The weapon glanced off Lincoln’s right shoulder, cutting flesh but not doing serious damage. Lincoln pushed past the pain and got inside Corbett’s arms, where the machete could do no damage. He charged forward, hoping to bowl over the pilot. But even on the muddy ground, even with his thigh gushing blood, the man held his position. Lincoln’s fingers clawed at Corbett’s throat. Corbett got his left hand between them, the butt of his palm against Lincoln’s chin, and pushed, trying to bend Lincoln’s neck backward. At the same time, Lincoln could hear him trying to reverse his grip on the machete, so he could stab inward.
Then Lincoln’s foot slid on the muddy slope, and his hand released the pilot’s throat. Corbett completed his grip change and cut toward Lincoln’s back. Lincoln altered his strategy—instead of going for the throat, he slammed his fist down, hard, on Corbett’s injured thigh.
The pilot screeched in pain and rage, and his leg gave way beneath him. His face was dark red, his long hair caked with mud. He still had a grip on his weapon, and he struck wildly at Lincoln, catching him glancing blows from time to time.
But he was down on one knee, his other leg bent, his balance precarious. The more he swung that blade, the more he threw off his own center of balance. Lincoln waited until the blade had swished past, then stepped in, throwing a punch with all the force of his shoulder and back. His fist smashed into Corbett’s mouth. He felt teeth break under its weight, and when he stepped back again, blood bubbled up and ran from the corners of Corbett’s lips.
Corbett was still mostly upright, though he was listing. Lincoln stepped to his left, dodging the machete, then sent a fast snap-kick into the pilot’s good leg. He wasn’t sure if Corbett’s tibia snapped, but the blow knocked that leg out from under him. Corbett went down on his back in the mud, and the machete flew from his grip.
Weaponless, Lincoln dropped onto Corbett’s chest, forcing the wind from him. Corbett protected his throat, but Lincoln hammered his face, landing punch after punch. His fists tore the pilot’s right cheek, splitting it to the bone. He smashed the other cheek, and Corbett’s left eye spilled from its socket. Pain shot up from Lincoln’s fists from every blow, but he kept picturing Sho on their bed, her throat slashed, and he kept swinging and swinging long after Corbett’s arms had fallen limp at his sides, after the torso on which Lincoln sat rose and fell no more.
Finally, he rolled off the brutalized hunk of flesh that had been Brad Corbett, went to his knees in the mud, and wept for the woman he had loved. Above, the sky opened up and the rain came and washed away the tears and the blood and the gore. But it couldn’t touch the memories, and those were what hurt the worst.
EPILOGUE
* * *
Three days later, Tommy Pinchot landed an Air America U-10 at the Vang Khom airstrip. Tommy stayed in the cockpit, looking glum, but Donovan climbed down. He wore a white blazer and a dark blue dress shirt and white slacks, and he looked more like a banker on vacation than a spy.
“We found Corbett’s plane,” he said. “Wrecked. Looks like it didn’t make a landing at a mountain airfield and fell off the fucking side.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Lincoln suggested. “I have a story to tell you.”
They hiked up from the village and sat on two big rocks near the peak, Vang Khom below them to the south and the Plain of Jars to the north. Lincoln indicated the Plain. “He’s down there.”
Donovan had been about to strike a match, but he paused, eyed Lincoln, and raised an eyebrow. “You know that how?”
“Told you I had a story,” Lincoln said. “Here’s what happened.”
He started from the beginning, told Donovan about his relationship with Sho, about Corbett and the poppies, about Mai, and about Corbett’s final betrayal. He almost teared up when he got to that part, but he held it in check. He hadn’t been back in the longhouse except to dress Sho and prepare her for burial, and to collect the cash he had tucked away in there. He was sleeping in the open because it was easier than being inside the place where he had found her.
Finally, he described the hunt for Corbett and the fight that had ended it.
“I tossed him in one of the jars,” he said. “You could search for a hundred years and never find him. I don’t even remember which one. I’d never been to that jar field before, and I wasn’t really paying attention to where the hell I was at the time.”
“You threw Corbett in a fucking jar?” Donovan asked, incredulous.
“He made a hell of a splash, too. Thing must have been half-full of rainwater.” Lincoln considered how it must sound to Donovan and added, “Guess I fucked up, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Corbett was CIA, right?”
“He was a contractor.”
