Delta Factor, The (25 page)

This time I didn't have to bother picking a lock. The door stayed shut under an old-fashioned thumb latch and pulled open with squeaking reluctance when I yanked on the handle. I flashed the beam of the light on the antique two-cylinder marine engine pounding away slowly, throwing its power through a gear system that eventually spun the aged generator far below its maximum capacity, spotted the plugs that fired it and yanked them loose with a little shower of sparks and a relieved groan from the massive flywheel as it gradually came to a halt.

Behind me the dim light of the bulbs faded into total darkness and only the small shaft of the flashlight was left to pick my way out. But it was enough. The shadows were grimmer and deeper, the implements of human agony more grotesque than before, almost coming alive as the light wove through them, their shadows reaching out for me.

I found the stairs, went up them quickly, hit the activating lever and pulled the massive slab open.

The shot went off in front of my face as I dived and rolled across the corridor, cursing under my breath. The flash skittered across the floor, still on, and in its beam I could see the guard at the intersection of the corridor face down, squirming on his rifle, his low moan still smothered in the reverberating roar of the .45.

A hand yanked me to my feet and the lieutenant said,

“It was necessary, señor.” I grabbed the flashlight, scrambled to my feet and played the light over Victor Sable and the lieutenant. He was holding the gun out to me. “There will be others coming, señor. We must hurry.”

“They find the alarm?”

“You were in time,” he said.

They weren't the smartest in the world, but they knew a few basic maneuvers. I deliberately let them see the light from the flash leading our way. When we reached the intersection I let it cover the avenues leading away, settled on one as if we were going to take it, then rolled the light across the floor, the beam pointing in the opposite direction.

All of them were lined up in a nice neat row, their rifles at their shoulders, waiting for us to be silhouetted against the light. Only now they were the targets and in the two seconds of confusion before they realized their position, the .45 went off under my fist and each time it bucked, one went down. The last triggered off a single shot and was reaching for the bolt on the rifle to reload when my slug caught him in the chest and he jerked and sagged under the impact, going down like a puppet whose strings were cut. When the echoes of the blast died way I picked up the light, made sure the corridor was cleared and glanced at the lieutenant.

“Could they have heard us?”

“No, senor. If they did, they will not investigate. This is not their affair. They will wait for further orders.”

“Then let's go,” I said. “We have to get to the office.”

Nobody had touched the bodies. They lay where they fell, still outraged in their death positions, the surprise obliterated from their faces. Sable looked at them without any show of emotion, knowing that it was all part of what had to happen. They had dealt out death themselves and then suddenly it was their turn, and for that type there was no remorse.

The lieutenant reached up, clawed his jacket open, popping the buttons to the floor, then tore one lapel loose. He ran his fingers through his carefully combed hair so that it hung down over his eyes, then deliberately ripped two of his medals off, pulling part of the cloth with it and tossed them on the floor.

I knew what he was getting ready for and grinned, but before he could go into the rest of the act the phone rang. In the unnatural stillness it was a jarring note and the lieutenant reached for it automatically. His voice was crisp and official-sounding. He said
“Sí”
twice, listened carefully, then thanked the caller and hung up.

When he turned around he said, “That was my brother who works at the switchboard in Senor Ortega's office. He and Director Sabin are on the way here with three cars of armed guards.”

“Did he say why?”

“Sí,
Senor. Something about Carlos Ortega receiving a radio communication from his agent in Miami. They have suspected what is happening tonight.”

I pointed to the phone. “That a straight line?”

“Correct, señor.”

I walked around the desk, dialed the number of the hotel and asked for Angelo in Spanish. This time they would be monitoring all the calls for anyone speaking English and the probability would be they'd ignore the others.

When I got him I went into a jabber of small talk about women without letting him get a word in edgewise to get any other ears off the line, then said, “The boat that José could not keep and has already left ... you remember that one?”

He recognized me immediately then.
“Sí,
it was too bad, señor.”

“What port will he hit?”

“Weather advisory says the storm will head for the Florida Keys after passing over us. Miami, naturally, will be his destination.”

“Direct route?”

“The only logical way, senor. He will barely have time to make it.”

“See if you can raise him by radio. Tell him to look for pennies from heaven.”

“Señor ... ?”

“He'll know what I mean. I hope.” I paused and said,

“Thanks, kid,” before I hung up.

And now it was
almost
done.

With a grand gesture that nobody else could imitate, the lieutenant clicked his heels together, saluted me smartly and snapped his hand to his side.

“I am ready, senor.” He flashed me a quick smile. “If you don't mind, perhaps a small scar? The ladies ... well ...”

“Just one thing more.”

“What is that, senor?”

“There may be a change in administrations in this country before long. If you are in any position of influence, use it wisely. One of us might come back again.”

“I am aware of that possibility, senor,” he replied. “Now, the scar ... just a small one?”

I hit him before he finished talking and he was going to have his small scar. The blood would be all over the place and there would be no denying what had happened. He'd have a sore face and one hell of a black eye for a couple of weeks and he'd be a hero. If he stayed smart he'd stay a live hero and the chances were that he would. He lay on the floor in a scarlet heap close to his former captain, luckier by far than he.

The dead commander still had the two-ounce packet of H on him and I dumped it in the inkwell on the desk. I broke the glass of the gun cabinet on the wall, yanked a bayonet from an antique rifle and pried open the lock on the sliding doors of the cabinet beneath it and found the rest of the arsenal nestling in neat compartments. I grabbed four grenades, hung them on my belt and nodded for Victor Sable to follow me out.

