Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  By 10:00 p.m., the fairgrounds were alive with the whir of amusement rides and the quick, staccato strummings of Spanish guitars. The Americans paved a path through the Iberian masses dressed in traditional flamenco dresses and shiny leather vests with matching matador britches. Cromwell had been right, Mark thought, looking down at his gabardine trousers. He and blue jean-clad Joe stuck out like sore thumbs, particularly on a night like this when the natives were in their element. But he and McFadden were already here with a mission to accomplish and time was running out.

  Every day Ana was captive was another day that brought her closer to death. Sooner or later her captors would lose patience. It had already been seven days. One terrifying week. One hundred and sixty-eight hours she would not soon forget or forgive her father for putting her through. How Kane could have let it come to this Mark didn't know. He must not have fathomed the consequence; reasoned his family would be safe once he dropped out of sight. Only one of the Old Guard would place that kind of faith in the system.

  Directly ahead of them was the LPP separatist tent, Libertad Para la Patria in swollen red letters on the banner crowning the door.

  'I'll go ask around,' McFadden said. 'You spot me from here.'

  He ambled over to the tent and struck up a conversation with two men in fatigues.

  Mark scanned the crowd then took his place in a concession line. The carnival-like atmosphere reminded him of the small-town county fairs back home. But the sound of Ferris wheel music competing with bellowing gypsy madrigals was a sweet cacophony unique to southern Spain.

  Mark was checking his pocket for change, when he noticed the mime, less than twenty feet away, holding a sharp bouquet of custom-handled knives.

  Glowering eyes set in white pancake make-up turned toward him. There was barely time to register movement before the catapulting crescent sliced toward him. The second blade fired rapidly after the first, then the next buzz of steel, and the next.

  Mark dove to the ground as the shrieking crowd scattered in all directions. He looked up to see his assailant disappearing through the flap of a bright orange tent. In a flash, Mark was up and after him, drawing his Browning as he went.

  The clown barreled through the tent, deftly avoiding heel- tapping dancers. Mark followed his serpent’s weave through the assorted tables and groups of revelers, careful to keep his pistol pointed at the sky. The clown tore through the back of the tent and raced into another. Mark kept up the hot pursuit, noting his attacker was losing wind. In the third tent, Mark lost sight of him until a gentle burst of wind whipped open the rear flap.

  Mark slowed his gait, cautiously approaching the back of the billowing room.

  He could feel the mounting tension.

  He stepped into the night air to find the gasping mime leaning into a wall of reserve casks. The clown stood to face off with Mark, his painted smile an eerie contradiction. Chalky hands floated heavenward, his ballooning lips parting in concession. Then swiftly, he lowered his hand to his hip.

  The yelp of pistol fire sounded at Mark’s back.

  He dropped to the earth and remained motionless as the painted man before him clutched his middle and curled into a ball.

  Once the footsteps behind him retreated, Mark hurried back to the concession area. McFadden was nowhere.

  Mark instinctively slipped out of the crowd and glided into the shadows of a large tree bordering the LPP tent. He could hear the slur of angry voices and the sound of someone taking a couple of uncomfortable slugs to the gut. He edged along the wavering canvas wall until he found a small opening.

  A burly man had McFadden pinned like a butterfly to his chest. A second man was pounding his stomach with a tarnished pair of brass knuckles.

  A gypsy girl in the corner was beseeching the Spaniards on the gringo's behalf, until they finally let the doubled-over American fall to the ground and retreated to open another bottle.

  Mark kept his eye on the girl. He had a feeling. A feeling that was verified when the thugs lit cigars and began clapping to the tune of a Spanish flamenco being played near the front of the tent. Both men had ceased paying attention to the American who had rolled over and was rising slowly to his feet.

  But the young woman with hair hanging in black strings around her pointy face had not. She stole over to him, cat-like, barely parting the air with her muted steps. McFadden gave her a wary look, but she reassured him with a gesture and tugged at his sleeve for him to follow. And follow he did, to a place on the far side of the tent beyond view.

