by Ken Douglas
“ Yes, sir.” Broxton opened the door. “I don’t know where I’ll leave it, but I’ll try and leave it safe.”
“ Don’t worry about the car, just keep the prime minister safe, son.”
Broxton hesitated and met the man’s wolf gray eyes. “You know?”
“ I can guess, now go.”
Broxton slipped into the car, started it and spun the wheels.
Chapter Thirteen
“ He just split with the baggage in a black Mercedes and he’s headed out.” Earl was talking into an miniature handheld VHF radio. He was broadcasting on 01, a channel seldom used by boaters in Venezuela, and the radio was fitted with a scrambler. No one was going to eavesdrop on his conversation.
“ This is Undertaker, I have the Mercedes. I’ll take it from here.” Earl didn’t know who his backup was and he didn’t care. He’d done his part. It wasn’t his fault if the woman couldn’t get it right.
“ This is Lawman. Am I out of it now?” Earl said into the radio.
“ You are not. Get your car and follow. Undertaker will give you directions. Black Widow out.”
“ Copy,” Earl said. He respected the authority in her voice and he sprinted toward the parking lot and the small Ford Escort. Usually he liked bigger, faster cars, but the Escort was in the lot with its windows down. Easy to get in. Easy to get the hood up. Easy to hotwire. Better than a rental.
“ He’s turned left out of the parking lot. I’m right behind him,” his backup said over the radio.
“ Undertaker, drop back, give him some room, and remember, nothing happens to Broxton.” She called herself Black Widow and just by hearing her voice, Earl knew she was capable of eating her mate, her young, too.
“ I see them, up ahead, they’re turning again. Left, toward the marina,” Undertaker’s voice came over the radio. Earl wondered if the British accent was real.
“ Copy,” he said into his radio.
“ Copy,” Black Widow said. He wondered where she was. Probably still back in the hotel. What a looker, he thought. What a straight on good looking piece of deadly work.
“ I think he’s spotted me,” Undertaker said.
***
Broxton saw the headlights behind and stepped on the gas. He couldn’t be sure the car in back was part of the assassination attempt, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t either. Trust no one, suspect everyone, get away. He was racing along the beach and the full moon lit up the phosphorus in the breaking waves. The car behind accelerated too, and then Broxton was sure.
The Mercedes gobbled up the road, blurring the broken center line. Broxton checked the rearview mirror. The headlights behind were fading. They were moving away from their pursuers.
“ The road ends,” Ramsingh said. Broxton snapped his eyes back to the road, and slapped his foot onto the brakes.
“ Shit,” he said, as the car slid out of control, leaving the road and heading toward the water. Frantically he spun the wheel away from the beach sand and back toward the center of the pavement. Instinctively he knew it was the wrong thing to do. He should be turning into the slide. But that was book learning, this was real and he’d just fucked up.
The right wheels left the ground and Broxton yelled out, “We’re going over!”
Then he stiffened his hands on the wheel, bracing himself as the big car continued its two wheeled spin onto the sand. Ramsingh’s side of the car was up in the air and the prime minister wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He struggled to stay in place but the force and surprise of the slide sent him sliding down into Broxton as the two right wheels slammed back onto the ground, cushioned by the beach sand.
They’d spun around a hundred and eighty degrees and were off the road, facing the headlights racing toward them out of the night. The engine was still running and Ramsingh scooted back over toward his side of the car. “We should go,” he said. “Now,” he added.
“ Yeah,” Broxton said, adding gas. Then he was back on the road, charging toward an enemy car again. After so long, now twice in the same week.
“ What are you doing?” Ramsingh said, voice cool, like he was sitting in a bar ordering a gin and tonic.
“ Playing chicken,” Broxton said. “The last time I did this was a couple of days ago, with one of your police officers.” The back tires kicked off the last of the sand.
“ Who won?” Ramsingh said.
