Lora scarcely breathed as the burros picked their way over vines and branches and around fallen tree trunks. The soldiers rode in stolid silence, never even glancing their way. Like Minelli’s friends, they were being guided toward the plane by a beeping transmittor. Lora’s eyes widened as she imagined the inevitable confrontation.
“What will they do when they run into the others?”
“God knows. I don’t want to.”
Max was on the move again, dragging Lora with him. They had traveled the equivalent of perhaps two city blocks when, from the direction of the plane, they heard the cry, “Alto, Federales!” and then, seconds later, the blast of weapons. Shouts and curses in English and Spanish punctuated the ear-shattering cacophony of exchanged gunfire. Max stopped, listening, then turned to Lora with a grimace.
“Wait here. Don’t move so much as a nostril,” he ordered, and without a backward glance, began to make his way back the way they had come.
Lora stared dumbfounded at that retreating back, looked wildly around the unfriendly jungle in which she had just been left alone, thought simultaneously of snakes and jaguars and stray bullets and capture, and took off after Max in a crouching run.
“I thought I told you to stay put!” he hissed angrily when she caught up with him.
“No way!” Lora answered with succinct though necessarily quiet force.
Max didn’t argue, just shrugged and looked disgusted as he moved off through the jungle. Lora trailed him, imitating his movements, being as silent and inconspicuous as possible. The sound of gunfire had stopped. She didn’t know if that should be reassuring or not. Did that mean that both groups had killed each other—or banded together and were even now moving back their way?
Max dropped to his belly, and Lora followed suit. They were lying behind a little thicket of inch-thick saplings—not a particularly good cover if it had not been for the leaves that had drifted to rest in a pile about two feet high around the front of the grove. Peering over the leaves, following the direction of Max’s eyes, Lora saw that the burros were tied to a rope strung between two vines. The soldiers were nowhere in sight.
“For God’s sake, will you just stay here? I’ll only be gone a couple of minutes.”
Max’s hiss in her ear made her jump. She turned her head to glare at him reproachfully, only to find her face on a level with his feet. He was already belly-crawling around their sheltering grove to slither through the undergrowth toward the plane.
Lora stared after him and debated. Should she follow? She argued with herself as she saw his long body moving snake-like over vines and piles of leaves and fallen branches. As soon as those white rubber soles disappeared into the trees, the issue was no longer in question. She was off through the trees like a shot, belly-crawling in a way that would have astonished her gym teacher, totally ignoring the assault to her bare arms and semi-protected knees.
Max was lying on his belly under a flat-leaved bush, and only looked briefly disgusted when Lora crawled up beside him. His attention was focusing on what was happening just beyond the sheltering leaves, and as Lora peered through the overhanging foliage, she saw why.
The Federales were lying on their bellies in a circle, their rifles uniformly pointed toward the ruined plane that lay half on its side, nose down and tail in the air in the circle’s center. Through the ripped fuselage, Lora could see glimpses of movement inside the plane. She looked over at Max, surprised to find a grin splitting his face.
“The feds have Minelli’s pals holed up inside the plane. Probably think they’re us.” His grin broadened, and he began to creep back away from his vantage point. “That should keep them both occupied for a while.”
His hand on her leg tugged her back, too, and Lora followed him with many a painful grimace as he belly-crawled until he judged it safe to stand up. She stood up then, too, and would have examined her scratched and bruised forearms if he hadn’t immediately grabbed her hand and dragged her after him as he jogged in the direction of the cave. She followed, willy-nilly, stumbling and wincing and trying not to gibber with fear at the sporadic outbursts of exchanged gunfire. When they reached the base of the cliff, Max sent her scrambling ahead of him over the crumbling shale while he followed just behind her.
Lora was breathless by the time she reached the ledge of rock just outside the cave. Her arms hurt, her knees hurt, and she thought she might be winded for life. She was really out of shape. . . . The darkness of the cave coming right on the heels of the brilliant light that bathed the cliff where it rose above the trees blinded her. Lora blinked as she entered. Then she gave a little choked-off scream as she was grabbed from behind.