  Mark kept an impatient vigil outside the LPP tent until 5:30 a.m. when it appeared the last of the revelers had departed the fairgrounds. The silhouetted movement inside the separatist tent had ceased more than twenty minutes earlier and there was still no sign of McFadden. Mark decided to risk it. He strode boldly from his post under the tree, walked over to the tent and in through its front door. He found its interior deserted, save a host of small wooden tables with companion stools and a large bin of empty sherry bottles emblazoned Jerez.

  Carnova drew closer and spat the cigar from his lips. 'I’m telling you, Ana Kane, your days as an orphan are numbered.'

  Ana sat strapped to the chair. It had become a daily routine punctuated by the sound of pounding surf outdoors. 'I am not an orphan, you pig.'

  'Ah yes,' he said, an evil glint in his eye as he toyed with his pistol. 'Your mother, you mean. Poor, deluded little girl.'

  'My mother is not dead.' She strained against the rope that bound her wrists behind her, then grimaced in defeat.

  Carnova grinned with putrid amusement. 'Hah! You think you are so smart, just like your father.'

  Ana returned his gaze with burning hatred.

  'But even your father realized the merit of staying alive.'

  'You speak in riddles, Carnova, and riddles are a child’s game. If you were half a man...'

  'If I were half a man – ' He shoved his pistol under his belt and violently grabbed her by the shoulders. He lowered his humorless face to hers and puckered his lips.

  Ana recoiled.

  'Well, well,' he said, shaking her hard in his crushing grip. 'What is it, princesa? Not clean enough for you?'

  'Not clean enough for a dog,' she grated between clenched teeth.

  'Bitch!' he shouted, slapping a hand across her cheek.

  Carnova reclaimed his pistol and positioned its cold steel barrel against her forehead. 'You, Miss Kane, are a very impolite guest. I try giving you some good news and you insult me.'

  Ana steadied herself and shut her eyes. 'The only good news you could give,' she muttered softly, 'is that you’re letting me go.'

  Carnova howled into the air and pressed the pistol harder. 'Do you communicate with spirits, Miss Kane?'

  Ana opened her eyes and narrowed them into slits. 'Spirits?' she asked, setting her jaw.

  'Afterlife, Ana,' he said, sawing a playful finger back and forth across the trigger. She felt the tears coming in spite of herself and damned herself for her inability to answer. He pulled the pistol back at last with an evil grin. 'Maybe it’s a topic you should discuss with your father.'

  The girl led Joe down a back alley and up a rusty fire escape to a run-down one-room apartment. He knew why she had taken him there. She was hungry. It was in her eyes. She had helped him slip out of the tent unnoticed and now she wanted a little something in return. Joe wanted something, too, and he was betting she had it.

  He extracted his wallet, hoping money would be enough. But she laid his wallet on the table by the bed and wrapped her hands around his back. She hesitated a moment when her probing fingers met the rise of the sweaty bandage still strapped to his shoulder, then came round to the front of his shirt where she gingerly undid his buttons, starting with the one just below his collar.

  She was very much of the street. Half feline, really. In the old days, it wouldn't have mattered much. It would have been part of the job and he would have gotten it done. But now he was having trouble. It seemed chea
p, selling himself for information.

  But Ana was worth anything, he reminded himself, as he unzipped his fly and let his jeans drop to his knees.

  Even this.

  The girl drew her hands around the backs of his thighs and nuzzled her face against the bulge in his briefs, tugging a little at the waistband with her teeth.

  Joe took her by the shoulders, and pushed her back a ways. 'First, we talk,' he told her in Spanish.

  'I’ll talk to you,' she purred, peeling down his briefs and taking his cock into her mouth. She cupped his balls in a gnarly hand, tugging a little.

  He worked to stifle a moan. He could feel himself getting hard.

  'Nina,' he begged, fighting the pleasurable tingling in his groin.

  But she persisted, drawing him in with a warm sucking motion, teasing the tip of his penis with gentle nibbles from her uneven teeth.