“ He did,” Broxton said, eyes glued onto the rushing headlights. Now, for him, there was no beach, no crashing waves, no lonely road, no prime minister. There was only the headlights, twin beams of death, racing toward him faster than his heart was racing out of control. Twice in the last week he’d taken a car into a spin and twice he’d panicked and done the wrong thing. Last time he told himself it was because he was driving on the left, this time he didn’t have that excuse, he just blew it.
And again he was back on Cherry Avenue, back in high school, playing chicken, only this time it wasn’t with a macho third world cop who would rather die than blink. This time he was playing with an assassin, and this time Broxton wasn’t going to blink.
He braced himself for the collision, but the on rushing car turned. Broxton grabbed a quick glance as they flew past. The driver jerked the wheel too fast and too far to the left. Broxton slammed on the brakes as the other car, a Jeep, left the road on its side. He heard the thunderous scraping of metal against concrete and then the car slammed onto its top, then over onto the other side, bouncing and sliding through the sand.
Broxton saw the headlights up ahead, “Another one,” he said as the Jeep hammered into the sea. It went into the water on the driver’s side, and Broxton shuddered for a flash of a second, thinking of the water rushing in around the man. Then he whipped the Mercedes around and accelerated away.
“ Remember the road ends,” Ramsingh said.
“ Yeah.” Broxton shifted into low, then he was going through a screaming right turn, following a sign with a long pointing arrow and the single word, ‘Marina.’ He didn’t know if the marina offered any help, or shelter, but he damn sure wasn’t going to charge another car. Not now, not ever again. He was going to quit that game while he was ahead. He was on a wide four lane road and the Mercedes was a thoroughbred. If the other car was another jeep he would have no trouble outdistancing it.
The engine was racing and Broxton grabbed the stick to shift out of low. “Shit,” he said.
“ What?”
“ Stuck.” The thoroughbred was stuck in low, it was rushing out of the starting gate, but it wasn’t going to canter or run. No way was he going to out distance anything.
“ Maybe it’s just someone out for a late night drive,” Ramsingh said.
“ They didn’t stop for the car that went off the highway,” Broxton said, pulling the wheel to the right and following another arrow, another marina sign, this one pointing left, and all of a sudden the heavy Mercedes was humping and bumping on a dirt road.
“ Slow down,” Ramsingh said, but Broxton already had his foot off the accelerator and he was gently tapping the brakes when the Mercedes coughed and died.
“ Shit, shit, shit,” he said as he tried the key.
Nothing.
“ We’re out of here,” Broxton said, opening his door.
Earl spun out of the parking lot and stepped on the gas, going through the gears like a pro.
“ Take the first left,” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio. He slammed on the brakes, skidding around the turn. He’d almost missed it. Then he was racing along a dark road, the pounding surf to his left, bare fields on the right. Up ahead he saw the two sets of headlights charging toward each other, like two bulls, fighting over the herd.
“ That’s some kind of crazy,” Earl said, and then Undertaker’s Jeep swerved left. The sudden jerk was too much for the top heavy car and it rolled onto its side, then onto its top as it slid off the road, toward the breaking waves. He slowed down, taking his foot off of the accelerator, downshifting into second as the Merc
edes ahead spun around and took off like a rabbit running from the fox.
Unlike the Jeeps sold in America, the one sliding into the sea was built with a hard, square, boxy back. Earl noticed the hardtop right off. If his backup survived it would be the hardtop that saved his life.
“ Undertaker is down. Lost a game of chicken with your boy and is sliding into the surf as we speak,” Earl said into the radio. “Should I stop and offer assistance?”
“ Negative, keep after your quarry. I’m a minute behind. If he’s alive I’ll assist.”
More like put a bullet in the poor bastard’s brain, Earl thought, but “Affirmative” was all he said, as he stepped on the gas and took off after the Mercedes. It was about a quarter mile ahead. Earl punched the button on the glove box and took out her chrome-plated thirty-eight. Looked liked a pussy weapon, he thought, pretty and glittery, but deadly.
