34:
Overland Runaway
El Chaltén,
Argentina
Wrenching it from its cocoon within the lid of the chest, Benjamin King spun around and with savage ferocity, an act of desperation, he sliced the golden blade, once the weapon of an Ancient Egyptian, across the guard’s throat, gouging deep. Even after so many years, the knife slid through flesh and cartilage as though it was butter, crunching against the bone of his guard’s spine. He was dead pretty much instantly and, in horror, King watched as the body slumped to the floor. The impact would alert Bill in the living room below. He’d kill Adjo’s family, then order Sid’s death-
Adjo moved as fast as lightning and caught the soldier’s body, lowering it softly and silently to the floor.
King stared at the bloodied dagger in his trembling hand, his mind numb.
During his dash through Xibalba he knew he was responsible for the deaths of some of his attackers, but he had never in a million years contemplated the brutal murder of a man, staring into his horror struck eyes as the knife plunged deep, as-
“It is okay,” Adjo whispered. His words seemed harsh on his ears, loud, shocking him from the nightmare of the Welshman’s face as it flashed again and again through his mind.
Gently, Adjo placed a hand on King’s trembling wrist and lowered the knife. It was solid gold, its handle once wrapped in leather that had long since worn away, its hilt decorated with tiny hieroglyphs and precious gems. King remembered Emily Hamilton’s description of a golden dagger which Abubakar had kept and knew this was the same one, but how could it be the map he sought?
“We must do something or that man will kill my family,” Adjo refocused his thoughts on their present plight.
His family? King shook himself back into reality. Adjo’s family. Sid. He didn’t have the time to feel guilt or self-loathing over what he had done. He had to take charge of the situation. He nodded once, firmly, to Adjo then knelt quietly on the floorboards, taking a moment to wrap the dagger in an old shirt which had been tossed from the chest. He then slipped the weapon into the inside pocket of his jacket and reached over to pluck the dead man’s gun from his fingers.
“We need to get the timing just right,” he said in hushed tones to Adjo.
“Is everything all right up there?” Bill’s voice crackled loudly through the guard’s radio.
“Shit,” King cursed. He knew that any delay in a response would rouse the other man’s suspicions. He plucked the dead man’s radio to his lips. “Sure boss,” he said in what he hoped was something akin to a Welsh accent.
He checked his watch. It had been almost fifteen minutes since Bill’s last check in with his pilot. It was almost time to act. “We’ve got the map. Coming down,” he added briefly.
“Copy that.”
“What do we do?” Adjo asked, a stir of panic in his voice.
King had already worked out a plan of attack. “You go first,” he told the hostel owner. “When I say, I need you to create some sort of distraction, get Bill looking away from me.” He was an amateur with a gun. Bill was an expert. He knew that in a direct shootout with his captor he’d end up looking like Billy Clanton at the O.K. Corral. Dead. “Go,” he ordered.
Adjo paused a second by his toolbox and plucked out something which King could not see. He then proceeded to the hatch and descended out of sight.
“Slowly,” he heard Bill warn.
King moved to the hatch and watched Adjo hit the ground. Bill’s voice called up to him. “Okay Ben, come on down.” Then, to Adjo again; “Move over there, stand by the wall.”
King swallowed hard, feeling his heart racing in his chest, desperate to explode. He swung his legs onto the ladder rungs and began his descent, his clammy hands slipping on the wood. Just as he lowered his head through the hatch he caught sight of the Welshman’s dead eyes staring back at him. It was an image that he’d never forget.
His boots touched the ground. “Nothing rash, Ben,” Bill warned. King pretended to ignore him when in fact his attention was fixed solely upon the man holding the gun. The timing had to be just right. Bill would be expecting his lackey to appear at any moment. If he didn’t then he would start firing. King would have to shoot back but if he did that before he checked in with the pilot-
“Okay, I got ‘em covered. Come on down,” Bill called to the dead man upstairs.
King froze. He felt Adjo’s eyes boring into him . . . now? he pleaded, caring only about his family. When the Welshman didn’t reply-
Bill clicked on his radio again.
Damn. King’s sweat-slicked finger tightened on the trigger-
“This is Bill,” he said into his radio. “Fifteen minute check in.”
“Copy that,” the disembodied voice of the pilot replied. “Resetting the clock.”
That was King’s cue. He checked his watch, noting the exact time, then, imperceptibly, he nodded at the ever vigilant Adjo. Instantly, the window on the opposite side of the room exploded in a shower of glass. It shocked King, having not been expecting quite that and he wasted a valuable moment realising the source of the explosion. A nail gun had appeared in Adjo’s hand, loosing a single projectile through the pane of glass.
King snapped out of his shock, raised his pistol and-
Bill turned to him.
King fired. Once, twice, three times. Each shot punched silently into Bill’s torso, hurling him backwards so that he crashed into the far wall and slouched down it to the ground.
Adjo dropped the nail gun and was in motion instantly, running to his screaming family. King forced himself not to stand there in a dazed stupor and bolted for the stairs, hurling himself down them two at a time.
“Watch out!”