“Don’t make a single funny move, or I’ll blow the broad’s head off.”
The voice was Minelli’s, and it was clear that the words were addressed to the dark shadow that was Max, slowly walking into the cave in her wake. As Lora’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the arm that was hard around her throat, choking her, also belonged to Minelli. Her eyes rolled to one side to catch a glimpse of his sweat-beaded face. His eyes were fixed on Max, who had come to a poised halt, and his loose-lipped mouth curved in a triumphant grin. Lora felt something cold against her temple, and realized with a shock that he was holding a gun to her head.
“What makes you think I give a damn? You shoot her and I shoot you—takes no skin off my back.” Max’s tone was as casually indifferent as his words.
Lora’s eyes goggled at him over Minelli’s restraining arm. He was pointing his own gun straight at Minelli, his expression as untroubled as if he were contemplating the potential destruction of a fly. The gun at her temple pressed a little closer, and she felt sweat break out all over her.
“Come off it, Maxwell, you’re not going to let me turn this little lady here to hamburger. Now drop the gun.”
“You drop it.” Max’s voice never wavered. Neither did his hand holding the gun.
Lora stared at him with horror, felt the nose of the gun nuzzle at her forehead, and shut her eyes. If she was about to get her brains blown out, she wasn’t going to look.
There was a moment of silence in which neither man backed down an inch. Lora felt herself wilting against Minelli’s large frame. The classic Mexican stand-off—with herself in the middle! Dear God, she prayed, let neither of them decide to call the other’s bluff!
“I’m going to count to three, Maxwell . . .” Minelli’s voice trailed off ominously.
Lora’s eyes flew open, to fix with helpless pleading on Max. He looked as cool as a Popsicle. She wanted to plead with him to throw down his gun, but her voice no longer seemed to work.
“One . . .”
“Better think about it carefully, Minelli. I can’t miss at this range.”
“Two . . .”
“You’ll be hamburger right along with her. I’m aiming right between your eyes.”
Lora shut her eyes again, squinching them up against the expected bang. Oh, God, she was going to die, she was going to die, and all because the pigheaded fool she was stupid enough to love thought he could play chicken with her life. . . .
“Drop the gun, Maxwell.”
Lora opened her eyes to find that DiAngelo had come noiselessly into the cave behind Max, and now stood with a pistol pressed to his spine. Max dropped the gun, and Lora sagged with relief. Thank God for DiAngelo. . . . There was a clatter as Max’s pistol bounced over the floor. Max grunted as DiAngelo jammed his gun harder into Max’s spine.
“Over there. With your friend.” Minelli released his chokehold on her throat as DiAngelo shoved Max in the direction of the stalagmite fence. Lora saw that Tunafish sat on the other side, trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey and gagged with his own shirt. His face and bare torso glistened with sweat, and Lora could only imagine the roughing up the two thugs must have given him.
“Tie him up.” Minelli’s arm slid around her waist as he spoke, holding her so that her back was pressed against his stomach. “Then he can tell us what he d
id with the dope before Fat Frank and the boys get here. Fat Frank doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” This last was said with a malicious smile at Max, who looked back at him expressionlessly.
“What makes you think your buddies are here, Minelli?” Max spoke with cool dispassion as DiAngelo moved behind him.
Minelli grinned. “Blackie here let out a yell when he saw choppers overhead. Got so excited he forgot about us. So we made our move.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Minelli, but those choppers belong to the feds. We saw them out in the jungle.”
DiAngelo looked over Max’s shoulder at Minelli. “Tony?” His voice was uneasy.
“Another bluff, Maxwell?” Minelli sneered, giving DiAngelo a hard look. “Get on with it.”
Max shrugged. His eyes never left Minelli as DiAngelo carefully laid his gun down on a rock behind him and reached to pull Max’s hands behind his back, one at a time and with considerable force to judge from Max’s wince.