Up ahead the Mercedes squealed around a corner, headed toward the ocean. He wanted more speed, but his foot was on the floor. Then he was at the corner. He gave the brakes a quick tap, slammed in the clutch and threw it down into third, screamed around the corner and lost control as the Escort howled in protest, bouncing and slamming on a dirt road. The small car whipped around in a tight circle, but Earl managed to stop it without rolling it.
The road ended at the beach. The Mercedes was stopped ahead, with its doors open. The two men were running toward a dark group of abandoned buildings.
Broxton ran toward a Budget Rental sign, Ramsingh ran along with him, matching him stride for stride. The building was boarded and vacant, they hadn’t been renting cars for quite a while. Broxton tried the door, but he knew it was futile before his hand touched the knob. He was heaving air in and out and he could only imagine how the prime minister was doing.
“ I’m okay,” Ramsingh said, as if reading his thoughts.
“ We gotta move,” Broxton said. Then he heard the roaring engine and was captivated by the scene before him. The small Ford Escort spun around and was charging backwards toward the Mercedes. If we’re lucky, Broxton thought, but they weren’t lucky and the car stopped before the collision.
“ Quickly,” Ramsingh said, jerking Broxton’s eyes away from the two cars.
“ Right,” Broxton said, and together they ran along a series of closed, boarded and graffiti covered buildings. A small book store, a beauty shop, a tee shirt and dress shop, and a souvenir shop. Then he saw it. A huge monolith extending into the night sky. Dark, with a single light winking out from about the fifteenth floor. A failed hotel sitting smack on the beach, and there was a door on the ground floor, open wide and inviting. There was no place else to go.
“ I can make it,” Ramsingh said without waiting to be asked, and together the two men sprinted toward that door. Somewhere inside, down a corridor, a dim light beckoned. There was somebody in there. Hopefully not a trigger happy security guard, Broxton thought, as his feet slapped the hard ground. He was worried about Ramsingh, but the prime minister actually quickened his pace and Broxton had to fight to keep up, pumping his arms, forcing his feet to keep the rhythm.
Ramsingh burst through the door first as a gunshot ricocheted through the night and off the wall above the door.
“ Down,” Broxton screamed, diving forward and tackling the prime minister. They were both in the building, both down, both scrambling forward on hands and knees, when two more shots rang through the night. Broxton heard the bullets slam into something ahead in the dark.
Ramsingh crawled through a door on his right and Broxton pushed in after him. Ramsingh was on his feet first and he offered Broxton a helping hand. “We should keep moving,” he said.
“ Yeah,” Broxton said, and he led the way across a darkened banquet hall that must have hosted many conventions in the past. Would it ever host another? The moonbeams slicing through the hall gave the room a ghost-like quality, as if it was set up for a party that never happened. They weaved through chairs and tables to a door on the opposite side of the hall. Ramsingh pushed on through a swinging door into a full kitchen.
Bright, clean, stainless steel counters reflecting the moon’s rays gave the kitchen an even more supernatural appearance than the dining room. Spotless white tile, stainless steel pans hanging on stainless steel hooks around two stainless steel stoves, wide overhead skylights and spotless, white porcelain sinks all combined to chill Broxton’s spine.
The hotel had obviously been closed for a long time, judging from the state of the graffiti covered businesses outside, but someone was keeping it up, keeping it ready.
He heard the sound of running behind them and Broxton tapped Ramsingh on the shoulder. They crouched behind a long counter that ran through the center of the kitchen, almost to a second door at the other end. The door that Broxton and Ramsingh were going to have to get through if they were going to get away.
“ Lawman, Lawman. Undertaker here, how copy?” Broxton heard the unmistakable sound of a radio. There were more of them.
“ I thought you bought it, good buddy,” Lawman said. Now he had a name, Broxton thought and he recognized the Texas accent.
“ Where are you?” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio.
“ There’s a big abandoned hotel, real spooky, down by the beach. I’ve got them trapped in the kitchen.”
