. Maybe she had never really meant to come.

  No, he couldn’t believe that.

  Perhaps she knew what had happened at Tio Amato’s. She had stayed behind because of some sense of duty or obligation to the man.

  That was ridiculous. Natal might not have wanted to see the whole truth regarding Tio Amato, but she knew. She knew that he was bad—that he hurt people. She’d opened her eyes and she wouldn’t stay with or feel sorry for such a man.

  No. She wouldn’t stay out of a sense of pity or obligation. But she might not come now because she knew what had happened, and she no longer wanted to be with River. She had asked him not to take revenge. Maybe she thought that he had done so.

  Maybe what was going on was even worse. Amato had more goons than the two River had tackled at the house. Maybe Amato hadn’t meant to let her go under any circumstances. He had beaten her to within an inch of her life before River had gotten there and Natal was under a bridge.

  Dead, her body broken and bruised.

  No. God, no—he’d never believe that.

  No.

  The train arrived; River knew that at such a small station it would pause for only a few seconds.

  An announcement came over a screeching loudspeaker—first in Portuguese, then in Spanish, then in English and in German—that the northbound train was arriving, and leaving.

  He looked anxiously up and down the platform. No, there were no police.

  No men in blue.

  And no Natal.

  The train ground to a noisy stop.

  He couldn’t stay there; he knew that. He had to get on the train.

  His heart sank. The world was black. The world was …

  Darkness—and blood.

  A conductor came walking briskly by him. He called out—his words clearer than the announcement over the speakers.

  But the announcement had changed. Now, the train was leaving.

  Somehow, River managed to board the last car.