“You can beat on me all night if you want,” chided McGivens, “and that train with your whore and her whelp’ll just get further away.” He laughed. “All things considered, you sure that boy’s even yours?”
Zorro pummeled him harder, McGivens’s wooden teeth cracking in the darkness. Zorro knew exactly what McGivens was doing—he was attempting to make him angry enough so that he’d slip up and provide the gunman an opening.
Yet the killer had a point. He had to end this quickly…
“You gonna kill me in cold blood, hoss?” hissed McGivens, reading the signals in the masked man’s dark eyes. “What kind of example does that set? Zorro’s a hero, now inn’t he?”
“Good point,” Alejandro snapped as he slapped the mask to the ground.
McGivens’s face fell—and kept falling as Alejandro drove him back, his punishing fists pounding the breath from the scarred killer. From a dozen paces off, crashes, moans, and the patter of fleeing men screaming, “Diablo, Diablo!” told Zorro that Felipe had indeed fought like a demon and decimated the rest of the guards with his fighting arts.
He caught the padre’s gaze—and Felipe nodded grimly.
With a scream of unholy revenge, Alejandro hurled McGivens into a stash of railway machinery, trapping him in the gear mechanism. He watched with grim satisfaction as a single drop of nitro slowly slid down a metal strut toward McGivens’s terrified face. The drop fell, landing dead center on the cross branded onto his cheekbone—and the roar of a fiery explosion engulfed the gunfighter’s scream. When the smoke cleared, only the smell of burnt flesh hanging in the air remained as a testament to the life—and terrible death—of Jacob McGivens.
Alejandro picked up the mask. His heart swelling, he turned and pounced on Fray Felipe. The padre gurgled in surprise, his breath nearly driven from him by the embrace of his longtime friend, his own relief fueling his tired limbs as he returned the bearhug. Alejandro pulled back, his quavering hands sliding from his friend. His gaze swept over the man, as if he simply couldn’t believe his eyes. Was McGivens really that bad a shot? Or had the padre been wounded?
No, the padre seemed fine. Shaking with relief, Alejandro exclaimed, “Thank God you’re alive!”
Felipe nodded sharply. “Believe me, I already have.” From under his frock, Felipe drew forth his crucifix necklace.
Jutting up from the twisted metal was McGivens’s flattened bullet.
Alejandro closed his eyes and rested his forehead against that of his friend. The moment he heard that Felipe was dead, he had prayed it was a lie. Felipe’s own words brushed through his thoughts: God hears and answers all prayers. But sometimes the answer is “no.”
Alejandro smiled. And sometimes it is “yes.”
Alejandro replaced the mask of Zorro around his face and leaped into Tornado’s saddle. “Listen, get to the Marshal’s office, tell them what Armand’s doing here.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Felipe.
With a devilish glint in his eyes, Zorro delivered his best roguish grin. “To catch a train.”
With a spur to Tornado’s hide, he galloped off down the track.
Dawn’s early light scorched the rugged landscape as Armand’s train blasted down the tracks, an unstoppable behemoth belching clouds of smoke from its stack. Within the boxcar bearing his personal arsenal of nitroglycerin wine— it packs quite a kick, wouldn’t you say, my dear fellows—Armand casually inspected the crates gently rocking on platforms suspended from the ceiling. He felt the rough vibrations of the countryside track through the wooden floorboards of the boxcar.
There is nothing quite like effortless victory to put a spring in one’s step.
Strolling ahead, he completed his inspections and returned to the passenger car, casually glancing at the pocket watch he had “inherited” from his father. There was plenty of time before the big event.
A sudden prickly heat alerted him to the eyes boring holes in his back. Turning, he smiled graciously to Elena, who sat quietly, her arms wound tightly around her son, her seething glare bright enough to light up the horizon were the sun to suddenly fail. He allowed himself a pleasant rush of anticipation as he considered exactly when he would take what he desired from her.
Sitting across from the hate-filled mother and her cub, Ferroq kept a careful eye on both of them.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Armand offered politely, sweeping forward to extend a hand toward a collection of crystal decanters set on an elegantly carved wooden cabinet. A high sharp tinkling rose up as they trembled with the train’s vibrations.
