Havana (14 page)

But Earl had the car finally in reverse, and moved his foot to the gas, pushing Pepe's dead one—the man was by this time a sack of sloppy weight, his broken head pitched forward—aside. He hammered the pedal and the car shot backwards perhaps twenty-five yards, even as more gunfire came after it, tearing up hood, punching out more glass, ripping tires and engine to shreds. Riding the last gasp of engine power, Earl jacked the car's wheel left, depositing it at an angle in a gully. He slithered out, came up over the hood, pulled his Super .38 from the shoulder holster, thumbed the hammer back from half cock as he did so, and punched out six fast two-handed shots, at a line of gully across the road and fifty yards or so down, where the accumulation of gunsmoke and suspended dust announced the presence of the shooters. The pistol recovered fast with its lessened kick and when he was done shooting he knew he had four rounds left. But still, while he had the chance, he yanked a magazine from his pocket and reloaded another nine. With the round in the chamber, he had ten.

Even as he did this, a tree fell lazily across the road. It was a tree meant to trap them, but it hadn't. They were behind the kill-zone.

Earl swung around and saw the woodchopper bound forward from the tree for cover, but Earl got a shot off fast at the deflection, finding an instinctive lead, knowing to pin the trigger on the stroke, and heard the sound that can only be bullet on meat, knew that he had hit the man.

He slid along the body of the twisted automobile, pulled open the back door. Inside, on the floor, Lane and the congressman lay in a terrified embrace.

“Oh, Jesus, what is—”

“God, why are they—”

Earl grabbed the nearest, Boss Harry, and yanked him brutally out of the car, dumping him hard in the gully. He paused as another fusillade of fire tore into the car, but by the weird physics of the situation, the car was tilted up in such a way that most of it blocked the men from the shooters.

Earl next reached in and pulled out the gibbering assistant.

“You crouch here, goddammit. Behind the wheel well. That is where it is safer.”

“How many are there?” Harry was finally cogent enough to ask.

“I have no fucking idea, but they do mean business, that I guarantee you.”

 

The sergeant cursed. No language has more pathways for blasphemy than Spanish and this was a construction of such horror it would have made even Odudua ashamed, and perhaps disappointed in him, even if he was one of her most favored facilitators, having seen and done so many terrible, evil things.

Why had the car stopped short? What on earth impelled whoever was inside to make such a decision? Had the killers been betrayed?

But now he watched in helpless rage as the car roared backwards. He prayed to Odudua that the car would not swing around the bend and disappear. And Odudua helped out her humble servant. In her magnificence, she guided the shots of his three machine-gunners and they did a great damage to the automobile, so that finally it jerked off the road and like a broken-backed bull wedged itself at a hideous angle, tilted, one ruined tire uplifted, in the gully.

Its occupants could still be killed.

He watched as fire lashed against it, tearing it, puncturing it, spewing liquids and shards of metal from it, turning what had been such a shiny emblem of power into shabby wreckage in just a few seconds. As theater it was fabulous; as action, it lacked finality, for from his position on this side of the road, he could see the guard emerge, bring fast fire on his shooters, pull the two very important
norteamericanos
from the vehicle and squish them down where it was safest, and then reload and fire again, with almost astonishing speed.

What an hombre! Oh, this was somebody who knew a thing or two.

For a daffy moment, the sergeant brought up his Star, took a good supported position, and considered firing as he saw the front sight cross the American's solid body. But then he thought better of it, as he was still seventy yards distant from his targets, such a long shot for a man with a pistol, and if he fired, he simply told them where he was.

Instead he saw that he had some advantage still. If the gunners kept their heads, continued to bring fire, didn't lose their nerve, he himself could slither and close the distance and, suddenly, jump out from the rear and kill the guard. The two mewling men, who now crouched behind the wheel well, gripping each other like women, would be easy. He could even kill them with his knife and truly enjoy it, but then that might take too long.

Gripping the pistol, he began to slither ahead through the gully.

 

Earl dropped back to the rear of the car, behind the tail fin. It was the smart move, for in that second, two of the tommy-gunners opened up, trying to pin him where he wasn't, which was at the front wheel well. Meanwhile, their third member dashed heroically from cover, firing from the hip like a movie marine, and, feeling himself well protected by the oblique raking fire his friends brought to bear on the car, began to advance.

He moved fast yet with courageous purpose, closing steadily, eyes on the move hunting for targets. Earl thought he was a brave man, even as he rose from behind the tail fin, put the front sight of the Super .38 on his throat, figuring the flat-shooting, fast-as-hell little bullet would drop only an inch or two at fifty yards, and p-r-e-s-s-e-d off a shot. The gun smacked crisply against his hand as it operated in super-time, flinging a spent shell off to the right, though in the rage of blood chemicals and dust and total sensory overload he did not notice it. What he saw in the split second before he dove for cover as the fire steered toward him was eminently satisfying: the man, stricken, stumbling drunkenly as the big weapon fell pitifully from his once strong hands. One hand flew to his mouth, which now drooled lakes of blood—that's what a lung shot does—and possibly he sealed some in, but by that time he was on his knees and a second later had toppled sacklike, devoid of dignity, forward into the dust. His tommy gun lay atilt in the road.

 

Speshnev, at the end of his run, saw almost nothing. These things are never clear. It was all dust and confusion, the noise was terrifying, and no one unifying vision made any sense of it. A man lay ragamuffin-pitiful in the road, in a pool of blood, so bright in a world drained of color. The car, which had come to rest half in, half out of the gully, looked like the
Titanic
settling into the sea. It was badly torn up, and a puddle of gasoline collected under it from a gas tank so many times punctured. The slightest spark could send a flaming cloud high into the sky.