Minelli was staring undecidedly at Max. “You tell me, baby,” he said suddenly to Lora, his arm tightening around her middle as he pulled her tighter against him. The strength of his grip threatened to crack her ribs. Lora silently sucked in air before she answered, praying that she would say the right thing. She had no illusions about the desperation of their position. . . .
“Answer me, baby.” He tightened his arm violently. “Are the cops out there?”
Lora gasped. “Yes, they’re out there!”
“How do you know they’re feds?” His voice was hard, suspicious. The arm around her middle was causing her physical pain.
“They wore uniforms. They were Mexican. They looked like police.”
DiAngelo spoke up, sounding frightened. “What we going to do, Tony? The feds . . .”
Minelli considered a moment. “So the feds are out there. So what? We hole up here and we wait. Fat Frank and the boys will be along soon. Hell, they’re probably right on the feds’ tails. We just got to wait.”
Lora watched in despair as DiAngelo began to wrap the very bindings that Max had used on him around Max’s wrists. Soon she would be at Minelli and DiAngelo’s mercy—she had no doubts at all about Minelli’s intentions as far as she was concerned. And he would just as certainly kill Max and Tunafish. Tunafish was totally out of commission, and Max was just as helpless with a gun trained on him and his hands being tied. Once the restraints were secured, they would have no chance. That left only her to do something, anything. . . . But what? If she could somehow manage to distract Minelli, Max might be able to overpower DiAngelo and get his hands on a gun. . . .
Lora took a deep breath—or as deep as she could with Minelli’s arm crushing her ribs.
“At least we got entertainment,” Minelli was saying, his tone jovial. “The broad here’s been giving you a real good time, Maxwell. She can start spreading it around a little while we wait. But we don’t mean to deprive you altogether—you can watch.”
Lora shuddered inwardly at this confirmation of the fate that awaited her at Minelli’s hands. As if to emphasize his words, the hand that had been gripping her waist slid up to grasp her breast. He squeezed hard, his meaty fingers pinching her nipple. She cried out at the pain of it, then literally saw red. Without even having to think about it, she was kicking back to catch him in the kneecap. He groaned as the force of the blow caught him unawares and reached instinctively for his injured leg. The gun lowered and his hold on Lora loosened enough to allow her to whirl and jam the heel of her palm hard against the underside of his nose. The move that had served her so well all that time ago with Max worked equally well with Minelli. He howled, staggering backward, the gun forgotten as he clapped his hand to his bleeding nose. Lora tore free of his grasping hands and shoved him with all her might. He staggered, tripped over Tunafish’s pallet, and fell. Behind her, Lora heard a shot and the sounds of a struggle. . . .
“I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” Minelli screamed, his hand coming away from his nose as he jerked the gun up to point it at Lora.
She screamed, dropping to the floor and covering her head as a shot exploded in her ears. Her scream echoed and re-echoed through the chamber, but she didn’t seem to feel any pain. Minelli must have missed. . . .
She opened her eyes a fraction, lowering her arms so that she could see what was going on. To her heartfelt relief, Max stood nearby, a gun held purposefully in his hands. Minelli was rolling around on the floor, groaning, his left hand clutching his mangled right arm, which was pouring blood. DiAngelo was high-tailing it out through the mouth of the cave. Max snapped a shot off after him, but to no avail: they could hear the sounds as he slipped and slid down the shale.
“You are one awesome lady, did you know that?” Max said, shaking his head in admiration at Lora, who was getting unsteadily to her feet. “I never did ask you: where did you learn that stuff? It’s scary.”
“I took a rape prevention course.”
Max grinned widely, and Lora returned his grin, sparing scarcely a glance for Minelli as she moved to untie Tunafish, whose eyes were bulging over the gag. As far as she was concerned, Minelli deserved to bleed to death. . . .
“I don’t believe it!” Tunafish burst out as soon as she eased the gag from his mouth. His head swiveled around so that he was staring at Lora. “You took that slime-bag out! All by yourself! Boss, do you believe it?”
Max grinned again. “Oh, yeah. She pulled that on me once. Hurt like hell, too. I’ve been real nice to her ever since.”