Adjo’s warning came too late. Bill’s entire body slammed into King from behind, rugby tackling him so that they crashed down the remaining steps and through the door at the bottom, sprawling out into the corridor. A young couple who had apparently decided the corridor was the best place to make-out jumped in terror at the sight of the two armed men.
“Forgot about the fucking body armour, Ben,” Bill gasped. While he was evidently in a great deal of pain, the bullets bruising his ribcage, Bill was nowhere near as dead as King would have like.
He pushed out from under the other man but Bill smashed his forehead down against his nose. He felt gristle crunch and searing agony as bone was crushed, an explosion of blood erupting out in violent bursts.
Bill raised his gun but arched backwards in sudden pain, forgetting his attack and reaching behind him in a desperate attempt to yank what King suddenly realised was a nail out of his back. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, Adjo stood, nail gun raised.
“Go!” he shouted. “Get your girlfriend!”
Unable to reach the nail, Bill instead twisted and let loose a volley of fire up the stairs. Adjo darted backwards, losing the nail gun which bounced and clattered down the steps.
King heeded the man’s advice but not before, ignoring the searing pain of his pummelled nose, he wrenched Bill’s radio from his ear and smashed it upon the ground. At least now he couldn’t call ahead to order Sid’s execution.
In response, Bill whirled again, aiming at him. King bolted, stupidly leaving his own pistol on the ground. He dashed after the fleeing couple and burst out upon the balcony above the hostel. The couple’s screams echoed through the cavernous space as King dived down the wooden stairs. Instants later, Bill tore out of the corridor, two pistols in hand now and fired indiscriminately in King’s direction. King saw an eruption of blood burst from the chest of one hippy-looking man as others dived out of the way, fleeing in a mad panic.
King tore through them, keeping low, his broad shoulders muscling through the crowd as they stampeded towards the exit. Feet and hands and bodies were everywhere. Another person went down in a cry of agony and then King was outside, the frigid air smacking him in the face, raw against his smashed nose.
But Bill wasn’t far behind.
The coughs of the silenced pistol were deadly, propelling bullets after the fleeing archaeologist. He barrelled through the crowd as it began to disperse, and headed for the two bikes left on the pavement. Eruptions of dust as bullets slammed into the ground persuaded him otherwise and he turned, darting away from the bikes.
He needed a vehicle. Quick. He couldn’t spare a second to glance at his watch but he knew the minutes were ticking by. He had to reach Sid before the latest fifteen minute deadline was up.
His eyes fell upon one of the two enormous overland trucks parked on the hostel’s driveway.
“King!” Bill’s voice echoed in the air. “Give me the map!”
But King was already in motion. He literally hurled a hapless runaway traveller out of his path and dived towards the truck. The cab had been lowered and the driver/mechanic had been inside, revving the engine. He was only now clambering down the step to see what all the commotion was when he was suddenly wrestled to the ground by the big black man.
King’s tackle had saved his life, however, as a bullet slammed into the inside of the open door.
“What the hell?” the driver demanded with a New Zealand twang but King ignored him, bounced to his feet and leapt inside the cab.
“No!” Bill roared in desperation as he realised the archaeologist’s plan. He ran forward, both pistols raised and threw himself around the open door of the truck, just as King slammed the vehicle into gear.
Bill fired.
King froze. His time was up.
Nothing happened.
It took both men only an instant to realise that the mercenary’s guns were both out of ammo. But King reacted fractionally faster. Just as Bill was about to scramble into the cab to throttle him, he jerked down hard on the accelerator, the wheels spinning, rubber burning. Then he wrenched off the handbrake and the massive yellow truck lurched forward. Bill lost his balance, perched only on the step leading to the cab. He grabbed hold of the open door to steady himself just as he saw King’s plan.
At the last possible moment, the mercenary jumped from the cab just as the driver’s side slammed into the parked bikes, crunching metal. Sparks spat, igniting the crushed fuel tanks and an eruption of flame lifted the cab into the air.
King cried out as he felt the lorry buck beneath him and for a moment he thought it was going to roll but then it slammed back down. He accelerated through the flames, the explosion ripping the open door off its hinges and whipping inside. He felt his skin blister in the heat but the speed of the vehicle soon took him beyond the explosion.
With a small sense of triumph, King took back control of the overland truck and hurled her forwards, scattering the crowds of bewildered travellers and locals alike.
Bill rolled away from the explosion, shielding his head with his hands. The moment it died down he was on his feet, face twisted into an angry grimace.
King had the map. He couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
He still held one of the two pistols in his hand, having lost the other during his escape from the explosion. It may have been empty but no one around him knew that. He spun, levelling his weapon at the crowd who had stood motionless, stunned by the destruction. Now, with the crazed gunman back in business, they resumed anew their crazy antics.
He ran across the drive to the second truck, flung open the cab door and clambered inside. The driver of this vehicle, painted blue and white, had fled, leaving the keys in the ignition. He turned them, pumped the gas, slammed it into drive and shot off the mark, spinning the wheel quickly to pull onto the main road after King.
“Damn!” King cursed as he caught sight of the blue and white truck in his passenger side wing mirror, the driver’s having vanished along with the door. The cool Patagonian air whipped inside, ruffling his clothing and the loose crisp packets and sandwich boxes that were strewn in the passenger foot well.
