by Glenn Meade
Sanchez rolled to the right, into shrubbery, then aimed at the moving figure. The pump-action exploded in his hands and the recoil shook his body, but the man by the pool had moved out of sight and into the shadows of a clump of palm trees.
Rear guard. To slow them, Sanchez guessed.
The shrubbery Sanchez found himself in was poor cover. Twenty yards away, the second car sank in the turquoise pool, its blue light still flashing but no sound from the siren, bubbles rising like froth, crimson patches here and there in the pale water. The left rear-passenger door was open and riddled with holes, one of the bodies of the men hanging half in, half out. Sanchez could make out a head thrown back in the driver’s seat, mouth open in death.
He suddenly thought of Cavales and Juales. Dead or still alive?
He heard Gonzales swear from behind the car wreckage by the tree. Sanchez called out, “Stay where you are.”
Suddenly another burst erupted from near the pool, fire raging across the grass, raking the car. Then the firing stopped. Gonzales swore again.
Sanchez whispered, “Are you okay?”
“I’m alive,” came the reply. “Can you see the guy with the machine gun?”
“Thirty yards away, by the pool. Can you cover me?”
“I’ll try. But take it easy, amigo.”
Sanchez rolled deeper into the shrubbery, ignoring the pains that shot through his hip, conscious of the urgency to move into the villa after the men. He crawled quickly on his belly through the thorny undergrowth, the pain making him wince. He came out ten yards away, at the base of another eucalyptus tree, eyes trying to pick out any movement in the darkness.
Nothing.
If he was going to pursue Lieber and his people, he would have to move quickly.
Suddenly a movement off to the left caught his eye, and he heard a faint rustling of bushes. He strained his eyes, then saw the man crouched low among the shrubbery, caught in a shaft of moonlight. Sanchez inched forward slowly, came to within a dozen yards of the man before he saw him turn, a startled look on his face as he saw the detective.
The pump-action in Sanchez’s hands rose and exploded. The blast hit the man in the chest, a muted cry as his body was hurled back into the shrubbery.
At that moment Sanchez heard sirens wailing in the distance. He turned, moved quickly back to Gonzales, ignoring the terrible pain in his hip as he knelt down beside him. In the wash of light from the house he saw sweat glistening on Gonzales’s brow. A patch of dark below the right elbow where a bullet had penetrated flesh.
“Your arm . . .”
“We’re getting too old for this, amigo. Let’s stick to conferences. You got the gringo with the machine gun?”
Sanchez nodded and examined Gonzales’s forearm. A bullet had rutted the flesh, chipped bone. Nothing serious, but painful.
Gonzales tried to push himself up. “The others . . . ?”
Sanchez looked back into the silent, bullet-riddled car, saw the frosted glass and ruptured metal punctured with holes, aware of his heart beating wildly as he moved forward to look. Bile in his stomach, anger in his head like a wild thing, knowing what to expect.
Even in the poor light he could see the bodies. Juales in the front passenger seat, his head to one side, mouth open, a slash of red across his chest, blood everywhere below the torso and waist. Sanchez put a hand to the man’s mouth. A faint breath.
But in Cavales’s case, there was no doubt: the top of the man’s skull was torn apart, a gaping hole where the handsome face had once been. Sanchez wanted to vomit, held it, fury welling up inside him, wanting to rush into the villa after Lieber’s people, blow them away.
He heard a sound behind him, looked around. Gonzales was standing now, a hand on the hood of the car as he stared at the scene inside.
Sanchez said, “Juales is barely alive; see if you can help him.”
“Where are you going, Vellares?”
But Sanchez wasn’t listening. The shotgun gripped in both hands, he was faintly aware of the wail of police sirens, coming closer.
“I’m going in after them, Eduardo. Tell your men.”
“Are you crazy? Wait . . . my men are coming.”
Sanchez didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the patio door and the darkened room beyond, and he cocked the pump-action as he moved toward the villa.
6:08 P.M.