Elena regarded him as she might a venomous viper slithered up from the fiery depths of hell. “Understand something: you can lock me in a tower until hell freezes over and I will never stop hating you.”
Armand strutted over to his future wife and adopted son. Leaning in close to the alluring arch of her neck, he breathed in her exotic smell of flowers and spices. Her slight shudder was intoxicating, promising a rare passion between the sheets. He stepped back, his hand suddenly driving forward at Joaquin’s face, his powerful fingers springing open like a spider’s limbs. The boy tensed—and Armand cupped his chin with a light, delicate touch. Muscles twitched in the boy’s cheeks, veins throbbed in his temples.
Good, thought Armand. I can make something of the fire that burns within you.
“You may feel differently when you see how much Joaquin enjoys the life of an aristocrat,” ventured the count. He ruffled the boy’s hair and stepped back, easing into a leather-bound seat across from them.
His upper lip trembling with loathing, Joaquin leaned in close to his mother, whispering in Spanish. Smirking, she nodded conspiratorially to her son.
Armand glared at the boy. “Don’t speak Spanish, it’s the language of peasants.”
His eyes twinkling courageously, Joaquin cast a feral grin at the count and spat, “I said, I can’t wait ’til my dad kicks your ass.”
Armand sighed dismissively.
Turning to a shaded window, he pulled at its string. It snapped up, revealing a careening blur of countryside—
And the sneering masked face of the man called Zorro, who galloped upon his steed at full speed alongside the train. Armand’s brow creased. He had time only to wonder if the lack of sleep had driven delusions into his mind before Zorro’s fist crashed through the glass, sending him careening back against the wall of the passenger car and down to the floor.
Elena laughed out loud. Her heart swelled with relief because she knew—even before seeing the masked rider—that her husband was still alive. No one else had a punch like that.
Thank God!
Launching himself from his mother’s arms, Joaquin dashed to the window next to the pane of broken glass, hauled it open, and thrust himself into the roaring wind. Lifting his arms to the heavens he loosed a cheer of victory as Zorro galloped alongside the train, urging Tornado to another burst of speed.
He opened his mouth, flickering winds teasing his lips, desperate to call out to his father—
And a powerful, claw-like hand dug into his scalp, whipping Joaquin back into the car by his wild mane. The boy thudded into another seat, pain lancing into his skull. Steeling himself, he hurled his vengeful gaze toward his attacker.
Ferroq gave him the gift of a graveyard smile.
“Take your hands off of him!” screeched Elena as she flew to defend her son.
Ferroq struck her across the mouth, blunting her momentum, and snapped his claw blade before her eyes. Jamming it lower, he allowed its cold steel to tickle her neck—the threat of death stilling her at once.
Armand staggered up from the floor. He looked affronted. A door slid open, a pair of guards charging in. Gesturing one of them near, he tore the man’s sword belt from him and lashed it around his own waist, readying himself to fight for what was his.
Elena was glaring at him once more.
“This changes nothing,” Armand promised his conquest. “Except that now, the boy
will see his father’s head taken from his body.”
Snorting, Elena whispered mockingly, “Armand…you always say the sweetest things.”
Quaking with fury, he turned from her, wondering where the wretched de la Vega would strike first.
Zorro charged alongside the black train, the powerful engine just ahead. The enginemaster stood imperiously over a stoker who tossed wood into glowing furnaces, brushing soot from his new uniform. Zorro fell back to the tender car where the stoker gathered more wood to keep the ever-demanding engine alive. This new man, a strapping, curly-haired Greek whose muscles appeared to be piled one on top of the other, saw the masked man and hurled a chunk of wood at him. Zorro ducked, easily evading the attack, then gasped as a barrage began.
He snatched a spiraling half-cut log from the air even as the stoker hauled another log over his head—ignoring a loaded rifle set on pegs mounted to the shuddering wall beside him. The stoker’s lips curled back, his perfectly white teeth gleaming in the bright morning sunlight, as he readied himself to toss the log that would surely drive Zorro from his saddle.
