Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  Salvador Rebelles walked back from the cliff and slammed his fist into the hood of his car. Vehicle wreckage littered the jagged side of the precipice dangling over the ocean, but the body of Neal’s car was nowhere in sight.

  Joe was worried, but tried to tell himself Neal was smarter than that. And Cromwell was the master.

  The magenta sun was halfway out of the ocean. Seabirds scavenged hungrily along the coast, diving in and out of the morning waves.

  'It’s a diversion,' Joe said, knowing that’s what he had to believe.

  Rebelles swung his lean frame back behind the wheel. 'In that case, we’re going to keep on driving this Bay Road until we find them.'

  There was a muffled scramble in the cabin, then the gentle creak of a screened door swinging open. Mark and Cromwell were standing at the top of the drive, their car pointed toward the house, front doors opened as body shields.

  Mark drew his pistol and released the safety.

  Carnova appeared and spoke in his unsettling Spanish-French accent. 'Ah, so! The Americans,' he said with emphasis, 'have arrived!'

  Cromwell pulled his weapon.

  Mark recognized Carnova at once from the photo files. He wondered how it felt to have so much blood on your hands.

  The right wing of the jetliner burst into flames, the ear-splitting sound of the explosion matched only by the desperate cries of all two hundred and twenty-nine on board.

  'The girl, Carnova, give us the girl!'

  Carnova laughed, pushing the door farther ajar. 'Well, well, Mr. Neal,' he said, baiting, 'if you want her, come in and get her!'

  This self-sanctified bastard. Engines squealed as the plane’s nose hurled south, blue-orange flames licking the sky.

  Mark took a stride away from the car, his weapon in clear view.

  'No,' Cromwell warned over the top of the car, 'that's just what he wants.'

  Cromwell was right. For Ana’s sake, he had to remain focused.

  'Before we can talk, we want proof that Ana’s all right.'

  Carnova stuck his head back in the door and yelled something in a strange mixed-sounding language.

  'What did he say?' Mark asked.

  'It was Basque. I don't know but I'm willing to bet –'

  A slender young woman was pushed into the door’s opening. She wore an oversized olive jacket and baggy men's slacks. An oily curtain of hair dangled partway over one eye. Her face was bruised, her lower lip swollen. She seemed fragile, incoherent.

  'Oh my God, Ana –' Cromwell fell back a few paces in shock.

  Ana looked up the steep incline of the driveway. 'Father?' Her knees buckled under her. El Dedo, who had the barrel of his pistol in her side, grabbed her sinking form by the elbow.

  'Get her back inside,' Carnova demanded. 'They’ve seen enough.'

  Cromwell's face was shaking with a fury Mark had never known. 'What have you done to my daughter, you pig?! Release her!' Cromwell shouted, his face a fiery red.

  'Uh-uh, impatient boy,' Carnova retorted. 'Primero I see el archivo!'

  Cromwell reached through the open door and pulled his briefcase from the seat of the car. He carried the thin brown attache around to the lid of the trunk and deftly worked its combination.

  Mark backed up the hill, taking cover with Cromwell at the rear of the car.

  Cromwell popped the lid of his case and pulled a slender, yellow file from its pocket.

  'It's here, Carnova, all here!'

  'In my hand, Mr. Kane!'

  Cromwell placed the slim blue-striped envelope at the top of the pebbled incline and sent it sliding with a decisive shove. The file glided halfway down the driveway and stopped.

  Carnova yelled back into the house and a young woman emerged. She scrambled up the driveway to retrieve the package, then hurried back down the hill and into the house, handing Carnova the envelope as she passed him. He tapped the file lightly in his hand, turning it over. Slowly, he opened the metal clasp and withdrew the eggshell thin blueprints.

  'Very good, Mr. Kane. And now it's your turn. I've waited many years for this!'

  Cromwell stood like a statue, his feet anchored to the ground.

  'Don't do it, sir,' Mark urged under his breath.

  The roar of an engine swinging around the Bay Road sounded and tires screeched to a halt behind them. Mark pivoted his head.

  'It’s McFadden and Rebelles,' he said, panic jolting through him. If the Spaniard were a double agent, he could shoot them all.