As they moved through the rooms, Kruger was in control, covering the rear, the emergency plan clear in his mind: quickly move to the garage, across the open space of the lawn first—a problem, too vulnerable—then drive down through the overgrown back alleyway to get away and reach the safe house. Speed was vital.
Keep moving.
Five rooms to the exit that led to the lawn and the escape route. They were in the third room. No more than two minutes to the garage. But already things were not going according to plan. Kruger swore. Haider was the problem. The old man was moving too slowly, joints buckled and gnarled.
He ordered Lieber and Brandt to carry Haider between them, and now the six men moved through the house more quickly, old Haider, feet dangling in midair between Lieber and Brandt.
Schmidt held the .357 Magnum in his right hand, eyes watchful. The house was lit up. Kruger extinguished the light as they left each room. It would slow anyone who followed.
Suddenly up ahead, a butler stepped out of a room, face pale, eyes wide. Everyone startled.
Schmidt raised his Magnum and fired. The explosive force of the bullet sent the butler sprawling against a wall, blood erupting on his white jacket.
They stepped past the crumpled body.
Schmidt opened another door, moved quickly into the deserted kitchen. Stainless steel, copper, dark wood. The door at the end led outside, to the garden, darkness beyond, and Kruger saw through the windows the vast stretch of silvered lawn.
Vulnerable. Too open. Sixty seconds to cross it at a trot. But they could make it.
Keep moving.
Schmidt slowly opened the kitchen back door, peered left, right, ahead, toward the vast silvered lawn, then turned back and nodded the all-clear.
Schmidt stepped out, the others following, old Haider wheezing and groaning.
Kruger was the last to step out; he saw the light switch by the door and hesitated. He heard a noise behind him, coming from somewhere back in the house. A door opening?
This time he left the light on, then followed after the others.
He was moving backward across the lawn ten seconds later, still covering the rear, the Walther ready in his hand, when he saw the kitchen door move a fraction.
Kruger had left the kitchen light on deliberately, knowing that if anyone came through, they would be at an immediate disadvantage: light looking into dark.
But Kruger would be able to see and respond.
And Kruger definitely saw the movement. Seconds later, the door burst open, a figure appearing, but only for a glimpse, and then the figure disappeared from view.
Kruger swore, went to fire, but knew the shot would be wasted. They were maybe twenty yards across the grass, moving fast—as fast as Haider would allow—Lieber and Brandt grunting under the weight of the old man as they carried him between them, another forty yards to go, breaths gasping, hearts pounding.
“Keep moving!”
Kruger knelt, raised the Walther, aimed toward the lighted kitchen, waiting to see the figure again . . . eyes scanning the room for movement, counting the seconds . . . and then a shotgun blast erupted and the kitchen light went out.
Kruger cursed.
The man was clever, knocking out the light, guessing his strategy. Dark looking into light so easy, dark into dark difficult, leveling the odds.
Kruger waited . . . eyes straining desperately to see into the silvery darkness . . .
A faint movement, to the left?
Kruger fired off three rapid shots . . . heard the crack of lead smack into glass, plaster, heard the kitchen window to the left shatter.
Then
nothing.
A shout from behind him. “Kruger!” Leiber’s voice. “It’s Haider! Something’s wrong!”
“Keep moving!” Kruger shouted back, not turning.
But he heard Haider’s wheezing gasps, and his eyes darted back; the others almost at the garage, but Lieber and Brandt slowing, holding the sagging, ancient body of Haider between them, something up with the old man, his heart probably not able to take the strain. Kruger wiped sweat from his brow, tried to control his breathing as his eyes went back to the kitchen.
A movement. To the right.
Kruger fired three more quick shots in a short arc, heard the smacks as the lead hit glass, then concrete, wood, concrete.
And then suddenly he saw the figure.
Moving out of shadow: a large man in a light suit moving out onto the silvered lawn like a specter, the long barrel of a weapon held at waist height as he advanced steadily toward them.
Kruger aimed and fired three quick shots at the ghostly figure, saw the man buck and then spin.
Kruger went to fire again, but the hammer clicked. Empty. He tore out the spent magazine, slammed home a fresh one from his pocket.
