Matt ventured another step, concentrating hard to keep the imprint paused. The image of his own father popped back into his head, his dead face turning toward Matt and saying, “We have to practice this, boy! Enough with the whining!”
“I . . . I couldn’t find it, Pa, but look!” Matt and Haeming said, pulling the sword from their cloak.
Shit! Focus!
Matt closed his eyes again and stood still. He inhaled a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly. Pause, he said in his head. It came out in a serene voice, like a hypnotist’s. This time, the frozen image was of the plank floor: dark and fairly uniform. Matt opened his eyes slowly and continued to repeat the tranquil “Pause” command in his mind. He took a step as if balancing books on his head. The imprint remained still. Another step. Good . . . very good . . .pause . . . yes . . .
Using this self-encouraging method, he coached himself downhill for a good half hour, and the view of the jungle changed. Below, a horizontal bar of gray came into view in the spaces between trees. The closer he approached, the more certain he became that it was the road he sought. Keep going . . . still doing good . . . pause . . . don’t get distracted . . .
Matt emerged from beneath the forest canopy and glanced right. The poorly maintained road curved out of sight a short distance away. To his left, about fifty yards away, it looked as if a truck had dropped its load all over the asphalt. He maintained the soothing chant in his head, in time with his steps as he walked toward the mess. But this wasn’t abandoned cargo—it was the scene of a massacre, and the spilled parcels were dead men.
Some of the bodies had fallen in disturbing, contorted positions, and most were surrounded by a glaze of dried blood. A few still clung to old rifles, staring up at the sky through buzzing clouds of flies. The ones whose faces he could see all wore the same astonished expression. It reminded him of the piles of bodies where Atli and his men had lain in ambush.
The clay cup struck Haeming in the head and shattered.
Matt’s head shot back, slammed by an invisible force, and he collapsed to the ground. He and Haeming held their head, and their eyes teared. Pause! But it wouldn’t stop. Grim was over him, beefy fist clenched. Come on, pause! Haeming’s rambling, desperate thoughts overwhelmed any effort by Matt to regain clarity. Let it play out . . . get to the goats. Get to Big Dad’s gnarly horn . . .
Grim said, “What, you’ve nothing to beg this time?”
Matt lay on the hard pavement, looking into the gawking eyes of a Cuban kid of about eighteen. He had a wispy beard and an overbite and was floating like a ghost in the air between Haeming and Grim.
“Outside,” Grim said.
Overcome with Haeming’s emotions, and recalling his own father arching over him like this, scalpel in hand, Matt begged along with the boy. “No. Please, no . . .”
Just a few more minutes, Matty. You need to be tougher than this, though. Lotta people depending on you . . .
Grim grunted and went back to his chair as Haeming gave up. There would be no reversal. To persist would only make it worse. He and Matt stood and dried their eyes and nose on Haeming’s cloak sleeves so they wouldn’t freeze on their face, and opened the door to the relentless, mocking wind.
Pause? No chance. Matt tried to calm himself again—clear his mind, relax. He wanted to get one of the rifles off the ground, but he was stuck here, standing, juddering with each of Haeming’s steps through the snow. When Haeming finally reached the goat shelter and nestled in with the wretched animals, Matt regained control of his legs and gradually calmed down along with the boy. Deep breath . . . Pause.
The scene froze on a split image: the lower half dark (the curved horizon of a fat doe’s belly) and the top half white with snow. Matt resumed his measured breathing and peered around at the carnage. It had to be Fando’s doing. The ragtag soldiers who had come with Tuni—they had chased Fando down, but he had somehow taken them out. Calm . . . still pausing . . .
Matt tried to imagine what Fando and Rheese might be up to at this point. He knew that Rheese, too, had been injured from the shotgun blast. And now Fando had only one victim to torture. If Rheese was still living, it was living hell.