  He groped for the zipper at the back of her dress and she reached down to help him, drawing her bare arms out of ruffled sleeves that had concealed her bony shoulders.

  She twisted just barely, never once breaking the seal of her lips, and eased the top half of her body out of her dress.

  He saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her fleshy tan breasts drooped a little, sagging against the front of his knees, his hair there exciting her dark purple nipples.

  He reached down and took her breasts in his hands. They were weighty, malleable, heavier than they appeared.

  He pulled out of her mouth, moving his hands to the point on her rib cage just below her arms, and hoisted her back onto the bed. 'Ay – si, si...' she breathed heavily.

  He pawed at the mounds of her breasts, squeezing, gripping, greedily suckling the ripe purple plums he forced into the air with his fingers.

  She let out a scream. She was writhing now, desperate for what he could give her. How desperate, he was determined to find out.

  He pushed the rough edge of his tongue into the salty folds of her cleavage. She was tugging at his hair, directing his head downward. Joe continued to drag of his tongue down the line of her stomach to her navel, working it in and out of her belly button’s hollow as he slid his hands around her buttocks, thrusting her hips into the air.

  He crouched and brought the rim of his mustache to the band of her panties.

  'I’m going to make you feel like no man’s ever made you feel,' he said in raspy Castilian, 'but first, you’re going to tell me what I want to know.'

  Mark awoke to the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. He sat up with a start and grabbed for the Browning beside his bed. The figure before him whipped into rapid focus.

  Salvador Rebelles perched comfortably on the edge of McFadden’s cot. He wore jeans, a maroon polo shirt, and black leather loafers. He took another long drag on his cigarette and tilted back his chin, releasing slow, thin coils of smoke.

  'Good morning,' he said, finally fixing his eyes on Mark. 'I trust you find our accommodations to your liking?'

  'Really shouldn’t do that,' Mark said, slipping his legs out from under the covers and squaring his feet on the floor. He laid his pistol on the bed, resting his hand on top of it.

  'I realize it’s American custom to call –' Rebelles began.

  'Smoke, that is. Bad for your health.'

  Rebelles raised his eyebrows and gave a short scoffing laugh. 'And I suppose your line of work isn’t?' He dropped his butt to the floor and crushed out its dying ember with his heel.

  Mark looked at his watch, then scanned the room for signs of McFadden. He hadn’t been back.

  'Not to worry about your friend, Mr. Neal. He’s in good hands.'

  'McFadden’s a good man. He can take care of himself.'

  'Precisely my meaning,' Rebelles said, lacing his fingers and pushing his long arms forward in a stretch. 'Mr. McFadden has done remarkably well–'

  As if on cue, a startled McFadden appeared in the doorway, clutching two steaming tumblers of cafe con leche. He glanced at Mark for a signal.

  'Come on in, McFadden. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.'

  McFadden cautiously walked into the room and headed for the cot Rebelles vacated. He rested his eyes on Mark’s bed, just long enough to see his weapon was in view, then carefully took his seat.

  'Coffee, anyone?' he asked, extending one of his hands.

  Rebelles declined with a shake of his head and walked to the small, screenless window.

  'Where've you been?' Mark asked, reaching for a coffee.

  McFadden shot a glance at the window. 'A gentleman doesn’t discuss such things.'

  Mark laughed, and Rebelles turned his head. 'Yeah, well,' Mark said, 'a gentleman's about the last thing I'd call you.'

  McFadden took a sip from his glass, the white froth sticking to his heavy mustache. He looked at Mark, motioning toward Rebelles. 'Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?'

  'Seems I’ve forgotten my manners,' Mark said, setting his glass down on the floor. 'Forgive me. Mr. Rebelles, Joe McFadden.'

  'Let me guess,' McFadden said, 'he just happened in.'

  'Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Rebelles?' Mark asked.

  'You already are,' he said, giving McFadden an evaluating look. 'It seems Mr. McFadden has news.'

  McFadden waited for visual encouragement from Mark before speaking. 'Rebelles is right. It’s all the buzz in LPP camps throughout the south.

