by Roy Chaney
“Are you all right, Peach?”
“Don’t worry about me, Bodo. I’m in need of some untying, that’s all.”
When the Range Rover disappeared over the hill Hagen picked himself up off the ground and set to work untying Peach’s hands. The Legionnaires had used a length of what looked like communications wire for the purpose, and it was a few minutes before he could work the knot loose. When he was done, Peach massaged her wrists and fixed him with a sorrowful look. “I’m sorry, Bodo. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t even see them in the darkness until it was too late.”
Hagen stepped up and placed his arms around her, kissed her on her dirt-smeared forehead. “Nothing to be sorry about. You did exactly as I asked. Now, where did you leave your car?”
“Around the other side of the hill,” Peach said, motioning toward the hillside behind the shack. “But it’s not going to do us any good. They took my keys. They took my phone too.”
Hagen set to work searching the dead man’s pockets and the interior of the Chevrolet, but he found no cell phone, no police radio, nothing that might help them. There was nothing left to do but begin the long walk out to the ribbon of highway that led back to Las Vegas. As they stepped around McGrath’s body Hagen paused for a moment, looking down. Hagen heard McGrath’s voice—There’s always one more son of a bitch than you counted on, Bodo.
So true, McGrath. So true.