As Matt’s eyes drifted over the murdered men, a new idea began to take shape. Don’t lose focus . . . maintain the pause . . . His body was still working. The immediate pain from the opal shrapnel had mostly subsided, and the aching from the smashed nose and broken finger, though both throbbing, were bearable. Would the imprint soon fully incapacitate him as they always had, or had he developed a new control over his ability? In the car, he had been able to hear during an imprint. That was new. And he had felt the motion of the vehicle even though he had been in someone else’s body; the same had occurred in the jungle when Rheese’s sock was on his face. Perhaps the shock and the pain simply brought this ability fully out. It wasn’t practical, by any stretch, to be walking around—or, for that matter, doing anything with his own body—while reading an imprint. But if he could continue this simultaneous awareness and vision in the future, he wouldn’t need the timer, and the whole problem of vulnerability would be behind him. This could be the next step that his father had always insisted was there.
Pausing . . . doing good . . . keep going . . . Rheese . . .
Rheese the coward, Rheese the selfish bastard, Rheese the man who, apparently, had tried to sell Matt—a living person!—to a Ukrainian billionaire. Rheese, who had stood up for Matt and even took a beating for him. Rheese, who, deep down, had wanted Matt to go free, even if it meant paying with his own life. He tried to push the thoughts away, to focus on his meditation, but he only accomplished the opposite. Images filled his head: Rheese being slowly eviscerated by a maniacally laughing Fando. Fando pissing on him, making him eat dirt, beating his already battered ribs.
And out of nowhere, an idea arose—a what-if that he knew he must test.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Abel and Oliver worked their way upslope with their five Cuban recruits, each carrying a loaded rifle. They hadn’t heard any more gunfire in the past hour, not since that single deep blast just before dawn. Nearing the summit, they could see a steel electrical or cellular tower between the branches and palm crowns. Abel drew his pistol, and Oliver followed his lead. Abel slowed his pace and trod carefully, aware that the man he hunted was well trained and lethal.
Though things hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, they had fallen into place closely enough to work. Now it was time to let it play out, and see what would happen. The one complicating factor that now dominated his outlook was the addition of Tuni. What he did today would undoubtedly affect any future they might have together. It was exhilarating to have one’s plans disrupted in such a way. Exhilarating and head-buzzing, for all its presumptuousness. He pulled his shirt collar up to his nose and inhaled. Her scent was still there.
Oliver stepped ahead of him and put an arm out. Abel stopped, and so did the Cubans behind him. Oliver pointed at the ground, tracing a line of tracks that crossed their path up to the summit. The tracks were deep and erratic, and Oliver gestured that whoever made them had been barefoot and heading downhill. Abel surmised that it had to be Matthew. Certainly, Rheese would not be bounding about so energetically, and Solorzano wouldn’t have removed his boots.
So Matthew was free, and Rheese and Solorzano were likely trying to make an escape. Abel knew that Solorzano was unstable; his military record had revealed as much. That was why he had been allowed to live. Garza had been the thinker, the level head. Oliver had taken him out, as ordered, and let the others flee. The unhinged Solorzano at large was quite a big bull in a china shop, but any actions he took from here on out would be in line with the acceptable outcomes for the mission. Oliver’s only mistake had been in allowing Tuni to drag him off in pursuit of Solorzano, Turner, and Rheese. Normally, Oliver would have been relieved of his duty—perhaps his life—for such a blunder, but in the end, there could have been no better outcome. Tuni had been able to face Matthew herself, o
n her own terms. And Matthew—remarkably, beautifully—had sealed his own fate with her in only a couple of minutes. In Tuni’s most vulnerable moment, Matthew had confirmed and crystallized every doubt in her head. Sad, but perfect.
Now the job was to clean up the mess and get the opal. A beautiful but not quite complete sword was sitting on a pedestal in a quiet study in Muscat, Oman, and the Absko mansion would not be whole again until Sayf Allah was whole again.
The small group moved slow and low as they reached the plateau. Two bodies were immediately visible on the ground. Abel and Oliver examined the area from the concealment of thick foliage. They could see debris, mainly clothing, strewn about.
Abel turned and gestured for two of the Cubans to advance. He was met with apprehensive stares, but his face must have warned them, and a second later the two men crept past, rifles at the ready.