As if driving a javelin through the air, Zorro whipped the smaller log at the man’s skull. It connected with a hollow thwock so loud it could be heard above the thundercrack of the roaring train as it sparked down the tracks. Eyes rolling up into their sockets, the stoker stumbled back, dropping the heavy log he carried. The log crashed down first on the enginemaster’s skull, then on the levers controlling the train’s speed. Suddenly the locomotive’s huge cylinders began furiously cycling up and down, gaining momentum, propelling the train forward at great speed. Zorro raced beside the train, his eyes widening as the tottering stoker fell off the tender car and slapped to the ground—right before Tornado’s hooves. With a sudden leap the stallion avoided trampling the man.
Zorro spurred Tornado on—fear lancing his heart as he realized they would not be able to keep up with the careening train for long.
Inside the passenger car, Armand desperately fought for balance as the train pitched and swayed. Joaquin, Elena and Ferroq all struggled to steady themselves—the bald man forced to ease his weapon away from Elena’s throat for fear he might kill her and incur his master’s wrath.
Armand seized the lapels of a guard’s uniform. “What the blazes is going on?”
The man stared at him with wide confused eyes.
“Well go and find out,” Armand shouted. “Go!”
Armand heard a light snicker—and turned to catch Elena’s nasty little grin.
They both knew just what was going on—chaos like this could only have a single cause:
Zorro.
Tornado galloped on, bringing Zorro within inches of a handle along the side of the train. His eager fingers started to close on it when a sudden surge of speed wrenched the handle from the masked man’s grasp. Zorro lurched back in the saddle and eyed the train with rage. It was moving too fast now.
Zorro heard a whinny and looked up to see what had startled Tornado: a sudden incline just ahead. In seconds there would be no way to shadow the bustling train.
There’s always a way, thought Zorro as he spurred Tornado straight up the incline. He looked back over his shoulder and saw guards appear on the passenger car’s rear platform, rifles at the ready. Spitting sparks, the weapons exploded in a crackle of deadly fireworks. Zorro thrust himself down low on the saddle, ducking his head against Tornado’s mane, the thundering vibrations of the stallion’s relentlessly driving muscles and the pounding of his hooves beating in rhythm with his own heart.
The incline broke off into a plunging cliff. His gloved hand patting the neck of his madly driving stallion, Zorro squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could fire his thoughts into the brain of this noble beast—for no amount of shouting could ever be heard over the raging wind and gunfire.
Old friend, I can see only one way to save Elena and Joaquin. Please be with me now, even if it means our deaths…
As if the stallion understood, Tornado launched himself toward the cliff’s edge even before Zorro cracked his reins. Sharing a look of intense determination, horse and rider leaped straight off the cliff.
For several heart-stopping moments they arced through the air, free as perhaps only the daredevil Sam Patch had been when diving over Niagara.
Then the silver tracks of the train snaked into view and the ratcheting cars shuddered and thrust beneath them.
The pair landed perfectly on the roof of the speeding train.
Armand craned his head as footfalls thumped and clattered above him. This one’s as hard to kill as a cockroach.
Tearing open an antique wooden cabinet, he ripped a pistol free of its ornate holster and aimed it at the roof.
“No!” screamed Joaquin.
Ignoring the boy, Armand squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying report of the blast tearing down his arm.
Laughing over the child’s screams, he took aim and shot again and again.
Bullets tore through the passenger car’s roof barely missing its skylight, holes blazing up inches from Tornado’s hooves. Zorro’s hand closed on Tornado’s reigns. Don’t panic, don’t panic—
As he spied the train’s path—it would soon take a hairpin turn then plunge deeply into a tunnel—he wondered if it was the horse or himself that he had to worry about.
Another bullet blasted up from below leaving Zorro no choice but to pivot Tornado toward the cattle car and kick his spurs. Tornado bolted ahead like lightning, galloping against the train’s startling forward momentum, leaping free of the passenger car and the torrent of bullets aimed at them.
