Footsteps sounded in the alleyway. Half a dozen, running in this direction. Grant noticed the trail of blood across the living room floor. Sometimes all you can do is your best; Grant’s best hadn’t been good enough. In his haste to get Cruz away from the dead man, he’d forgotten the first rule of evade and destroy: don’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs. The bottom feeders had followed the trail. Now the only question was how many of them there were.
The first one burst through the door. Grant snapped his gun up and fired twice. The second and third men charged in blind, machetes raised. Grant shot them before they knew who was in the room. The bodies formed a barricade in the doorway. There were fewer footsteps outside now. Grant reckoned this was a small hunting party thrown out wide of the main body. Five or six. The remaining two or three were reluctant to come barging in. They were gathering outside the door.
Machetes were close-quarter weapons. Effective for a mob that could charge you down before you could shoot enough to stop the rush. The local militia might not be well armed, but they were unlikely to send out a hunting party without at least one gun between them. Maybe two.
Grant couldn’t wait for that gun to be brought to bear. He took Cruz’s pistol out of his webbing and moved across the room to the shuttered window, away from the door. He could hear the muttering voices outside. Two, he reckoned. At least one of them would be armed. He doubted they would be sharpshooters.
The shutter was as unstable as the door—hanging from one hinge, no glass in the window. Grant braced himself against the wall. He raised Cruz’s gun and readied his own for when the shutter was opened. Using the butt, he knocked the slatted wood from the window and leaned through the opening.
He was wrong. There were four men standing in the doorway. Two had machine guns. Neither looked like they knew how to use them. Grant shot the nearest in the back. He went down hard, dropping his machine gun. The second gunman was partly hidden behind another machete man. The machine gun swung towards Grant and opened fire. Bullets kicked holes in the adobe wall, high and wide but near enough to deflect Grant’s aim. He fired both guns, blasting the machete men and catching the gunman in the leg and arm.
The machine gun stopped firing as the man dropped to his knees. Grant shot him three times in the chest to make sure. The alley echoed with thunder. The acrid smell filled the air. Grant didn’t wait to see how many would follow the sounds of gunfire. He dashed across the room and helped Cruz to her feet. He considered letting her use the rifle slung across his back as a crutch but dismissed the thought. The way this was going, he’d be needing it soon.
“Let’s go.”
Redundant urging. Cruz knew they’d have to move and move fast. She picked up the kitbag and threw one arm across Grant’s shoulder. He walked in a crouch so he wouldn’t lift her off the ground. Towards the far corner of the room and the back door.
Another alleyway. Another race across the township. The sounds of outrage were somewhere behind them, polarized around the last burst of gunfire. The house of blood and death. Heading in the opposite direction, Grant guided Cruz along one back street after another. He checked the shafts of sunlight across the few bits of sky he could see to get a sense of direction.
“Come on. You can make it. We’re going home.”
At the time he said it, he wasn’t lying. The setting sun told its story. Grant was finally leading them in the right direction. Towards the desert airbase and the safe zone.
The sun had set. The room was dark apart from the moonlight through the gaping hole in the roof. The windows had been blown out years ago, but the metal bars were intact. Grant felt like he was sitting in a jail cell looking at the stars through the bars. He smiled at the matching of words with his thoughts. Stars and bars. An off- kilter description of the American flag that was stitched into the lid of Cruz’s stethoscope case.
He glanced to his left and watched her eyelids flutter as she slept. In the pale blue moonlight, her dusky skin looked white. She could be your typical English rose—dark hair, full lips, and pale skin. He doubted if she’d take that as a compliment. Pilar Cruz was defiantly Mexican. Grant gently removed his arm from across her shoulders and stretched his legs out. They were both sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. Another play of words that mirrored reality. They were up against it. In deep shit. Facing a final dash that was every bit as doomed as the one that awaited Butch and Sundance.
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. That was something Newman never did to Redford. Thank goodness. Brokeback Mountain would never have been made in the sixties.
Grant smiled despite the coming tragedy. He’d been surprised that Cruz even knew about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. She hadn’t struck him as a movie type until the conversation that eased sunset into night. Just after they’d made it to the last house on the edge of town and collapsed against the kitchen wall.
“What’s it look like?”
Cruz fought to keep the pain out of her voice.
Grant was peering into the shadowy no man’s land beyond the crumbling wall.
“Like manna from heaven.”
“What about the route from here to there?”
“That doesn’t look so good.”
The sun had gone down over an hour ago but there was still enough blue in the sky to pick out the rubble-strewn expanse beyond the edge of town. Stars twinkled in the darkening sky, but the moon wasn’t up yet. In the distance he could just make out the long, straight road that the Chinook had followed two days ago. A road built by military engineers once they’d completed the desert airstrip and army base. The base was in lockdown. Light discipline meant an enforced blackout. There were no choppers in or out. No runway lights or navigation blinkers. The shit had hit the fan after the Chinook went down. Shit was black. No light.
“It looks straight and even and plain for everyone to see.”