But he could see no living men. One of those odd moments of gunfight silence prevailed. No one quite knew what to do, all parties were out of communication, blood had been spilled in copious amounts and the terrible thought occluded all minds: When will this be over? This followed close upon: Will I die here? Prayers and curses were mixed in, but the gist is always the same, and the results the same. Luck comes for or avoids bold and meek the same, but still a smart guy, if he's just a little bit lucky, has all the better chance of surviving.

Therefore, Speshnev assumed that somewhere behind the tilted car, the American still breathed. Clearly that was his kill out there in the sun, with that splayed look of beyond-caring the dead always find a way to assume. Possibly men closed in upon him; possibly they were even now about to kill him. Speshnev didn't know; he only knew that he had to get closer still, and do what could be done.

 

Someone had beshat himself, but Earl didn't know or particularly care which one.

He crouched beside them.

“When I rise up and fire, y'all break into the jungle. But don't lose sight of the road. Don't get lost back there and drown in the swamp or something. I think they're all on the other side of the road. I will hold them here long as I have ammo.”

“I can't do it,” said Lane Brodgins.

“Yes you can, Mr. Brodgins. You are younger and stronger than Boss Harry and he needs you like he never needed you before. Ain't that right, sir?”

“Actually, no, Earl. In fact, you're completely wrong. I really don't care if Lane comes or goes. I just don't want him holding me back. Plus, he smells. His pants are full of shit. That's how I see it and I always call it the way I see it.”

“Well, in cases like this, teamwork is the best thing.”

“Teaming up with Lane ain't going to do me no good whatsoever. Earl, you hold them here. I will run as you say. As for Lane, I have no idea. Lane, you're fired. You're on your own now.”

“Goddamn you, Harry Etheridge. If I get out of here, I will tell all that I know about your filthy doings and it will—”

“Boys, boys, shut up, I can't think. I am low on ammo, and they're creeping around out there, possibly changing positions. I have killed two but there are at least two more and possibly a goddamned third I don't yet know about.”

“Well, can you kill them all, Earl?”

“I don't think so, sir.”

“Well, what goddamned good are you then, boy? You were hired to do a job and now's a fine time to see you ain't up to it.”

“Sir, there's a goddamned bunch of them. Just shut up, old man. I will try and get your precious Arkansas ass out of here.”

“Did you hear how he talked to me, Lane? The nerve.”

“You fired me, Harry, so I don't give no two shits. Earl, shoot him. They came for him. If he's dead, they'll let us go.”

“Lane, you are showing me no loyalty at all, and I want you to know that I have noticed it.”

The two gunners opened up again, obviously having changed drums. Their fire ripped into the car, raising hell's own worst racket, and the vehicle shuddered as it took so many more hits.

And then—poof!—something somehow lit, and a sudden feathery fountain of flame leaped upward, accompanied by a smeary fog of smoke, black and thick.

“
Go, go!
” screamed Earl, rising not behind front fender or rear tail fin as before, but more or less in the center of the car, where he had not been, to shoot through the shattered windows. He pumped his nine rounds out fast, and saw a man with a heavy gun sit back and set his gun down. But immediately more bullets came speeding after Earl, and they kicked slivers of metal and glass into his face. He sat back, wincing, and saw that the two old friends had skedaddled, though in which direction he did not know.

He dumped his mag, slammed in his last one—only nine left!—and drew back, to cover the retreat of his charges.

 

The sergeant was very close now. He had seen the two fat ones depart, and thought to shoot at them. But they were not a problem. The problem was this hero here. If he wasn't killed and killed soon, the whole thing went down in defeat.

But still he wasn't quite close enough. He wanted to be close enough to make sure. He wanted to be at muzzle distance and watch the blackness of cloth where the flash burned the clothes of the man he was killing, and burned his flesh, even as it sent bullets into him.

So he paused. Across the way, he saw his last machine-gunner, crouching, moving ever so slowly, trying in his own way to get close to the American.

The sergeant stared hard at him, commanding him mentally to turn and make eye contact for signals.

Of course, not being a wizard, the sergeant was unable to influence his colleague in any way; no such thing happened. But then it did. The man looked directly to him.

The sergeant raised a finger, to halt the man. Their eyes met passionately. The sergeant gave pantomime signals, pointing to the man, then to himself, then raising one, two and three fingers, hoping to communicate the following: on the count of three, we both rise and fire. He cannot cover two points and will retreat and that is when we will have him.

The man nodded.

The sergeant gave the signal.

He nodded at the man, who steeled himself for the final rush.

The sergeant rose, the man rose. The man rushed the car screaming and firing.

The sergeant did not. He was no one's fool. He simply dropped down, and began to slither forward.

The man ran at the car, and the American shooter dropped him with one shot to the head.

The sergeant, creeping around, got close enough. He fired at the man, hitting him. He saw blood spurt, and the gun fly away.

Ha! Amigo, I have you now!

 

Earl saw a man come at him, wildly, and put an easy shot into him, thinking for just a second that this wasn't—

Then he was hit.

He felt the whack of something crashing into his hip, another buzz as something flew by his face as he went down, and then by the crazy laws of these things, his gun hand went numb. He couldn't have pulled a trigger, even if there'd been a trigger to pull, for the simple reason that a wild shot smashed hard into the Colt right above the trigger guard, mashing the gun terribly and blowing it out of his hand in the same instant.

Earl slid to earth, coming to rest next to the tilted Cadillac. Even now he was working. His hand flew to his hip and felt a black, hot welling of blood. But he didn't panic. He would fight to the end, and in a fast second or two, he spied the gun lying a few feet beyond him. He scuttled toward it, picked it up and saw that it had been ruined. The bullet had savaged the slide, bending it so grotesquely it could not operate on its rails. It was totally dead.