Leaping from boxcar to boxcar, they narrowly escaped the great gaping maw of the mountain which was swallowing one boxcar after another, its ravenous appetite relentless, inevitable.
Keep going, almost there—
With a strained whistle, Tornado leaped for the skylight on the only boxcar covered in canvas. With the canvas shredding under their weight, horse and rider vanished, crashing onto the floor of an empty cattle car, thankful there were no cows to land on! Remarkably, Tornado remained on all fours, his body vibrating with the sudden shock of halting after so much manic exertion.
Zorro looked around, trying to get his bearings. Tornado chuffed, swinging his massive head around, casting dark glowering eyes at his master as he snorted with anger.
Zorro shrugged casually. “What?”
A dull scrambling from just outside drew the tension back into Zorro’s body. He peered through a window to see a pair of guards with rifles slung over their shoulders climbing onto the roof.
“I’m sorry to do this, amigo,” said Zorro wistfully, “but I need a boost.”
Zorro leaped into the saddle and spurred Tornado—the horse bucked, flipping him through the skylight and back onto the roof.
The violent chugging of the train screamed in Zorro’s ears as he tried to maintain his balance. But his cape caught a sudden gust of wind and he was plucked over the side. Despite the dizzying rush of the landscape before him, he snagged a handhold against the side of the car and steadied himself as the guards slowly climbed onto the roof. He stole a look over the top, watching the guards wobble about in confusion as they peered down at a very angry Tornado beneath the skylight’s shredded canvas.
“How’d he get down there?” demanded the first guard of his sullen companion.
The second guard scratched his head. “I don’t know!”
Flinging himself back onto the roof, Zorro called out to the guards, “He must be a very brave man.”
“Who must be?” questioned the not very bright guards as they turned to face Zorro. Their eyes widened—and were shut seconds later by his pounding fists. The unconscious men reeled back, dropping through the ripped skylight to the cattle car below, skidding beneath Tornado’s rearing hooves.
“Me, of course!” replied Zorro, hands on his hips. He grinned at the stallion. “You keep an eye on them for me, okay?”
Laughing, he spun and raced al
ong the rooftops toward Armand’s carriage.
Armand paced in the passenger car like a caged beast. His head throbbed, raw fiery fury threatening to incinerate rationale thought. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, focusing his rage, he told himself to ignore the pain from the dark blue bruise on his forehead and concentrate on the problem at hand. He had sent guards to find out what was happening and the miscreants hadn’t returned. Should he send Ferroq?
A low humming made his spine stiffen. He whirled on Elena, who was pleasantly delivering a popular little ditty to her boy, mocking Armand with sidelong glances and wicked nasty little grins…
Shaking with anger, Armand burst toward the boy and seized Joaquin from his seat. “Let’s find out how much your father truly loves you—”
The madness taking hold, the world bathed in blood, the fires of hell coursing through his veins, Armand jammed his newly reloaded pistol against Joaquin’s head, cocked the hammer, curled his finger around the trigger—
“No!” Elena screamed, reaching for her son even as Ferroq grabbed her, driving his blade against the tender flesh of her throat once more.
The skylight above suddenly exploded, shards of jagged glass showering down as Zorro plunged into the car. Armand’s hand tightened on the boy, but he whipped the gun around, taking aim at the intruder—
Zorro’s boot snapped ahead, kicking the weapon from Armand’s grasp, sending it flying out the window. Joaquin broke free and raced toward his mother as the count and the masked don skidded across the floor, grappling like street fighters, each ready to choke the life from the other.
“Master,” hissed the suddenly distracted Ferroq, his grip on Elena loosening.
She writhed free of him, her hand flying back open-palmed to crack Ferroq’s windpipe and send him staggering. His knife hand flew to one side in a sweeping arc that Elena ducked to avoid. She pivoted sharply, kicking him in the gut. Springing ahead, she knocked him back with a flurry of punches, blackening one eye, cracking a rib, smashing his bald pate against the floor as she drove him back and landing a final blow to his throat—keeping him down, at least for a while. Chest heaving, a sheen of sweat beading on her skin, she searched for her son.
The Legend of Zorro Page 27