Cruz sounded calm. “No cover, then?”
“Only the cover of dark.”
“That won’t help. Not with my leg.”
Grant looked at her shadowy figure leaning against the wall beside him.
“You’re in a real glass-half-empty mood, aren’t you?”
“Leg half empty—as in I’ve only got half of my full complement of two.”
“You’d better rest the one that you’ve got, then.”
He slipped his arms under hers and lowered her to the ground. In better circumstances it would have been a romantic gesture. He would have cupped her breasts and kissed her neck as he lowered her to the bed. In the shattered wreckage of the last house on the left, there was no bed. No furniture at all. Cruz shuffled back against the wall and stretched her legs out. The morphine had dulled the pain but it was still there, waiting in the background.
Grant went back to the window. The killing ground was too open and too long for them to traverse without being seen. The prize, if they made it, was life and freedom. The cost would be great. Because there was no way that Cruz would be able to cover the ground without the waiting hordes cutting her down—cutting them both down. One for all and all for one. What happened to one happened to the other. Just like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
The natives had camped for the night. Fires showed their position a hundred yards south of the crumbling house and fifty yards east of the killing ground. They’d been searching the derelict buildings along the edge of town until bad light stopped play. A cricket term. Grant doubted Cruz would understand if he mentioned it. Bottom line was that the mob was too close for Butch and Sundance to make a run for it. They had their backs against the wall, with nowhere to go but out—either in a blaze of glory or a decoyed run.
Cruz tugged at Grant’s trouser leg.
“Wait a minute. You didn’t see Lefors out there?”
Grant was surprised, not only that Cruz knew the line but also that she’d tapped into his though
ts about the movie. He gave her Redford’s line.
“Lefors? No.”
“Good. For a minute I thought we were in trouble.”
Grant threw one last glance at their version of the Bolivian army, then sat against the wall beside Cruz. He drew his legs up and rested both arms across his knees. The stars twinkled through the barred window. The moon wouldn’t rise for another half an hour. It didn’t matter. The darkness wasn’t dark enough to hide a big man and a cripple dashing across open ground. He turned his eyes on Cruz.
“Lefors was a one-man tracker. Followed Butch and Sundance all across the west. It wasn’t him that did for them in Bolivia.”
“They didn’t know that.”
“We do. It’s not the tracker we should be worried about.”
“It’s the local militia.”
“Bolivian or not.”
Cruz let out a sigh. “We can’t sneak past them?”
Grant shook his head. “Nowhere to hide.”
Cruz nodded. “And I can’t outrun them.”
Grant felt the sweat on his back turn cold. Goose pimples sprang up on his forearm. Sometimes he and Cruz felt almost twinned, their thoughts running so close they could be as one. Grant wished he couldn’t read her mind now. He looked her in the eye, then turned away. The stars were bright in the darkening sky, a perfectly framed starfield through the jailhouse window. Cruz broached the subject from the side.
“What was the punchline to that airplane joke again?”
Grant played along.
“The American said ‘remember the Alamo’ and threw a Mexican out.”
Cruz stared into Grant’s eyes. “I’m the Mexican. Gotta lighten the load.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She laid a hand on his knee and squeezed. “Did you ever think how things would have been if only Newman had gone out the front door? Drawn their fire while Redford slipped out the back? Whole different ending. Right?”
Grant put his hand on top of hers. “And did you ever think how bad Redford would have felt letting his best friend go out alone?”
“You’d have to be alive to feel bad.”
“No.”
“Yes. You know it makes sense.”
“No.”
“I’m gonna die one way or the other. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Like Butch and Sundance.”
“Except only Butch.”
Grant knew she was right. If he thought about it in a totally practical sense, it was the obvious choice. Normally Grant could do that—set aside emotion and do what had to be done. This time he couldn’t engage his practical side. Emotion kept getting in the way. He held her hand and didn’t speak. Cruz respected his silence and closed her eyes. Now that the decision had been made, she relaxed. Amazingly, she even slept. Grant watched her eyelids flicker as she dreamed. He supposed there was a kind of symmetry at work. The rule of threes. Bond had sacrificed himself for the unit. Mack and Coop had sacrificed themselves for the surviving pair. Now Butch was going to sacrifice herself for Sundance. It all made perfect sense.
He let her sleep and waited for dawn.
Grant leaned over and kissed Cruz gently on the lips. That was something Newman never did to Redford. Thank goodness. Cruz’s eyes flickered open and she smiled. It was still dark but dawn was already turning pitch-black night into shades of blue.
They were out of water. Low on ammunition. One rifle between them, which was just as well because Cruz couldn’t shoot for shit. She’d smiled when Grant had told her that. He leaned forward and kissed her dry lips again. She kissed him back, holding his head in both hands as she gave him the last good memories of the love they had shared.
Cruz took the blue velvet case out of her haversack and held it in both hands. They sat in silence as the sky paled in the east. Dawn began to remove the cover that had been hiding the final stretch of ground to the safe zone. Grant should have gone while it was still dark, but darkness would have also hidden the decoy.