He crunched up through the gears but it quickly became apparent that the lumbering lorry was no racing car. It was slow to respond and, even with his foot to the floor, the pace seemed plodding.
Bill was only a hundred yards behind him but King knew that once he reached the T-junction at the end of the high street he’d have to slow considerably to make the ninety degree turn-
“Unless,” he muttered out loud. The turn was fast approaching, the opposite side of the road blocked by a row of wooden summer-house-like structures. The one directly ahead had a large menu board outside, professing to offer Argentina’s best steak but its lights were out, the building in darkness.
The junction was getting closer. He glanced in the wing mirror. Bill seemed to be advancing. King didn’t slow.
“Hell, I knew I shouldn’t have hung around with Nate,” he grumbled, then, believing Raine would do the exact same thing, he pressed hard on the truck’s horn- a warning to anyone inside the restaurant to get out. As he’d suspected, no one did.
Instead of slowing to make the turn, King ground the accelerator into the floorboard and hurled the truck straight forward.
“Got you,” Bill hissed in triumph as he realised the trap King had led himself into. The T-junction would be impossible for a vehicle of that size to navigate in anything more than first gear. And the moment he slowed, Bill intended to ram into the back of the truck and-
“No way,” he gasped as he saw the yellow truck accelerate towards the row of houses. He wouldn’t have thought the archaeologist would have it in him and expected him to chicken out at any moment. But King proved his determination as he threw the overland vehicle straight into the wooden building at a terrific speed. The truck barrelled through, hurling smashed beams of wood and giant splinters high into the air. They whistled all around Bill’s own truck as he raced on through the wreckage after him.
“Whoa!” King exclaimed as the steering wheel bucked and trembled. His windscreen shattered as a splintered beam crunched through it, imbedding itself into the passenger chair. But he didn’t slow. Instead he ploughed on through the restaurant, crunching the wooden building beneath the bulk of the truck and then steered to the right, smashing through yet another wooden hut before crunching back down onto the road. He lost some of his revs and worked down through the gears, felt the power of the engine take hold again and lurch on forward.
Seconds behind him, Bill’s own vehicle emerged from the devastation in an equal state of disrepair, its windscreen shattered, its bodywork scratched and impaled with spears of wood.
The road was straight now. Straight, that is, except for the traffic island on the outskirts of town, upon the centre of which was mounted a sign that read ‘Welcome to El Chaltén.’
King exploded his yellow truck through that as well!
“Are you crazy?!” Bill yelled at King even though he knew the other man couldn’t hear. Nevertheless he followed him up and over the mound of the island, knowing he’d be unable to slow enough to navigate around it, and then followed King out of town, leaving smouldering ruins and shell-shocked travellers behind.
But this chase was far from over.
Coaxing every last ounce of speed out of his lorry, Bill pushed forward, closing on King.
Slammed hard from behind, King almost lost control. The giant steering wheel spun wildly through his hands and he felt the truck pulling itself to the right, towards the edge of the road. He gripped the wheel hard and threw his entire body weight to the left. The truck moved slowly back towards the middle of the road just as he rounded a left hand bend, following the course of the river.
Bill tried to ram him again, but this time King was ready and spun the wheel so that Bill’s cab just missed the back of his own vehicle. Bill lost speed, falling back after his failed assault. King could just picture him cursing as he crunched back down through the gears to pick up his speed but, sure enough, he was on his tail again.
Shortly before impact, however, Bill swung away from him, trying a different tact. The shock of inactio
n jolted King, lapsing his concentration for just a moment. That was all Bill needed to pull alongside him, driving hard to heave his metal beast up so that they were level. Head to head.
The wind rushed through the shattered windscreen as King glanced across into the other cab. He saw Bill raise a gun and wondered what he was doing. He was out of ammo and surely hadn’t been able to reload while driving under such conditions-
A jolt of pain slammed through King as a two-inch long nail dug deep into his upper bicep, propelled across the distance between the cabs by Adjo’s nail gun. Bill must have retrieved it before pursuing him.
Shocked by the sudden pain, King lost control. His truck veered to the left, threatening to topple off the road and plunge down the sheer drop into the river. King pushed through the pain and grasped the steering wheel, his arm screaming at the effort as blood poured from the wound. Angry, he hurled the vehicle to the right and Bill saw what he intended to do a fraction of a second before he rammed broadside into his attacker. The thunderous boom of impact was followed by the ear-splitting shriek of sheering metal as, like ancient titans, the two giant overland trucks locked themselves into mortal combat.
Bill pushed back against King but King pushed back harder. He felt the vibrations quaking through the lorry as Bill attempted to speed up but he knew he couldn’t let that happen. If Bill took the lead then he’d screech to a halt and block the road.
He had to get to Sid.
King pushed ahead harder than ever and, clawing at each other, desperate in their need to conquer one another, the two vehicles sped at phenomenal speed down the mountain roads.
King felt his control slacken, the pain in his arm making it difficult to hold the wheel with all his strength. He felt himself being pushed closer and closer towards the edge of the road and the sheer drop beyond.
Moon Mask Page 35