Tunafish chuckled. “I noticed.” Lora jerked on the rags binding his hands, and he winced, grimacing as she pulled them free. “Sorry about lettin’ myself get ambushed like that. We heard the helicopters and then, bam! They were on me. Must have gotten themselves untied some time ago, and been waitin’ their chance.”
Max shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You okay?” Tunafish nodded. “Lora, tie something around Minelli’s arm, will you? I’d kind of like him to come out of this alive—I was paid to deliver him.”
“You’re doing a hell of a poor job,” Minelli snarled from the floor. Max snapped the gun around at him.
“I can do a worse one,” he said tightly.
Minelli subsided.
Lora wrapped Tunafish’s shirt around Minelli’s arm and tied it with rags from Max’s windbreaker, not caring that Minelli groaned and winced with pain. He was bleeding profusely from a large hole in his upper arm as well as from his nose, but not, she thought with some regret, enough to die from. When she was finished, Max hog-tied him with the leather thong and left him sitting.
“We’ve got a problem,” Max said when he rejoined her and Tunafish. “Everybody out there must have heard those gunshots, so it’s going to be just a matter of time until they find the cave. But only the feds and the mob are here so far, though I imagine Ortega is right behind them. He’s probably hanging back, watching to see what happens before making his move. But what we’re going to have to do in the meantime is get out of here and hide in the jungle. Those guys out there will be searching this mountain with a fine-tooth comb.”
“What about Tunafish?” Lora could barely get the words out around the dryness that suddenly afflicted her tongue and throat. Her worst nightmares were coming true. Not only was Max’s plan not going to work, Ortega hadn’t even shown up! What if he never did?
“I carried Tunafish up here, I can carry him back down again. Thank God he’s been on a banana and fish diet! Maybe he’s shed a few pounds.”
Neither Tunafish nor Lora bothered to respond to this bit of forced humor. Instead, Tunafish pointed at Minelli.
“What about him?”
“Leave him for his friends—or the feds.” Max turned to look at Lora. “Grab as much of our gear as you can carry, and let’s get the hell out of here.” Lora scrambled to obey as Max moved toward Tunafish. “Come on, buddy.”
“You, gringos! This is the Federales! Throw down your weapons and come out!”
The shout made them jump.
They looked at each other in nervous silence. It was too late to hide. . . . The moment of truth was at hand.
The three of them moved as one toward the mouth of the cave, Lora and Max on either side of Tunafish, helping him. Despite the fact that he was wounded and securely tied, Max kept an eye on Minelli, who was still rolling around and moaning and did not look to be in good enough shape to cause anyone any trouble at all. Lora dismissed him from her mind as, standing flush against the inside of the cave, the three of them peered out. What she saw below brought butterflies to her stomach
“You have three minutes to throw down your weapons and come out!”
The soldiers she and Max had seen earlier waited at the foot of the cliff, their impressive arsenal of weapons trained on the mouth of the cave. DiAngelo stood under guard at the rear of the formation; so did the six other men that Max had identified as Minelli’s friends.
“What do we do?” The terse question was Tunafish’s.
Lora looked at him, and then at Max. Then they all three looked back out at the waiting Federales.
“We hold them off for as long as we can and pray that Ortega gets here,” Max said firmly.
Lora looked down at the waiting army and swallowed. Unbidden, the last scene from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid popped into her mind, when the two men, weary and wounded, were left facing the entire Bolivian Army. She sincerely hoped that none of the three of them were about to suffer Butch Cassidy’s fate. From the number of guns below, the police had come prepared for a massacre.
XXIV
The three of them were still staring gloomily down at the Federales when a squad of dirt bikes came roaring out of the jungle. Helmeted drivers revved the cycles toward the astonished feds, who had turned to gape at the emergence of the first shiny red motorcycle and still hadn’t recovered the presence of mind to fire on them. About half the cycles had a second man riding shotgun, or machine gun in this case, and these gunners opened fire with whooping abandon as the cycles zoomed and leaped and skidded to form a moving circle around the feds, who were at last beginning to fumble with their weapons.
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