  'Carnova’s smuggling a big load along contraband routes up into Santiago. Word is, they’re carrying an English-speaking hostage.'

  Mark stood and walked to the open door. Santiago de Compostella. Thank God. She was alive.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ana felt the cool blade pressing the tender hollow beneath her chin. Again, she was blindfolded, again she had been drugged and had lost all sense of sequence and time. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was Ana Kane, daughter of Albert and Isabel, prisoner in her mother's homeland. She had figured by now that her life was being offered as some kind of bartering chip to the Americans. She wondered just how valuable her life was.

  The blade of the knife pressed deeper, pricking her delicate skin. It was a sharp, quick wound, no more than a pinpoint. Still, it drew blood, a slight trickle making its way down her throat like scattering rain.

  'Now you will talk!' It was Carnova.

  ''I’ve told you a hundred times, I know nothing of this archivoazul, or the work you claim my father did! And if he’s alive as you claim he is...' She struggled to remain calm, to endure, as she imagined her mother would, but Carnova lost patience.

  'Ah, take this mother of a whore out of my face!' he exclaimed with a filthy passion.

  Ana felt the crushing blow of a forearm against her cheek. She sat trembling as a set of lighter footsteps approached. She prayed to God it would be the woman. The touch at her elbow was gentle, the voice almost soothing.

  'Ven, chica,' it coaxed, leading Ana out of her chair and through a door at the far side of the room, 'you rest now.'

  Ana lay sideways on the soft pillow of the bed. Her hands and eyes were still bound. But at least her legs were free. She could hear soft footfalls retreating from the room, then the muffled sound of a key turning in a door.

  My God, were things going to end this way? With nothing settled, nothing resolved? Had her life really been as worthless as these men made it seem? Twenty-nine years and what did she have to show? A couple of health projects, a field hospital or two, housing for the Rwandans? These were all good things, worthy things. But Ana didn’t kid herself. Had she not been there, they would have taken place without her. No one is irreplaceable, her old boss used to say. Shortly afterwards, Ana had left and found another job. One where it was assumed she was indispensable. But surely someone else was handling those projects now.

  And if her contribution hadn’t been professional, had it been personal? Never telling the one man she truly revered how special he was, how much she wanted to be like him? If, for most people, the roa
d to hell was paved with good intentions, for Ana, it was paved with regret.

  Regret now for the suffering she’d leave behind. Her mother. How would she live with this?

  And Scott… How would he feel so soon after he’d sent that letter?

  The letter. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t known, didn’t expect; and yet, it had come as such an unexpected relief. She’d tried with Scott, really tried. But in all those years, she still hadn’t figured him out. He was inconsistent. She could see the commitment had never been there. Ana had had enough turmoil in her life. What she needed was stability, the kind of man who would swear to a lifetime, then be there.

  It was like that with her parents. No feast or famine. Only steady sustenance. They drank each other in. Anyone could see it. They had the sort of endurance born of another age, another time when your word was as important as your name.

  She’d hoped for the longest while that she could form that sort of bond with Scott. They’d had so many good times that, on Tuesdays anyhow, it almost seemed possible. But then the darkness would close in, his unreasonable demands and irascible behavior drowning out the light. She’d started wondering after a while whether what they had was still worth fighting for. For fighting, it seemed, was all they had left.

  And then along came Joe. He was a strong man, a tough man. The roguish sort of man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it. Though she’d been attracted to him from the beginning, she’d never once considered being unfaithful to Scott. But Joe seemed to know so clearly what he wanted, so clearly who he was. It was intoxicating, appealing, in a way she’d found harder and harder to resist.

  Scott’s accusations came regardless. He’d been certain she was fooling around with Joe from the start. She’d only felt like crossing that line when he’d raise his hand to strike her. He never had. But each time he seemed to be getting a little bit closer to losing control. Perversely, Scott had wanted to control her, select her clothes so they weren’t too tight; insisted on a natural look rather than make-up. She’d made her own choices anyway, and it had infuriated him because he couldn’t know his mind. Decide whether to love or leave her. Whether or not she was worth his time.