The Daisy Ducks (37 page)

"Mike?" I whispered.

"Who the fuck you think it is, jiveass?" he
growled under his breath.

“
Sorry."

"Man! You sposa be up —"

I apologized and explained. Where was Roantis?

Summers swept his arm out toward the clearing on the
other side of the brush. "Out there. Freddie's up ahead. Better
let 'im know you're comin'."

I left him clutching himself and crawled on. I
decided to flash my watch three times instead of waiting to get
grabbed again. It worked; I saw an answering flash through the brush,
and Freddie Kaunitz scooted over to me.

"
Que pasa
?"
he whispered.

"Where's Liatis?"

He told me, and I took up my glasses and swept the
clearing. Kaunitz swore he was out there, but I'd be damned if I
could see him. I now noticed a block and tackle rig above the cave
entrance, much like a bale lifter on a barn. That's how they got the
heavy supplies up there. But they obviously did not use the main
entrance at night, which explained why the nighttime leaker had taken
the back way out. Were there any other side passages? How could we
know? Where was Roantis?

The clock was ticking.

Then I saw him. Even through the glasses I had to
focus on the distant figure for several seconds before I was
convinced it was a human being. Roantis had snaked his way up to the
cliff on the far side of the clearing. He was standing against the
rock, but was all but invisible because he had distorted his human
silhouette by assuming a crooked-leg, splayed-arm stance that
resembled a gnarled Monterey cypress. It was weird, but it worked. I
found out later that this was inpo, the Ninjitsu art of hiding. More
specifically, it was the part of inpo known as
pu
neng mu
, "hiding behind nothing."
Since the human eye discerns movement first, silhouette second, and
color third, Roantis had, in the dim light, negated all of these by
his dark, swirled clothes, his deformed silhouette, and his extremely
slow motion. He moved but appeared not to; he moved the way a flower
petal opens. Soon he was within seven feet of the platform car that
sat silent on the old spur, the old tractor cowling and stack jutting
up into the purple-blue of the night like a frozen monster. Roantis
stand-danced his way over to it, before the very eyes of the sentry
above, and soon stood on it, right next to the engine. Then, with a
languid movement, he drew a long, pale object from the front of his
shirt. He dropped to a half crouch behind the tractor and affixed
something to it. What was he doing? As he rose slightly and peered
over the top of the engine cowling, I recognized the paper wand
Sparkles MacAllister had given to him. Roantis rose to his full
height and for an instant seemed to hover over the machine, then he
held the wand over the smoke-stack, the dark tip of the fuse on its
lower end. Then it was gone, and the dark figure pirouetted slowly
off the platform and eased his way, crouching, back toward the cliff.
He never saw me and wasn't coming back. My watch said we had twelve
minutes left. I didn't hang around. On my way back, I told Kaunitz I
was going in the back way again.

"We're out of time, Freddie. If he comes back
your way, tell him I'll meet you up there. I counted eight men
inside. They look like kids."

Then I skedaddled. I didn't see Summers on the way
back or any sign of Tommy Desmond, either. I assumed they were
somewhere in the brush, ready for whatever came down. I worked my way
through the thickets again, then went back inside that narrow seep. I
did not want to go back in there. Every cell in my body said no. My
common sense—what little there is of it—said no. But something
stronger said yes. I didn't know, then, what the voice was.

So I dragged my aching body through that damp crack
in the cliff again. I was carrying only my Colt rifle; even that was
a chore. I squirmed through and worked any way back to the big,
bowl-shaped room again. Was it my imagination, or was it lighter in
there? Regardless, predawn light wasn't far off. I knew I couldn't
crawl over to Daisy with the rifle, so I leaned it in a crack, took
the safety snap off my pistol holster, and got down on the damp rock,
belly-crawling toward where Daisy lay on her cot. I was shivering.
None of the men was close to Daisy, but I knew that at least two of
them—Royce and Jusuelo—were trained to wake instantly at the
slightest disturbance. I inched onward, staring out the mouth of the
cavern. It looked black out there, just because it was slightly
darker there than inside. And just out of sight, over the rock lip of
the cave's mouth, was the crude front stairway, guarded by the sentry
who was probably less than fifteen feet from me. When I finally
reached her, I took a deep breath and slowly placed my hand over her
mouth, ready to grip it tight as iron if she began to cry out.

