The Terrible Ones (3 page)

He glanced about him, listening intently. The only sounds were far away. If there were watchers near they were silent ones indeed.

The dark shape stepped aside from the entrance to the cave.

“Enter, then,” the low voice said.

Nick took a slow step forward and silently slid Wilhelmina from her holster into his hand.

“Turn, please,” he said softly. “You go first into the cave.”

He heard a low snort. “You are afraid?” the low voice asked.

“I am cautious,” he answered. “Move, please. I do not wish to stand out here and talk all night.” The aching fingers of his left hand reached for the pen-shaped tube in his upper pocket.

There was an Irritated intake of breath, and then, reluctantly, “As you say.”

“Your back toward me, now.”

“But naturally, cautious one.”

The figure turned and disappeared into the crevice.

Nick followed quickly, in one swift and silent bound. He stood sideways in the opening, Wilhelmina poised for action, and flicked the switch on the tiny flashlight tube. Brilliant light flashed around the small hideout.

“Turn that off, you fool!” the voice hissed.

He turned it off and ducked inside, surprised and angry. The cave was empty of people but for himself and the one with the whispering voice. That was as it should be. But the one he had seen in the sharp beam of light was not at all what he had expected.

The tiniest of glowing lights appeared in the other’s hand. There was a movement at the entrance and he saw a curtain of shrubbery and a dark cloth being drawn across the entrance. The one who answered to the name of Paolo reached for something on a rocky ledge and suddenly the small cave was filled with a soft glow.

“Do you want to give everything away?” Nick’s companion said furiously. “Already you people have made enough noise to wake the dead! Did you think you would be pounced upon by bandits when you came in here?”

“I thought many things,” Nick said slowly, “but you, friend Paolo, are the last thing I expected.” He took one step forward and let his gaze travel deliberately down from the ranchero-type hat, over the loose army jacket, over the dirt-stained slacks covering the well-formed legs, and over the battered riding boots. Then he let his eyes travel upward again to scrutinize such shape as he could distinguish beneath the concealing jacket. He took his time; it was an insolent survey, but his anger made him do it. At last he stared into the face, with its hard mouth and cold-slate-colored eyes. And its peaches-and-cream complexion, marred only by the small scar on the lower left cheek.

The eyes stared back at him, flickering over his bearded face and his bloodied clothes.

Nick sighed and sat down abruptly on an outcropping of rock.

The girl gave a short laugh and swept the ranchero hat from her head. Her hair tumbled out from beneath it. It was long and honey-blonde.

“Well?” she demanded. “Have you seen all you wanted to see?”

“Not enough,” he said harshly. “Are you really a woman, or haven’t you made up your mind?”

Her eyes spat fire. “I suppose you expect me to tramp through the mountains in high heels and an evening gown?” She flung the hat away from her as if it were Nick’s head, and glared at him. “Spare me the insults, if you please, and let us get down to business. First we must get your men together— though God alone knows how you plan to do it after all the disturbance you’ve created. What was that all about, may I ask?” She was looking again at the blood on his shirt. “You are hurt, I see. Was there an accident, or were you seen?”

“How nice of you to inquire,” said Nick, putting Wilhelmina on the rock beside him and sliding the back-pack off his weary shoulders. “Who do you think might have seen me?”

“Haitian patrol, of course,” she said impatiently. “No one else comes up here, at least not at night. There is a voodoo superstition about the place. That is why I chose it.”

“No one else?” Nick stared at her. “And it was impossible, was it, for anyone to follow you here?”

“Of course no one followed me,” she snapped, but her cold eyes were worried. “What are you talking about?”

“About someone who was not a Haitian guard and who might even be a friend of yours, for all I know.” Nick watched her carefully while he spoke. “A big man, a little taller than myself and heavier, and dressed in the same sort of fatigues.

Bearded, Latin features, so far as T could see, and a mouthful of broken teeth.” Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “And he called me a Yankee pig,” Nick went on. “I don’t mind being called names, but how would he know? I am not wearing my capitalistic, Wall Street clothes tonight, as you may have noticed.”

“Indeed T have noticed,” she said quietly, and her cool gaze swept once again over his darkened, bearded face and his bloodied fatigues. “Where was this man?”

“He was waiting for me at the top of the cliff,” said Nick, “trying his best to kick me into space. I had to kill him, of course. There was no time to exchange pleasantries.” His tone sharpened suddenly. “Who was he? You recognized the description, didn’t you?”

She shook her head slowly. “It is hot an unusual one. Many men these days wear what you are wearing, and many of them have beards and broken teeth. It is quite true that he sounds like a man I know, but I cannot be sure unless I were to see him. And that I suppose is quite impossible?”

