Broken Arrow: The Seven Sequels

by John Wilson

  “Well, we talked to him,” I said, still angry that we had been used as bait to draw out Gorky. “It wasn’t that much fun.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Chad said. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

  I was thinking free tickets to the Barcelona versus Real Madrid soccer game, but Laia was more practical. “There’s a Russian guy,” she said, “probably Mafia. He owns most of the hotels and resorts around here. He has very pale blue eyes.”

  “Vladislav Gorev. We know about him.”

  “Then why don’t you stop him?” I asked, still angry. “He’s corrupt, he hires thugs to do his dirty work, and he’s probably into drug dealing.”

  “All of those things are true,” Chad admitted, “but it’s an internal Spanish matter. We can’t interfere.”

  “Anyway,” Laia said, “this guy and a couple of his thugs threatened us. They gave us forty-eight hours to talk Felip into convincing you that buying land here isn’t a good idea. He doesn’t want competition.”

  “And you would like that problem to go away?” Chad asked. “There are no Americans who want to buy the land. That was just a cover for me to contact Felip. I will have a word with Vlad. No problem.”

  “Vlad! Are you friends?” I asked.

  Chad smiled. “We’ve done business together. Anyway, I am real sorry for the trouble I got you guys into,” Chad said, reverting to his sleazy real-estate persona. “I’m sure glad that it all worked out okay. It’s been a real pleasure meeting both you folks, and if you ever have a yearning for some real estate or investment advice, who you gonna call?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dinner that evening was amazing. Chad paid for everything and insisted that we eat the best, most expensive things on the menu. I was certainly going to have trouble adjusting to chili, mac and cheese, and the occasional burger when I got home. Afterward, Laia and I went for what was becoming our habitual evening stroll along the beach.

  “If Chad had become an actor,” I commented, “he’d have a mantel loaded with Oscars by now. Do you think we can believe anything he says?”

  “I think he more or less told us the truth in the bar,” Laia said. “He had nothing to gain by lying.”

  “Yeah, but he told Felip a different story over dinner.”

  “It wasn’t that different,” Laia said. “Chad just left a lot of stuff out. I’m sure Felip didn’t believe everything he said, but I doubt he’ll complain, especially after Chad offered to use his connections to help get the Americans to pay for a proper cleanup in Palomares.”

  “I suppose so,” I agreed. I was still annoyed that Chad had used us to trap Gorky, but he’d also rescued us and he’d helped me fill in a lot of background on Grandfather’s mysterious past. “I wonder what the others are finding out about Grandfather’s secret life,” I said.

  “He certainly was an interesting man,” Laia said. “And at least we proved he wasn’t a traitor.”

  “According to Chad,” I pointed out. “He’s probably not the most reliable witness, and, as we found out, in the world Grandfather lived in, the line between treachery and loyalty is very blurred—a treacherous act by one person is a loyal act by another. In all of this, only Maria seems to have had a moral code that she stuck to despite everything.”

  “She was a very strong woman,” Laia agreed. “I’m glad we discovered a little about her past as well as your grandfather’s.”

  “Me too.” I glanced at Laia walking beside me. The lights from the hotels and waterfront bars illuminated her smile as she turned to look at me. “Do you think that every time we meet, we are destined to find out something else about our families’ pasts?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” I replied, thrilled by the idea that we would meet many more times. “Mind you, I hope there’s a little less excitement and violence next time. I could do without that. I still shudder when I think of Lucio with a pair of pliers in his hand, hovering over my fingernails.”

  Laia laughed and squeezed my hand. “Or Scarface pointing a gun at your head.”

  I nodded. “At least Chad will get us out of that mess with Blue Eyes.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  We stopped walking and stood, staring out to sea. The lights of scattered ships bobbed on the horizon, and a low, full moon painted a broad, shimmering silver path across the water. “You know, despite everything,” I said, “these past few days have been among the best of my life.”

  “Mine too. But there’s a problem for you.” Laia had suddenly turned serious.

  “What?” I asked, worried.

  “It really puts pressure on you to organize something special for next summer when I come and visit you in Canada.”

  “Oh, we can do excitement and violence in Canada,” I said with a laugh. “Bunny has some interesting gang contacts—and have you ever been to a hockey game?”