But old Daisy was a pro. She opened those black eyes
slowly, as calmly as a typist awakening from a lie-down, and stared
at me. Then she gave me a slow wink, removed my hand, and pointed
toward the foot of the cot. Her left leg was shackled by a big brass
padlock to a length of aircraft cable. That steel cable is
lightweight and stronger than chain.

"Who's got the key?" I said in a whisper so
low I couldn't even hear it.

"Bill," she answered.

I pointed around us.

"Where?"

"There. Against the wall. Next to Jusuelo."
She pointed them out. I saw Jusuelo first, recognized the face of the
priest in the hospital. The murderer-priest. Royce's head was covered
by his arm, but I saw the familiar big form, and in the faint light I
could see that the tufts of hair that were visible were light in
color. Jusuelo and Royce. The two remaining Daisy Ducks. Turned bad.
Not that the other three were angels. I wanted to walk over there and
put bullets in their heads. I felt a tug on my shoulder.

"It's hanging on a ring on his belt, Doc. You'll
never get it without waking him."

But I hunkered down and began to ease along the rock
toward Royce. I doubted he would wear the keyring while sleeping; it
would hurt if he turned on it. Twice I had seen and heard the
sleeping men stir. Outdoor people like these rise early. Time was
just about up. It was now or never, and all up to me. "Observatory
position," my ass.

I crept over the rock floor to Bill Royce's cot. It
only took about three hours. Hell, I had loads of time left. A whole
minute and a half. Loads. And there, thanks be to God, on the ground
right next to the cot was the first lucky break I'd had—a ring of
keys. Royce flinched, then turned over on the cot. I saw in the
rising light a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Oh God. If he
got the drug shakes he'd wake any second, and in a foul mood. Also,
considering how I'd already managed to muck up his plans, he would
waste no time in dealing me out.

I snagged the keys and belly-crawled back to Daisy. I
wanted to rush, but I made myself move slowly and in silence. When I
got to her, Daisy took the keys. Pulling up softly on the cable, I
saw the tether end was made fast to a massive screw eye—the size
they used on telephone poles—set into a hole in the rock filled
with concrete. No way was it going anywhere. Daisy, whose stepfather
had taught her well, had memorized the key and found it fast. When
the lock snapped open, I took the keys and stuffed them in my pants.
Then I closed the padlock on the cable. I didn't want them to be able
to shackle her like that ever again. I leaned over and told her the
drill. "We'll ease out the back way, kid. There's a sentry
guarding the front. He's right below us and —"

She didn't wait to hear the rest, just eased to her
feet and crept ahead of me toward the back of the cavern. Then she
stopped, dropped to a crouch, and motioned me toward the front. I
heard it too: somebody scuffling around in the rear passage. Somebody
was coming our way, walking in through the narrow seep. Too late. We
changed direction and moved fast now, the scuffling behind us growing
louder. Was it running? I looked back to see a dark figure enter the
room. We had to go out the front way now, and down the stairs. No
other choice. What about the sentry? Could I shoot him in the chest
with my pistol? Easy answer: not in a million years. But he had a
rifle, maybe a submachine gun. I patted myself down, looking for any
kind of weapon. I found it.

But the sentry didn't wait; he had stood up, cocking
his ear at the noise above him. His head was visible above the lip of
the entrance. So was the muzzle of his weapon: a short, stubby grease
gun. He hadn't seen us yet. I had the little can in my fist now, the
top unscrewed.