She handed Grant the velvet case.
“My father gave me this. Make sure he gets it back.”
At first Grant couldn’t take it because that would be accepting what was to come next. She held it out to him. After a few short moments, he reached over and took it. His hand brushed her fingers. Her eyes became serious.
“Can you take the shot?”
“Before they lay a finger on you.”
“It’s not their fingers I’m worried about.”
Joking to the end. Cruz sidled up against the half-demolished wall and peered towards the fires that signaled the final battlefield. She took an emergency flare out of her pocket and didn’t look back. Dragging her ruined leg behind her, she clambered over the debris and shuffled across the open ground. At first there was no sound from the resting natives. Darkness protected her until she was halfway there.
Grant slipped out of the side door and jogged in a crouch, keeping as low as he could while not sacrificing speed. He covered the distance with an easy loping trot. The rifle hung loosely from one hand. He focused on the rocky ground. This wasn’t the time to turn his ankle or trip over the uneven terrain. Cruz was depending on him, and he was depending on Cruz. The ideal partnership.
The sky began to pale. The sun lay hidden below the horizon but was already making its presence felt. Darkness drew back the curtain, and the scope of Grant’s vision became wider and longer. He could see rocks and sand farther ahead than just at his feet. He could see the manmade embankment that formed the boundary of the safe zone. He was halfway there. When he glanced over his shoulder he could make out the shambling figure moving across the killing ground, approaching the campfires on the edge of town.
Cruz slowed down. She looked towards Grant, gauging how close he was to his destination. Dull gray light filtered across the landscape. Grant was a darker smudge of gray in the distance.
Grant scrambled behind the only piece of cover, a gentle undulation in the desert floor, and threw himself to the ground. He lay facing the township and the woman he loved. The shadowy figure was growing more distinct by the minute, but she still wasn’t clear enough for him to take the shot. She would have to provide more light for him to kill her. A burden of self-discipline Grant wasn’t sure he possessed. Cruz had courage in abundance. One day he would have to tell her father that. He shuffled into a prone firing position. Legs apart, one knee cocked. He sighted along the barrel and waited.
Cruz stared across the open ground. Grant had disappeared. For a moment panic fluttered her heart until she caught the glint of light off the rifle barrel. She took the empty canteen from her belt and unscrewed the lid. She raised her arm and dropped the metal container. It echoed and banged on the rocky ground. Voices shouted around the campfires. There was a rush of movement.
Grant took a deep breath and relaxed his aim.
The voices grew louder and more aggressive. The mob smelled blood. Silver blades caught dawn’s early light. The crowd surged towards the injured medic. The sight of her bloodstained combat fatigues inflamed them. Machetes flashed in a ritual dance of bloodlust. They closed the distance on the lone soldier in minutes.
Grant eased one finger into the trigger guard.
The surge became a charge.
The shouts became a roar of anger.
Cruz held the flare in front of her and threw one last glance towards her lover.
Grant took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
Cruz yanked the fuse.
Then everything came together in a blaze of symmetry. The flare went up, a whoosh of brilliant white light. The charging militia were frozen for a split second as if in a photographer’s flash. The army medic stood with one hand above her head like the Statue of Liberty. The torch she held spat fire. Her silhouette was sharp and clear and an easy target. The rifle barr
el settled as Grant’s breath reached empty. Machetes were raised. The crowd reached Cruz.
Grant took the shot.
the present
He controls everything.
—Eduardo Cruz
thirty-one
The room was silent. Grant’s voice had descended into a whisper by the end. He’d drunk three glasses of water. It had only taken half an hour, but daylight had already turned to dusk. The smell of Mexican food was stronger. Doc Cruz brought Grant a fourth refill and then stood beside the cot. Grant took a sip, then held the glass in both hands on his lap. He looked spent, and not just because of what the fever had taken out of him. This was the first time he’d spoken about the shooting since he’d left the army.
“So now you can bring your friends in. Do what you will.”
Doc Cruz swung the chair around and pushed it back under the desk. When he turned to face Grant, the sag in his shoulders had gone and there was a sense of purpose in his stance. He looked taller, his chest full of pride.
“What do you think I want to do?”
Grant looked at the man standing over him. “I killed your daughter.”
“And yet she asked you to return her stethoscope.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she would have done that if she thought I would do you harm?”
“Probably not.”
“Definitely not. She spoke of you often. Always with affection. What you did was…”
Doc Cruz’s voice faltered. He let out a sigh.
“…necessary.”
Grant put the glass on the bedside cabinet. “What I did was run. And she paid the price for it.”
“That was her choice. She was going to die anyway. At least this way one of you survived. Pilar could always make the hard choices.”
Grant knew Cruz was right. He knew that Pilar had been right too. Her father appeared to have forgiven him. One of these days he’d have to forgive himself. In the meantime, he was in a house full of Mexicans who had already shown their dislike of him.
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