  McFadden and Rebelles were hunkered low, scampering down the hill with drawn weapons.

  'Turn around,' Cromwell said. 'As long as he doesn’t know we suspect him, we’re safe.'

  It was true, Mark realized. Rebelles was after the archivo, not them. McFadden pulled in at Mark’s left, while Rebelles slipped in to his right, just between him and Cromwell. McFadden crouched beside him, readying his Biblical weapon. 'What the hell were you going to do, Neal? Pray for a happy outcome?'

  But Mark’s eyes were on the Spaniard bending low at his boss’ back to drop a cartridge into his magazine. 'Did you bring el archivo?' Rebelles asked Cromwell.

  Cromwell lifted his pistol in the air, pointing it almost carelessly at Rebelles’ head. 'In there,' he said, motioning toward the shack with the barrel of his gun.

  Rebelles’ face fell. His plan, Mark realized, was for the Americans to have their showdown, then hand the archivo over to what was, after all, its rightful owner – the Spanish Government.

  Cromwell craned his head over the roof of the car. 'Carnova, you have what you want! Release my daughter!'

  Inside the house, El Dedo removed the barrel of his pistol from Ana’s ribs.

  Carnova slammed shut the door, hooting at the Americans. 'Ay si, que lindo,' he said, lifting the file to his dirty lips. He stared into Ana with lifeless eyes. 'Revolution is mine!' he chortled, reveling in victory.

  'Very sorry, Fidelito,' El Dedo said, swinging his weapon away from the wall and pointing it at Carnova’s head. 'Today’s victory is for the AIC.'

  A rash of incredulity raced across the thin man’s face, as he stared down into the barrel of the pistol not two feet away.

  Ana’s body was a violent tremor. El Dedo still held her fast in his left arm, bracing her body against his own. There was a hard, metallic click.

  He was readying his gun.

  She had less than a second to react. The archivo secured, her life was nothing. Anything was worth the risk.

  Ana waited until El Dedo leveled his weapon, then in one harsh movement sunk her teeth into his putrid arm. He yelped and discharged his pistol. An bullet severed Carnova’s head, sending flesh and bone fragments flying against the wall in a gruesome spew.

  There was a burst of confusion as Ana bolted for the door. She could hear them coming after her, the outrage of her name tearing at her back as she threw her weight into the door. Her shoulder absorbed the force that sent her sailing into the blinding sand. She pushed herself off the beach with tethered arms, the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire exploding behind her, then ran alongside the pounding ocean for dear life.

  The sound of pistol fire reverberated from inside the cabin. The front door flew open and a commotion ensued. Panicked shouts rang out against the mountain. 'Escapa la nena!'

  Cromwell started down the hill.

  Mark raced to stop him, grabbing him by the arm. 'No, Chief – look!'

  Ana had bolted through a side door and was fleeing barefoot down the beach.

  Cromwell scampered back up the hill. 'Fire on them. Now!'

  Mark cut loose a round of bullets that burned through the villa's open door.

  Submachine gun barrels quickly appeared in the shuttered windows. The terrorists returned their fire.

  A trembling figure made its way through the threshold, hands thrust skyward. It was the young woman, the fear of God on her face.

  'Please,' she begged in broken Spanish, tears streaming to her cheeks, 'spare me!'

  A new round
of gunfire burst forth from the building and the young Basque gir l fell against the sandy slope.

  Cromwell steadied his pistol against the roof of the car and raked the villa's wooden windows.

  'We're outnumbered,' Rebelles observed, bending low to reload his weapon. 'Those damn reinforce–'

  McFadden glanced back over his shoulder at the low moan of engines and wheels kicking up gravel. 'Look!'

  Mark swung his head around. It was a jeep. Two jeeps. A pair of army-style vehicles, each carrying a squad of Spanish Guardia Civil. Federalist soldiers wore requisite tri-cornered hats and carried semi-automatic rifles. The jeeps roared and dragged to a halt.

  Soldiers dismounted and opened fire. For a moment, no fire was returned. Cromwell held up his hand, signaling for the others to wait. 'Carnova,' he yelled, 'surrender now while there's still time!'