"Hey!" shouted a voice behind us. Loud
enough to wake the dead. I turned for a millisecond to see the man
standing in the rear of the cavern. He held something long and dark.
My rifle. He'd found it. No time at all now. I jumped over the lip
and down onto the wooden platform that was the start of the stairway
down. Daisy followed me, and then we were eye to eye with the sentry,
who was bringing up the submachine gun to point at our chests. That
slug spitter could cut us both in half with a burst of fire. Oh
Christ.

"Halt!" he shouted. Holy Jesus. The voice
of a teenager. He was just as scared as I was. And I was scared
plenty. I emptied the contents of the can into my left hand,
thinking, you don't know just how dangerous this game can get, kid.
You‘ve been reading too many comic books.

There was an ear-splitting ripping and tearing of the
rock wall behind the boy. I saw dust and rock flying off the cliff
face. One of the Ducks below us was giving the place a hosing down
with a long automatic burst. The racket was deafening—and scary. So
scary the kid turned around for a split second, which was all the
time I needed to begin the long, underhand sweep of my left arm, with
a whole can of snuff cradled on my cupped palm.

The brown dust cloud flew around the kid's face, with
a lot of it going into his eyes. Boy, did he scream. I knew it must
have hurt like hell, and the pain would last and last. Would he ever
see again? At that instant I didn't care. I saw Daisy grab the grease
gun from midair as he dropped it in his agony. Without missing a
beat, she raised the muzzle and bopped him a good one on the side of
the head. He fell down the stairs, still screaming and trying to take
his eyes out with the tips of his fingers. If he kept at it, he would
succeed. We stormed right over him and down the stairs.

But we still weren't home free. Not by a long shot.
Because waiting for us at the very bottom of the walkway was Fred
Kaunitz. He didn't even say hello, just held that black rifle pointed
right at us. You know the one: black plastic foregrip with three vent
holes, carrying handle over the receiver . . .

And Fred Kaunitz never missed.
 

26

DAISY LOOKED CONFUSED and didn't raise her gun. I
grabbed her shoulders and pushed her down toward the rocky gravel
where Kaunitz stood. Not that it would do any good. I heard two quick
shots from the FAL and turned to see Daisy's blown-away head.

But she was line. And so, apparently, was I. There
was a thumping and clattering behind us, and a figure in camo
continued his slow, spastic somersaulting down the last steps of the
walkway. He rolled one last time, tried to stand on his head, and
didn't make it. He eased back into death, spread-eagled at our feet,
with two neat holes in his chest, dead center. My Colt rifle, which
he had picked up just before he yelled at us, was still on the
stairs. I leaned to pick it up and heard Kaunitz telling Daisy to get
into the trees and go to ground with me.

"Thanks, Freddie," I said as he jumped for
the stairs.

"Don't mention it," he hissed through
clenched teeth, leaping up the stairs three at a time. We scooted for
the woods and almost got knocked flat by the burly form of Summers,
who followed Kaunitz up. Then we were in the trees and vines and
Daisy was hugging Roantis, calling him Papa. He beamed for maybe half
a second, then looked up at the cave, frowning.

"Both Royce and Jusuelo are in there," I
told him. "And about eight others. There's a back way—that's
how I got in."

"Where's Desmond? He in there too?"

When I shook my head, he drew a brass egg from his
assault bag and stepped to the edge of the bush, looking up at the
hole in the cliffside. If he was going to throw it, he'd have to do
it fast, before Summers and Kaunitz got in the way. He had depressed
the side lever and started to pull out the pin when he
stopped.

"How old are they?" he asked Daisy.

"Mostly boys, Papa."

"Shit," he said, returning the bomb to the
bag, "I'm getting too old for this I think."

Then he bolted across the clearing and leapt onto the
steps, his Streetcleaner in his left hand. I knew he could clean out
that cavern in three seconds with it. At a demonstration, I'd seen
him work that pump like a Vegas crapshooter rolling bones. But I
hoped he wouldn't; I knew these rough, tough survivalists were, as
Daisy had said, mostly boys. Summers and Kaunitz went over the lip. I
expected to hear fireworks, but it was eerily still. I thought I knew
why. Daisy knew too, and we both trotted up along the ridge toward
the seep.