Oliver and Abel watched the men survey the scene, then Abel stood up and strode into the clearing. He recognized both bodies on the ground. One of them was the American who had stood with Matthew’s father back at the logging camp, when they were speaking with Isaiah. The other was Matthew’s father. He hadn’t needed to die. In fact, Abel had taken steps to distract the Americans away from the area so they would not interfere and not be killed or injured.
He continued examining the scene as he wondered whether the elder Turner’s death would complicate anything in the future. It took him only a moment to decide: probably not. The man’s death was Rheese’s collateral damage, not Abel’s, and as far as the Americans were concerned, the incompetent Cubans merited no suspicion.
Oliver clicked twice with the side of his mouth. Abel turned and saw him crouched and peering up at him with raised eyebrows and a solemn expression.
“What is it?” Abel said.
Oliver nodded at a piece of flat rock the size of a small frying pan. Abel stepped closer. At first, he couldn’t see what he was supposed to see. There was blood on the rock, no doubt from the . . .
“Are those . . . ?” Abel dropped to his knees and pinched up a few tiny fragments of iridescent stone. “No . . . Why would anyone—? . . .NO!“
Oliver picked a larger piece out of the dirt and handed it to Abel. It was a lenticular shard the size of a dime cut in half. Its shimmering nacreous hues quashed any further doubt—the opal had been destroyed. Noticing the black residue on the rock, Abel leaned close and sniffed. Indeed, it was burnt gunpowder. Someone had actually shot the opal. He wiped his face and massaged his temples with his fingertips. He swallowed and felt himself begin to sweat from his head and back. His face felt like it was burning.
Abel looked up at Oliver’s still woeful—perhaps even apologetic—expression. Was this Oliver’s fault somehow? Abel tried to think how it might be. He wanted it to be, because whoever had done this was not in front of him at the moment and, therefore, could not be properly “compensated.” But Oliver had been told to keep Matthew free out here with Rheese and Solorzano. And his mistake in letting Tuni go after them couldn’t be reasonably seen as leading to this.
Abel stood up and stretched. “Find the tracks out,” he said. “Solorzano needs to be put down. Take them with you. Go quickly, and bring Rheese back to me!”
Oliver nodded and strode away, no doubt relieved to put some distance between himself and Abel. The five Cubans hurried to keep up.
Abel stared at the shimmering bit of stone that Oliver had found. He had never in his darkest nightmare fantasies considered this as even a remote possibility. But he immediately called himself out as a liar, for it had been the very first risk he had thought of. But like anyone who desperately wanted something, he had swiftly convinced himself otherwise. Of course the stone would be safe in the hands of anyone who knew its value, he’d thought. They would safeguard it as their own. Throw in the mostly-true story of its origins, and they would be doubly careful! Merely adjust the timing of its discovery, he had suggested.
If Rheese knew that the opal had been found back in 2003, he would have asked the logical questions: Why haven’t I heard of it? Why sell it now? Why hasn’t anyone torn the site apart? No, it had to be freshly discovered, straight from the hands of novices—men looking to make a quick buck. Of course, Abel didn’t necessarily trust the men hired to do the exchange, and so he had one of his own monitor the transaction. How foolish, though, to have felt such relief upon receiving word that the opal was safely in Rheese’s hands! He wanted to scream out, beat something, shoot something, hurt someone . . .
“Drop the gun on the ground, amigo,” an American voice said from behind him. “Don’t think about it; don’t hesitate, don’t turn around. Just drop the goddamn gun now.”
A woman’s voice barked, “¡Suelta el arma! ¡Rápido!“
So the Americans—the ones still alive—had found their way to the summit. And here was Abel, standing over the dead bodies of two of their friends, gun in hand. He didn’t bother turning or attempting to explain. He slowly moved his hand away from his body and let the pistol fall to the ground. Both hands wide open and held out at his sides, he wondered whether Oliver was yet aware of the new arrivals.
“My friends,” Abel said in the same broken English he had used earlier, “these are not from me. I just get here, believe me you.”