He focused on the man again. The cop was still coming, his body listing to one side.
Kruger aimed the Walther, squeezed off one round, was about to squeeze the trigger again when the man’s shotgun swung up, the weapon exploding and a blast of air whistling past Kruger’s left like a hurricane, then another, and another . . .
Kruger cursed.
Screams erupted in the night. Something stung Kruger’s left shoulder and he was spun around, the Walther wrenched from his hand. He saw Brandt and Lieber were hit, flung back onto the grass, hands flailing, old Haider collapsed between them.
Kruger searched frantically on the grass for the pistol, but couldn’t find it . . . a numbing pain in his left forearm . . . He heard a groan from the tangle of bodies on the grass, then silence.
Forget the weapon . . . the man fifteen yards away . . . halting, loading again in the darkness, calmly . . . like it was no big deal.
Kruger saw the moment and seized it.
He scrambled backward, past the pile of bodies—Lieber, Brandt, old Haider—oblivious to his pain, not caring whether the three men on the grass were dead or alive, as he ran toward the garage where the others had entered.
As he ran, gulping deep mouthfuls of air, he waited for the shotgun blast to hit him in the back.
It never came.
Panting, he reached the garage door and stepped into darkness.
• • •
Sanchez stood in the middle of the lawn reloading the shotgun.
He saw the man run toward the building at the end of the lawn, half hidden behind a clump of trees. Too far away now to get a good shot.
He felt a numbing sensation in his right shoulder where two bullets had hit him with the force of sledgehammers, sending him reeling. No pain there, not yet, but it would come.
He loaded five shells and cocked the pump, stepped forward, his hip on fire.
The man on the lawn had given him no choice but to shoot. He had missed, the shotgun blast hitting the group of men instead as they moved across the lawn.
Sanchez swore.
These were the men; these were the people. No doubt in his mind.
And he had wanted them alive, hoped they still were.
As he approached the bodies on the grass, he held the shotgun at the ready. He saw Franz Lieber’s dead face in the moonlight. A gaping wound in his back from the pump-action. Sanchez grimaced; he had especially wanted Lieber alive.
He heard a groan. Another body, a man with glasses, big forehead. This one was still alive. A gurgling sound came from the man’s throat, his face screwed up with agony, a bloody patch on his left shoulder.
Sanchez saw a third figure between the two men, lying facedown. Bloodstains on the man’s pale suit where the shot blasted him. Sanchez bent, turned him over. A small, wizened old man. Sanchez stared at the face. Not one of the faces in Lieber’s photograph. Nor the man lying on the grass near him, the one still alive. The man groaned again. Sanchez ignored him. Gonzales’s men would deal with it.
Behind him came muted noises. Gonzales’s men, somewhere in the house. Sanchez turned back toward the building. The man who escaped had gone inside after the others.
Sweat drenched the back of his neck, images burning in his skull. Rudi Hernandez and the young girl, the savage wounds inflicted on their bodies. Cavales, face blown away.
The images drove him on, desperate to find the men trying to escape.
Ten yards from the building, Sanchez saw lunar light washing on the wooden door. He approached cautiously and raised the shotgun. He squeezed the trigger twice: the blasts shattering silence, fragmenting wood, sending what remained of the door smacking back against the inside wall, where it bounced and shuddered off concrete.
The noise died.
Darkness inside. Sanchez saw a crack where the door abutted the frame. He peered in, listened. No sound. But if the men were inside, they could be waiting. His eyes narrowed, trying to discern shapes in the blackness.
The smell of oil. And gasoline. A garage? He could make out the shape of a big car parked in the center, a dull glint of polished metal, a sheen of glass reflected. He was certain he saw another door, ajar, at the end of the building, a thin crack of silver moonlight shining through. Had the men escaped there? Or were they waiting for him?
He listened carefully.
Still nothing.
He couldn’t wait forever.
He took a deep breath, felt the sweat coursing down his face as he leveled the shotgun, swung around from the wall, moved inside.
And then . . .
A light suddenly went on overhead and blinded him.