“ Remember leave the bodyguard alive,” Broxton heard the radio voice crackling through static. He thought the accent was White Trinidadian, but it could have been British.
“ Shithead,” Lawman said into the radio. “He might have heard.”
“ Fuck,” came Undertaker’s reply.
“ You coming?” Lawman said.
“ Two minutes,” Undertaker said.
There were cabinets under the counter and Broxton started feeling around for a door handle, found it and eased a door open, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. Inside he found plates and bowls, enough to set table for an army. He picked up one of the plates and tapped the prime minister’s arm to get his attention. Ramsingh turned and Broxton showed him the plate. Then he pointed, first to the other side of the room, then toward the door, a long ten or fifteen feet away.
Ramsingh nodded, understanding the message.
Broxton didn’t know what kind of weapon the man had and he didn’t know if he had spare ammunition. He figured six shots for a revolver and eight, possibly more, for an automatic. The man had used up three. Broxton was counting on a revolver. A lot of counting, a lot of hope.
He held his breath for a mental four count. One for the money. He grabbed the plate, like it was a Frisbee, firmly in his left hand. Two for the show. He raised his head till his eyes were barely above the counter and he saw the man standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the room. He wasn’t looking in his direction and he held a shiny gun in his right hand. Shiny meant revolver, at least Broxton thought it did. Three to get ready. He stood, loose as an alley cat, surprised that he wasn’t afraid, surprised that the tingling at the base of his neck was gone, surprised that he was calm under fire. Four to go. He flung the plate across the room and it sailed as true as any Frisbee he’d ever thrown on a Southern California beach during a hot Sunday afternoon.
Then he slapped Ramsingh on the shoulder as the plate crashed through a window on the opposite side of the room, but the prime minister needed no urging, he was up and running as gunshots rang through the ghostly kitchen. Broxton heard both the shots and the explosions the bullets made as they ricocheted off of stainless steel pots and pans. He counted three and he hoped that meant the man was out of ammunition, because he was running right behind Ramsingh, protecting the prime minister with his back.
Ramsingh flew through another swinging door with Broxton right behind. They ran down the hallway, sprinted through a door at the end of the corridor and found themselves in another banquet room. “There,” Ramsingh said, and they dashed toward a door on the far side of the room, dodging and weaving between more tables and chairs, with Broxton again protecting Ramsingh with his ba
ck.
“ Stop,” Broxton said as Ramsingh reached the door. “Me first, in case there’s someone out there.” He opened the door to the outside and set off a loud wailing alarm.
Ramsingh bent, pulled off his shoes and took off across the sand.
“ Shit,” Broxton said, grabbing at his own shoes, then he ran toward the sea, chasing after the prime minister.
“ Can you swim?” Ramsingh asked, standing in wet sand at the water’s edge. Sweat glistened on the prime minister’s forehead and his silver hair gleamed in the moonlight. It was quiet, the only noise other than their labored breathing was the gentle sound of the lapping surf.
“ Sure,” Broxton said, and Ramsingh pulled off his shirt and grinned. “We never give up,” he said. His lips were tight. His eyes looked like he’d seen the very fires of hell. He was tense. He was rock hard and Broxton was impressed with the old man’s full chest as he took in the scars left by the heart surgery. The man was battle weary, battle scarred and battle tough, and Broxton knew that his first impression of the man was way wrong as Ramsingh turned and loped into the black sea.
“ There’s gotta be a better way,” Broxton said under his breath, wading into the water. Maybe if they just swam out a little way and floated, just beyond pistol range, till they gave up and left, but Ramsingh was swimming like he’d been born to the water, striking out toward the sailboats anchored almost a quarter mile away.
“ There they are,” Lawman said, his smooth drawl up an octave. He was a big man, big, excited and deadly, and he was less than a hundred feet away. Broxton wanted to strike out after Ramsingh, but he was frozen in place. He felt the sea swirl around his legs as the sand seemed to be pulling his feet down under. He was like a tree, planted in place, his sunken feet as solid as any root system.