  The next morning, Laia and I were sitting in the lobby of the Puesta del Sol, surrounded by our bags, waiting for Felip to come down. We had said goodbye to Chad over breakfast and were looking forward to a normal tourist day, seeing the sights of Cartagena.

  “I hardly notice the naked people anymore,” I said as a bare, chattering family strolled past us.

  “So are you ready for a swim now?’ Laia asked with a mischievous smile.

  “Not quite yet,” I said.

  I was staring idly at the elevator doors when they slid open and Tattoo Head stepped out and came toward us. It never even crossed my mind that Chad might not have managed to contact Blue Eyes and that an unpleasant revenge might be heading our way. Tattoo Head was naked, and his head was not the only part of his body tattooed. In fact, there was barely a square centimeter of un-inked skin to be seen amid the riot of reds, blues, greens, yellows and blacks that covered his body. The man was a walking art gallery, and the tattoo artist had had a large canvas to work with.

  Green vines wound around Tattoo Head’s legs, strange mythical creatures peering out through the foliage. Blue and yellow serpents coiled up his arms, fangs bared and red eyes burning. On his chest, a dark, cowled skull grimaced against a background of spiraling galaxies and exploding stars. Everything seemed alive as the man’s muscles moved when he walked.

  Laia gasped, and my mouth hung open in awe. I hardly noticed that Tattoo Head was walking right up to us. About a meter away, he stopped and spun slowly around. His back was as impressive as his front: a blue-and-purple cobra wound its way around the horned face of a demon that stretched from his neck to his waist.

  “You like tattoos?” Tattoo Head asked when he turned to face us. He was grinning like a child showing off his newest toy.

  All I could do was nod dumbly. Laia managed to say, “It’s incredible.”

  Tattoo Head beamed with pleasure. “I have present,” he said in a heavy Russian accent. “From Vladislav.” He reached into the bag that hung from one shoulder. I thought for a second that he was going to pull out a gun, but he handed me a small package. “Have good day,” Tattoo Head said as he turned and headed for the door to the pool.

  “That was amazing,” I managed to say after the cobra and demon had disappeared to impress the unsuspecting guests poolside.

  “Now, that would be a torture,” Laia observed, “having your entire body tattooed like that.”

  “At least you’d have something to show for it in the end,” I said.

  “What did he give you?” Laia asked.

  I unwrapped the package to find a book—The Collected Short Stories of Maxim Gorky. I laughed out loud and showed it to Laia. “Lorca and Gorky,” she said. “It’s been a literary few days as well.”

  I opened the book. On the title page, Blue Eyes had written:

  For the stories you haven’t yet read.

  Enjoy.

  Vladislav Gorev

  I smiled and flipped through a few pages. A folded sheet of paper fell out. Laia picked it up and unfolded it. It was a letter, handwritten and obviously old. The text was in Russian
script, but the signature and date at the bottom were understandable. The signature was Maxim Gorky’s, and the date was 1917.

  “That’s the real gift,” Laia said. “It’s probably worth a lot. I think maybe it’s Blue Eyes’s way of apologizing.”

  “I wonder if it’s in code,” I said.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once more, thanks to Eric for his drive and dedication; Andrew for letting us keep the story going; and Sarah for again making sure seven diverse, creative people are on the same page.

  JOHN WILSON grew up on the Isle of Skye and outside Glasgow in Scotland without the slightest idea that he would ever write books. After a degree in geology from St. Andrews University, he worked in Zimbabwe and Alberta before taking up writing fulltime and moving out to Lantzville on Vancouver Island in 1991. John is addicted to history and firmly believes that the past must have been just as exciting, confusing and complex to those who lived through it as our world is to us. John has written over forty books of fiction and nonfiction for kids, teens and adults, and he has won or been shortlisted for many awards, including the Governor General’s, Geoffrey Bilson, Red Maple and White Pine. John spends significant portions of his year traveling across the country, telling stories and getting young readers (particularly but not exclusively boys) excited about the past. Broken Arrow is the sequel to Lost Cause, John’s novel in Seven (the series). For more information, please visit johnwilsonauthor.com.