Sanchez barely heard the barked command: “Schmidt!”
In the sudden, blinding light, he saw the form of a huge man lunge at him from behind the car—big, blond, a crazy look on his face like a wild animal, a jagged knife in his hand.
Sanchez swung round the pump-action and squeezed the trigger. The deafening roar that followed raged through the garage like a sonic boom.
Sanchez saw the look on the man’s face: ugly, snarling, his body like some boulder of granite bearing down on him as the shotgun exploded a yard from the man’s chest.
The force of the blast halted his body in midair—his chest exploding, a cavernous hole appearing in the center of his huge torso, guts spilling out and a wave of gushing blood.
The man collapsed on top of Sanchez, pinned him against the wooden wall, the crushing weight knocking his breath out, the face up against Sanchez’s own, eyes open wide.
Sanchez smelled the wheezing, foul breath.
The man was still alive.
Sanchez struggled frantically to push the man off, but the weapon was wedged between them. The terrible weight pressed down on him, making him helpless.
Two others appeared: a young, dark-haired man carrying a big Magnum pistol, and another older man, tall, silver-haired, coming toward him out of nowhere, Sanchez recognizing the faces from the photograph in Lieber’s house.
Sanchez made a supreme effort, pushed with all his strength. The huge blond moved, and Sanchez saw the knife swing up. Sanchez found the pump-grip, reloaded, pulled the trigger just as the jagged knife thrust into his shoulder, cut through bone and flesh, pinned him to the wall.
Sanchez screamed in pain, and the shotgun exploded again. This time the man’s face and head disintegrated, his body flung backward, as shotgun pellets deflected back, prickled Sanchez’s body.
And then everything seemed to happen at once.
The two men came forward.
The younger man held the big Magnum in his hand, rage on his face, Sanchez realizing that the dead man had been expendable, a diversion. The man pointed the gun at Sanchez’s temple, his other hand reaching to grasp the pump-action, wrench it away.
The silver-haired man stepped forw
ard. His tall frame towered over Sanchez. Kind, soft blue eyes, but something in them Sanchez couldn’t fathom.
Did it matter now?
The man’s voice whispered something to his companion, but Sanchez didn’t hear. Voices—Gonzales’s men—coming from outside now, distant, too distant to save him, muted, carrying across the lawn.
The distant voices had decided his fate.
The man holding the Magnum pressed the big pistol hard against Sanchez’s head.
It exploded.
6:20 P.M.
The moonlit lawns were awash with uniforms and flashing blue lights.
Ambulances came and went. A little later, a detective took a dazed Gonzales to the old garage, past the bodies on the grass.
When they showed him the body of Sanchez, he wanted to weep.
He looked at the corpse for a long time: the pitiful, lifeless corpse pinned against the wall, the jagged blade driven through his shoulder into the wooden wall, the powder-burned hole drilled through his forehead, the floor awash with blood.
Then he looked at the body of the big blond man. What was left of it. A stench of human excrement drenched the air. Both bodies had defecated after death. Normal.
Sanchez had taken four of them with him. It was little consolation. None really. Besides, there was no pistol near the body of the blond man; someone else had done this. A detective told him that roadblocks were being set up around the perimeter of Chapultepec. But it was a big area. Some hope.
When he finally stepped outside, Gonzales threw up on the lawn. In the silver light, a detective lit him a cigarette, and he took it, wiped his mouth, inhaled deeply.
Gonzales gripped the man’s arm.
“Did Juales make it?”
The detective shook his head. “Dead before they got him to the ambulance.”
Gonzales closed his eyes a moment in grief, said in a dazed voice, “How many others dead?”
“Four of our own men. The two friends of yours from Asunción. Six from the villa. That includes Haider and their man on the gate who got it from Madera when he tried to pull a gun.” The detective paused. “I’m having roadblocks set up all the way to the city. A rookie says he thought he heard a car move off just after he heard the last gunshot. In the confusion and noise, he’s not exactly sure. But the garage doors were open.” He nodded back toward Haider’s villa. “It’s possible some of them got away.”