“Check ’em, Paul,” the silver-haired American said. The tremor in his voice told Abel that the men on the ground were more than mere acquaintances to him.
“Shit, shit, shit!” this Paul chanted as he passed Abel, picking up the pistol on his way to inspect the bodies.
“¿Está usted aquí solo?” the woman asked.
“Sí . . . alone.”
She lowered her voice, but Abel could easily hear her. “That’s bullshit, sir. No way he’d come up here alone.”
“Just stay sharp. Paul?”
“Yeah . . . um . . .” Paul was kneeling over Roger. He seemed unable to say it. “Yeah.”
Abel caught the slightest movement in the corner of his right eye. This could end badly, he realized.
He moved his hands a little farther out from his sides—as nonthreatening a position as he could imagine—and called out in Swahili, “Je, si kuwaua!” The Americans would have no idea he had ordered Oliver not to kill anyone; in fact, they would surely assume the opposite. But no matter—Oliver’s training was matchless.
Startled, Paul spun around, pointing his handgun. Abel heard the two behind him spring into action, as well.
“What the hell was that? What’d he say?” The American leader was rattled.
“Not Spanish, sir! Watch left!”
“Paul, you got anything?”
“Only a bad smell in my pants! What do I do with the guy?”
“Get ’im on the ground! No, scratch that! Just watch your side!”
From his left, Abel heard the quick, sequential cracks of something falling through a tree and hitting several branches on the way down. A low whistle from behind. It sounded unnatural at first, but then the pitch went high and pulsed, like some sort of bird-call.
“Izzat a bird, Núñez? What the hell?”
“Diversionary, sir. Never look where you think the sound is.”
“Hey, amigo!” the leader shouted to Abel. “You tell your goddamn men to stand down, you hear me? Tell you what: with my best friend dead on the ground over there, any shit goes down right now, I’ll just start by shooting you in the fucking head.”
In that moment, the first shot rang out, and the woman, Núñez, let out a short, agonized chirp of a scream.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Fando whipped the long, stiff switch against Rheese’s ankle and told him for the umpteenth time to speed up. Rheese didn’t bother moaning; indeed, he seemed beyond recognizing new pain. His feet shuffled faster for a few steps before falling back into the same slow, dragging stride. Fando briefly suspected it was a passive-aggressive act of rebelliousness, but remembered how badly damaged the man was, not to mention fat and old.
“How’d you get that fat
and live so long, Rheese?”
“Apologies,” Rheese replied.
Fando wanted him to say something smart so he could smack him around some more. He wanted him to say something about Danny or Raúl or his mom—give him a reason to go completely off on him, maybe even bash in his head or ram a stick down his screaming throat. The final blow. But then it would be over. He would be alone with his thoughts and the reality he had created. And reality right now was a boiling pot of pig shit. He needed Rheese. He snorted softly and thought, Yeah, Rheese, my only friend in the world. Let’s let bygones be bygones, whaddya say, homes? That’s what he would say before he ended him. Say some shit to make him think everything was going to be all right. Shake hands, pat him on the shoulder. Then shoot him through the other eye. And when would that be, exactly? Fando asked himself. Soon, man, soon. And then what? I’ll see, you know . . . I don’t know . . . figure it out. You know you just gotta turn that piece on yourself, right? Soon as you take out Rheese . . . you can’t wait. Yeah, I know. Shut the hell up, I know. Just sayin’.
“Which way?” Rheese asked.
Fando peered past him to a fork in the path. One route led downhill into a valley, where the weathered roof of a house rose through a clearing in the treetops. To the left, a ridge appeared to join this hill to an adjacent peak. They stood there as Fando thought through the options.
The hill next door was as thickly forested as the one they had been on. No one would ever find them there without dogs. How long was he planning to stay out in the woods, though? When would he end it for them both? Could they go on for another day? He turned back down toward the clearing with the roof. There might be people in the house. More people, not just Fando and Rheese anymore. Fresh food. Maybe a woman for one last turn in the sack before his exit. The house began to look very attractive.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 25