  Rebelles was just standing to steady his weapon when another slew of gunfire raced toward them. A slug caught him dead center in the chest, sending him crashing backward into the gravel behind the car.

  Mark dropped to his knees, ripping the bloody shirt from the dying man’s chest. The moment he saw the wound, he knew it was too late.

  Spanish soldiers shouldered their weapons and the quick popping of automatic gunfire riddled the desolate building.

  Mark reached below the Spaniard’s arms and drew Rebelles’ near lifeless head onto the shelf of his knees. No man deserved to die alone.

  Rebelles grimaced and raised his eyes to Mark’s, muttering his dying words.

  Pete Jarvis pretended to walk to the bathroom but instead made one last sweep around the cubicles. Thank God, they were finally gone.

  Pete looked at the row of clocks lining the seventh floor wall. You could be anywhere in the world and the DOS could tell you what time it was. The DOS, Jarvis thought with a snort, masterminds of the intelligence community. The old boys, the best of the best. What a big, fucking joke.

  Almost six in Spain. It would soon be over. Neal and McFadden had made his job so damn easy by repeatedly checking in. Once the AIC underground had determined Carnova’s route, Pete’s only mission had been to get the Americans to Jerez. That asshole Denton wasn’t the only one who knew a gypsy or two.

  It was crucial they get to that warehouse and make their discovery. Neal and McFadden hadn’t known it, but they’d never been in danger there. They served a far greater purpose by bringing Carnova’s LPP empire to its knees.

  Jarvis had telephoned Spanish authorities as soon as he’d heard from Neal in Seville. He’d called Neal’s contacts at DEA headquarters, DIA, and INR at State along with US Customs, the FBI, any organization that could possibly care. That little tidbit about the Greek princess and the plane crash that killed Neal’s family was the icing on the cake. It was all so fucking beautiful, falling right into place as if preordained. Carnova’s dope-dealing days were over and with them his ability to secure an arsenal.

  Of course, with Carnova’s kingdom destroyed, the AIC reasoned he’d no longer need those documents. The AIC would be more than glad to take el archivoazul off of his hands, even if they had to sever them at the wrists to do it.

  No, Neal and McFadden had never been in danger in Jerez, not at the hands of AIC assassins. Of course, Denton had been another story.

  Pete had caught sight of him that day he’d been brought in for questioning. Cathy had been leading him around the corner to Cromwell’s office as Pete bent over the water fountain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of dirty-blonde hair, something familiar in the face. Then when he stood and watched Denton’s back disappear into Cromwell’s office, he knew.

  Denton had never seen him. Didn’t have a clue. If he’d been smarter, he would have wised up. Seen the whole thing coming. If ignorance was bliss, Scott Denton was now in heaven.

  Pete’s student days in Barcelona had been a fucking blessing. He’d gone for a summer program, just after his freshman college year. An impressionable age, some say...

  Pete remembered standing on an overturned orange crate addressing the students in the square. 'Gente para la Alianza' ('People for the Alliance'), 'hoy es el dia para dedicarse.' ('Today is the day to dedicate yourselves to a purpose greater than any individual. The right of the people to practice, without worry, the laws and customs of their native state. Their indelible right to live as they choose, to uphold their own language and adhere to their own time-honored traditions. The right to live without fear of retribution. The right to freedom!') A cheer had risen from the crowd that overwhelmed him and he’d become one with the frenzied masses chanting his song.

  A young man enraptured with his speech stood on the sidelines. He was light-haired and fair-eyed with the awkward gait of an American. He’d applauded and taken some literature. Clearly the kind who embraced every cause. But whether it was through gullibility or cognizance, the AIC was eager to get its message into the hands of believers. Whether or not Scott Denton had ultimately believed was beside the point.

  The AIC had changed Pete’s life, made him into the man he’d always known he could become. He’d gone from being the prodigal son to being a player and it hadn’t hurt one bit that he’d been able to reinvent himself in the process. The AIC had been very helpful in that regard. They had on hand a number of student passports collected from various crime victims throughout the country. It was a simple matter of narrowing the field to someone with similar physical characteristics who, for whatever reason, hadn’t made it back to the United States alive. Peter Calvin Jarvis had been among a select group, an unfortunate orphan with very few to miss him when he was gone or identify the fact that he’d changed once he’d returned.