“Whatever. He worked with you guys. He was an American.”
“He was an asshole,” Donovan said. “I can’t believe he did that.”
“Yeah, I guess he had it comin’.”
“He sure did.”
Donovan handed Lincoln the pack and let him light a smoke from the tip of his own. They sat on the rocks for a few minutes, both men staring off into the Plain. Lincoln couldn’t be sure what was on Donovan’s mind, but he knew what was on his.
When Donovan spoke again, it was clear he’d been thinking along the same lines.
“You want to stay?”
“In Vang Khom? Fuck no.”
“Anywhere in Laos.”
“Not really,” Lincoln said. “Not at all, in fact. This place is fucked up.”
“Like Vietnam’s any better.”
“At least there the people trying to kill you are the enemy.”
“Usually,” Donovan admitted. “Not always. Anyway, I can get you out of here. Vietnam, Germany, stateside, wherever you want to go. Just say the word.”
“Vietnam’s okay,” Lincoln said. “That’s where the war is.”
“It’s here, too,” Donovan countered. “We’re not done in Laos, you and me. I don’t want to get on some goddamn high horse, but democracy’s important enough to protect anyplace it’s in danger, and that includes Laos. But you can go back to Vietnam for a while.”
“What about Corbett? Will I face any charges?”
“Corbett died trying to desert to the north. In the process, he crashed the plane he wanted to trade for privileged status. He was a fucking traitor to his country, and he deserved to die.”
“But that’s—”
“Lincoln, the stories we tell about this place are what becomes the official version. Sooner or later, they become the truth. You see anybody who’s going to contradict it?”
Lincoln looked out toward the Plain again. The ghosts of the ancient travelers, maybe.
But they had been quiet for a long time. They had seen a lot of death. They wouldn’t say anything.
“Guess not.”
“Damn straight,” Donovan said. “Corbett will go down as a would-be Benedict Arnold, and when—if—Special Forces soldiers even mention his name, they’ll spit at the memory. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you out, Lincoln—here, and back in the world. We’re a hell of a team, and it would be stupid to break that up.”
“You sure?” Lincoln asked.
“You got any more dumb questions, soldier?”
Lincoln sucked down his last drag and squashed the butt under his heel. “Just one,” he said. “How soon can we get off this fucking mountain?”
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO ALL THE VETERANS OF THE VIETNAM WAR AND TO THOSE WHO DIDN’T MAKE IT HOME.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors would like to thank the folks at 2K and Hangar 13 for creating the Mafia III game. Great appreciation also goes out to Mark Irwin and the gang at Insight Editions, and to Howard and Kim-Mei for their invaluable support. As always, thanks to the boys for putting up with us while we write, and to Catherine.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell and Jeff Mariotte have written more than sixty novels betw
een them, some of the most recent of which are the Shard Axe series, a trilogy based on Neil Gaiman’s Lady Justice comic books (Rockwell), Deadlands: Thunder Moon Rising, and Empty Rooms (Mariotte). They’ve also written dozens of short stories, separately and together. Some of their solo stories are collected in Nine Frights (Mariotte) and Bridges of Longing and Other Strange Passageways (Rockwell). Their collaborations include the novel 7 Sykos and short works “A Soul in the Hand,” “John Barleycorn Must Die,” “V-Wars: The Real HousewiVes of Scottsdale,” “X-Files: Transmissions,” “The Lottons Show,” “Letting Go the Ghosts,” “Son of Blob,” and “A Single Feather,” and the soon-to-be-published novel trilogy Xena: Warrior Princess—Gods of War. Other miscellaneous projects include Rhysling Award–nominated poetry (Rockwell) and Bram Stoker Award–nominated comic books (Mariotte). You can find more complete bibliographies and news about upcoming projects, both collaborative and solo, at marsheilarockwell.com and jeffmariotte.com.
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All rights reserved.
Published by Insight Editions, San Rafael, California, in 2017. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.
ISBN: 978-1-60887-993-9
ISBN: 978-1-68383-047-4 (ebook)
Publisher: Raoul Goff
Art Director: Chrissy Kwasnik
Associate Publisher: Vanessa Lopez
Managing Editor: Alan Kaplan
Senior Editor: Mark Irwin
Editorial Assistant: Maya Alpert
Production Editor: Rachel Anderson
Production Manager: Alix Nicholaeff
Mafia III Page 25