Now I was glad Frances was hanging out there offshore in all her awesome power. I was glad the electricity from the city was cut off to make them rely on an inadequate generator. The pair guarding the main gate couldn't make us out in the darkness and waited until I was right on top of them before the challenge came. The captain had told them to admit me, but that I wouldn't be leaving; and my appearing out of the darkness was too much of a surprise. They hesitated long enough to want to call in for instructions and when the one turned his back I cold-cocked him with the .45 and as the other brought the rifle up I let him have one in the mouth that separated him from his gun and sent him spinning into the steel grillework. He had been moving when I hit him, so he was only dazed and had the instincts of a cat. He was on his feet as I moved in, his hand going for the short knife at his belt.

I didn't have time to play the blade instead of the man and give him the chance to shout an alarm, so I took the first thrust in a quick sidestep and felt it go diagonally across my ribs like the touch of a brand. He never got the second chance. I had his arm pinioned, snapped it at the joint and crippled him with a knee in the testicles that sucked the air out of his lungs with a high whine. The butt end of the .45 wiped all the pain away instantly and left him twitching on the stone floor in unconscious reflex.

The power was out, so there wouldn't be any use trying to activate the gate. The only thing I could hope for was a manual emergency device and I flicked the light around to find it. A packing crate the guards had been using for a table concealed it, but when I kicked it away I saw the hand-operated winch there and leaned my weight against the handle and started it turning. I had to break through the rust before it began to draw against the cables and haul the gate up. With the spiked ends only four feet off the ground something jammed and it wouldn't go any farther. I waved Victor Sable under it and felt for the arm that would keep the winch from unwinding. What was there was a broken chunk of metal that wouldn't reach the gears. For some stupid reason I laughed. It wasn't the time or place, but I laughed. Lady Luck wasn't giving me any chance at all anymore. All I could hope for was that the same rust that held back the action getting the gate up would slow it coming down ... only this time the sheer weight of the gate itself would be working against me. One chance. That was all I had. I let go the lever, made a flying dive under the grillework and lay there sweating on the ground just before the lancelike tips slid into their slots.

Sable reached down and helped me to my feet. I felt for the grenades on my belt and checked the .45, then put it away, the metal a warm friend against my side. He looked at his hand and wiped it on his coat. “You're hurt.”

“I've been hurt before.”

“You may need attention.”

“Later,” I said. “There isn't time now.” I pulled him toward the Volvo, waited until he was in and turned the key in the ignition. All I could think of was,
Damn, it may work yet!

Holding the speed down was almost painful, but to rush would be fatal. The headlights picked up the two guards on patrol who flanked the road, their rifles ready. I tapped the low-beam switch to get the light out of their eyes and leaned out of the window and called them over. I held up two of the bills I flicked from my pocket and said, “The captain told me to give you this and that he appreciated your services.”

The denomination was too much for them. One even rested his rifle up against a tree to inspect the bill in the glare of the lights and the hardest part was keeping them from shaking my hand in gratitude. Anybody else would have pocketed the money and to hell with them. The one on the barricade that led to the road was a little more suspicious until I chewed him out enough to take the money out of my hand; then he was all smiles and bewilderment, but shrewd enough to know what that single bill represented in his present economy.

When we were clear, Sable turned to me with a slight smile and said, “Does your country always prepare you so well for an emergency?”

“This was my own idea. Nothing motivates the impoverished more than the sight of riches.”

“You are difficult to understand, my friend. I wonder what motivates you.”

“Sometimes I wonder myself,” I said. “For the time being, call me a sucker.”

“I don't believe that.”

“What do you think, then?”

“Most likely I could tell you, but most likely you wouldn't accept it either.”

“And that I appreciate,” I said.

I saw their headlights bouncing off the treetops in the distance, the glow diffused by the low night clouds overhead. I touched the brake pedal and skidded to a stop before I reached the curve in the road, slammed the Volvo into reverse and sent it smashing into the bushes off the shoulder, angling it toward the oncoming cars so their lights wouldn't pick up any reflection from the glass in ours. I told Sable to stay put until I got back, then climbed out my side and ran back the way we had come about fifty yards, picked my spot and waited.

Leaders never lead anymore. They send their troops out ahead to pick up any itinerant fire and stay safe on the excuse that their services are too valuable to be exposed to enemy destruction. I pulled the pins from two of the grenades and held the handles down under my fingers, judging the speed of the oncoming column. A hundred feet separated each of the vehicles and I let the first two trucks loaded with soldiers roll past, released the handle of a grenade and heard it pop into life, then let it go with an overhand swing into the path of the command car in the rear.

I was off on my timing, but I wasn't off on my aim. The grenade, momentarily lost in the darkness, slashed through the beams of the headlights and wiped out the windshield with its crashing impact as the vehicle swerved wildly when the driver reacted to his surprise. But he tried too hard and overcontrolled and the car whipped around, hit the soft shoulders of the road and toppled slowly and ponderously on its side.

The damn fuse had a longer delay than I anticipated and they almost had time to get out. The door opened upward, the interior light winking on so I could see both Carlos Ortega and Russo Sabin fighting madly for escape. Only the driver had guts enough to scream, “Grenade, grenade!” and scrabble for it someplace in the car.

Then it blew and Ortega and Sabin were lifted in disjointed pieces from the wreckage and scattered through the night with a lovely orange blossom of flame to send them off with a final salute.

Up ahead the other trucks had stopped and had started backing up. I let the other grenade go rolling down the road and ran like hell back toward the car. I barely reached the Volvo when it went off and I didn't bother to check the damage it did. Those troops would be scrambling for cover, waiting for another attack, and weren't going to be watching for me driving off in the dark.