  It was a sick blessing that Pete’s real father didn’t seem to give a whore’s ass that his son had dropped right off the planet. Twisted bastard was probably relieved. Old man had tried to beat some sense into him, but he’d never been able to do it. A broken nose didn’t break your spirit or change who you were or how far you were willing to run. There were others like him in Barcelona, others who understood. There was someone there waiting for him now.

  'I’ve had just about enough of this,' Cromwell said, dragging his briefcase from the top of the trunk and expertly resetting its numbers. 'Mark, Joe, get with the others behind the jeep.'

  He made his way around the bumper of the car, heading straight for the villa. 'Cover me!' he shouted back over his shoulder, as he sprang toward the open driver’s door. Bullets poured toward the car. Cromwell dove onto the seat, shoving his briefcase in ahead of him.

  He set the car in first gear and quickly released the brake. Then pushed himself backwards out of the door and bolted up the slope, bullets flying all around him.

  Cromwell bent beside Mark, catching his wind. 'Had that wired briefcase for years,' he said with a smile, as the white car lumbered down the hill. 'Always wanted to use it.'

  The vehicle picked up speed, making its way toward the house.

  Rifle barrels sent one final thrust of gunfire burning up the hill.

  'Duck!' Cromwell shouted as the phantom car plowed into the wooden frame of the beach house. A sonic boom shattered the air and Fidel Carnova’s seaside retreat, and all the evil it housed, exploded in a burst of flames.

  The inside of the Kane house resounded with the noise of heavy mechanical wings settling on the lawn outside.

  The voice from the bullhorn was loud and intimidating. 'We have you surrounded! Give it up now, or we open fire!'

  The leader peeled back the curtain and peered outside. 'Madre de Dios,' he warned the others, 'they've brought the whole army!'

  Soldiers dressed in fatigues and armed with automatic rifles made their stealthy approach on the house. The lanky man ran to the back door, but through the small square window, he saw gas- masked men approaching.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of glass shattering in the front hall. Then, the whole building was filled with a choking gray smoke.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mark sat o
pposite Ana at one of the small outdoor tables lining Santiago’s Plaza de Obradoiro. She’d ordered something simple, a sandwich, Mark gauged from his growing command of the language. He stuck to the coffee that, after several sleepless nights, he had been reduced to drinking black. Normally, he took it heavy on the cream, but now needed every extra ounce of caffeine he could muster just to keep his senses clear. Ana had refused the debriefing with her father, refused to talk to Joe. They both had deceived her, she'd said. And, of course, she was right. Mark was neutral. And he thanked God for his neutrality as he watched the natural light of the moon fill her eyes. She still didn't know about Denton.

  'I know this won't be easy for you, but I have some bad news.'

  She looked at him indifferently. 'What could possibly be worse than what I've already been through?'

  It gave him no pleasure to say it. 'Scott came with us to Spain.' There was an uneasy expectation in her eyes. 'But I'm afraid he didn't make it to Santiago.'

  'Didn't make it how?'

  'Didn't make it alive.'

  Ana downed her last sip of beer and motioned for the waiter to bring her another glass. She rolled back her shoulders. They appeared to be tense. 'And you're expecting me to cry?'

  Mark looked at her. She was absolutely right. She'd been used up. What else did she have to give? 'No, I'm not expecting you to do anything. In my opinion, you should be able to do whatever it is you damn well please.'

  She sat quiet for a moment, reflecting. 'And does your opinion carry much weight with the DOS?'

  'It could.'

  'And with my father?'

  'It might.'

  'Then what I damn well please is to be left the hell alone.'

  'I know how you must feel –'

  'No, you don't.'

  'Fine. You're right, I can't possibly know. But, I'm so–'

  'Sorry? Sorry for which part, Mr. Neal? Sorry that you saved me, or sorry I'm not what you expected?'