by Dean Ing
Rick said, "How's your ammo?"
"Down to the last clip. I'm too fucked up with this dead arm to throw the clip and count them."
"You better click the stud over to single fire," Rick said.
The other made a face in pain and growled, "You think I'm a dizzard? I long since did that."
Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the gunport. He squinted and gently, gently, squeezed the trigger.
"What the hell you shooting at?" Alfredo growled. "Did you get him?"
"I don't know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something move. You think the bastards might be gone?"
The other laughed bitterly. "You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why should they be gone? We've had it. Whatever they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any fire from the other boys for ten minutes. They've had it."
"What they want is Dunninger," Rick said emptily. "He was the only one here when they came in. All the family just left for Mexico. Have you called him?"
"Hell, no. He's down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his pants. Damn this arm. You know, maybe Cliff had some shells left."
Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. "He had an assault rifle," he said. "The ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros."
Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you've used up your rocket shells, use his gun, I'd get it myself but you can move easier."
Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully made his way over to the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.
The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn't want them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firepower to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.
Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.
He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear and apprehension by talk, "What the hell happened, anyway? Who are they?"
"The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn't pulled the other four guys off, we would've had a chance. But eight of us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons of bitches hit."
Rick said, "Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up for replacements."
"Yeah?" the other sneered. "Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger's family leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all in the dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job like this."
Rick said wanly, "You should have thought of that during the two years we've been on this cushy assignment."
"Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won't kill us. Hell, they don't want us, they want old man Dunninger.''
His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically. "Sure, Al. And then spend the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation, any pension, any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got two kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable Basic Stock so they won't wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of their lives."
"Oh, great," the other sneered. "Two kids, eh? A regular one-man population explosion. Well, I'm not that far around the bend, Rick. I don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there'll let us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We'll worry about him when the time comes. We've both copped one, haven't we? What does he expect?"
Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he could hear something going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn't resist anyway.
There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he could move. A thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
He called out finally, "You all right, Al? They've got some kind of heavy weapon out there. That was an explosive shell, not just a bomb."
"Shit! Whad'da'ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we've had it! Yell to them. Toss in the towel."
Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It sagged inward.
"Oh, Jesus," Rick panted. "Why can't those four new guards show up? Take 'em from the rear." He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic around.
"You stupid dreamer, you," Alfredo got out. "They're not coming. We've been set up. Left holding the fucking sack."
The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.
"Here they come," Alfredo snarled.
Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and jumped immediately to each side, crouching. They carried automatic shotguns, on the ready.
Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger, widened his eyes at the weapon's failure to fire, pulled desperately again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, "I'm out of it. Don't shoot! Give me a break!"
The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second. Grimed by dirt, eyes wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick look at the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
He stared down at Rick and said, "Why didn't you dizzards give up? We weren't after you. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to make some kind of decent living."
"Yeah, yeah," Rick panted. "That's it. Don't shoot."
The young gunman looked around at his companion. "Call for the medic, and Ostrander."
The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, "It's secure. There's only one left and he's wounded. Where's the doc?"
A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He was middle-aged, and toted an old-fashioned assault rifle under one arm.
He looked down at Rick and said, "Where's Dunninger? Don't make us force you to tell."
Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply. He got out, "Down in the bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door."
"He armed?"
A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair, and obviously tired. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his eyes around, dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came
over to Rick.
Rick said, "Yeah, he's armed," to the one in command.
"That trap door locked from inside?"
"I don't know. I've never been down there."
The doctor said, "Shut up. Let me look at you," and knelt down next to the fallen bodyguard.
But the commander said, "Is there any way of communicating with him from up here?"
"That phone over there, hung on the wall."
"Shut up," the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to his mouth and ear, and activated a stud on its side.
He said, "Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we'll have to blow you out and that might wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out of there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall, nobody's coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a scrambler blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we scrape you out."
He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the wall. He looked at the steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.
Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked down at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle, who had passed out.
The doctor said, "Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the chopper."
One of the newcomers grumbled, "Why not let him die? Chet is dead and two of the other boys have copped one."
"Because we're not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft."
While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap door began cautiously to rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive man in his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling. He was clad in swimming trunks.
"Come on, come on," the commander of the terrorists said. The other climbed out fearfully and put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his head. "Come on, this way."
Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice, "Where are we going?"
"To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it."
"Oh, don't worry. Don't worry about that. You'll collect it. Don't worry."
"We're not worrying—either way."
They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall toward the front door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.
Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each other banteringly.
The commander said, "One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Cozzini, bandage his eyes. He's got a reputation as a sharpy."
When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached for altitude. The commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, "Get out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of those damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour before the IABI is after us."
"Right," the pilot said.
Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and the children were now safely in Mexico.
And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn't been getting along these days—ever since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city. The group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!
Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers' demands? After all, it was only money. There was always more, endlessly more, where it came from.
The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led blindly this point to that. Now he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed behind him.
Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesitantly, he reached up and tore the blindfold away.
He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant's room in any of his own houses. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed that this would bring punishment.
For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn't even brought him underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up, apprehensive again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dressed as proles, but they hadn't been vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look twice to realize that he wasn't younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place with a tennis racket in his hand.
He said, "Good afternoon, sir."
Harold Dunninger stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
The other flushed. "My name's Thomas Spaulding, sir." He stood there almost like a waiter or a butler at attention.
Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, "Well, what do you want?"
"I've come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?"
"It's your jail," the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this development, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs at the table.
"I'll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the circumstances."
The tycoon snorted in disgust. "Comfortable! Under these conditions? What could you do to make me comfortable?"
"Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perhaps, something to drink beyond the beer there? Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?"
"Talk about what, goddamn it?"
"Anything you like, sir. I'm here to keep yo
u company."
"Thanks," Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd like a Bible. Or would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?"
"Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in the history of the race. I'm a Catholic, boy!"
"Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?"
The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After a long moment he said, "What do you mean, would I like a priest?"
Young Spaulding said, "I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…" He let the sentence dribble away.
The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, "You're going to shoot me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn't kill me."
"Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is not forthcoming by that time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.''
"Fifty… million… pseudo-dollars."
"Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has already made the initial contact. The ransom is to be paid into a special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to prosecute anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated."
Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would never permit such a sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been bom into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudo-dollars? No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.