“Quite impossible,” Nick agreed. “Perhaps you are just as glad”

“Why should I be?” The slight softening of her features gave way instantly to the tight-mouthed hardness that seemed to be her normal expression. “We asked for help, and if you intend to give it there should be a mutual trust. I will not name a name I am unsure of. When we get to Santo Domingo I will ask about this man. If he is alive, then he is not the one, yes? But if he has disappeared, then I will tell you about him.”

He almost admired her for the moment. She was being so fair and square, so old-school-tie. And perhaps she was even being honest.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Next question. Who are you? You are obviously not Paolo, whom I was led to believe that I would meet. Somebody lied. Was it you?”

“There was no lie!” she flared. “It is no fault of mine if there was a misunderstanding!”

“What
misunderstanding?” He almost spat the words at her. “Who and where is Paolo?
And who are you?”

She seemed to shrink away from him. Then she drew her chin up defiantly and spat words back at him.

“There is no Paolo. There never was and no one ever said there was. I sent the messages that brought you here. And I did not lie. The name is Paula. Paula! If there was a mistake in the transcription it was none of my doing! Besides, what difference does it make?”

“And what about The Terrible Ones?” he said icily. “You are not going to tell me that a band of freedom fighters chose a woman to do a man’s errand?”

She laughed at him, but there was no humor in her laughter.

“What men? There are few men left to do the errands of a man. I chose myself. Why should I not? I am their leader.”

He stared at her. It seemed to be getting to be a habit with him. But the tiny doubt that had been kindled by the first sound of the whispered voice was growing into a fire of suspicion.

“I see. You are their leader. And what is the male strength of your company? You may as well tell me now; I’ll find out soon enough—if I decide to stay. And, as you said, there should be a mutual trust.” He waited.

She looked at him defiantly. “You know now, do you not? We have no men. The Terrible Ones are women. All of them.”

“And aptly named,” he said, and thoughtfully scratched his chest. The little switch that connected him with Jean Pierre flicked to the Off position. When he knew more, he’d tell, but Papa Hawk was not going to get a blow-by-blow account of his dealings with this hard-eyed woman.

Nick peeled off his bloodied shirt. The sewn-in radio came off with it.

“Well, I’ve had a hard day’s night,” he said. “I don’t know what entertainment you’ve planned for the rest of it, but I’m going to get some sleep. You can keep watch if you think its necessary.”

“But what about the rest?” she said, and he was glad to see that she was looking puzzled. “Surely you will need to make contact with your men?”

“Surprise, surprise,” he said amiably, making a pillow of his shirt and pack and sliding Wilhelmina underneath the bundle. “I’ve had one; now here’s one for you. There are no other men. I am all you’re going to get. Goodnight, Paolo baby, and please turn off the light.”

“You’re
what?”
She started toward him, her slim body galvanized by fury. “I ask for help, and I get—?”

“Be quiet!” he hissed. His hackles were crawling and he reached for the Luger as he bounded to his feet.

Her mouth opened angrily and he clamped a hand over it.

“I said be
quiet!
” He cocked his ears and listened. He felt her slight movement and saw that she understood. At least she was quick on the trigger, this bitch of a girl.

There were movements outside. Not loud, not yet close, but coming closer. Twigs crackled and leaves rustled.

“So no one ever comes this way,” he whispered bitterly. “Your friends?”

She shook her head emphatically behind his restraining hand.

“Then keep your mouth shut and turn out the light.”

He released her and watched her swift movement toward the glow on the rocky shelf.

Moves well, he thought to himself, and then the light went out. He crept toward the entrance of the cave and fingered Wilhelmina.

The sounds were soft but distinct. They became careful footfalls, and there were many of them. And they were right outside.

Voodoo on the Rocks

Nick stiffened. There was another sound that was somehow infinitely more menacing than the footfalls of men. It was a heavy, eager panting that swelled into a low growl. A soft voice whispered a command in barely audible Creole. The growling stopped, but the bushes at the outer mouth of the cave began to rustle and snap as though clawed by some giant animal.

The girl sucked in her breath. Nick felt her lips lightly touch his ear. They felt much softer than they looked.

“Haitian dog patrol,” she whispered almost soundlessly. “Usually six men and one dog. If they take us we are finished.”

Nick nodded grimly in the darkness. He knew about the mad dictator’s secret police and the devilish tortures they had devised for their boss’s viewing pleasure. Yet even if he could shoot his way through six armed men, the idea did not appeal to him. It was not only the knowledge that the shots would bring others running that made him hesitate. It was also that he recoiled from gunning down six men who were not necessarily his enemies but soldiers on guard duty. Maybe he could outtalk them, bargain with them . . . . He dismissed the idea. It was too much of a long shot. His mind worked busily.

The snuffling grew louder and more eager. Nick’s nerve ends tingled unpleasantly.

“I also have a gun,” the girl whispered. “We can shoot them one by one as they come in after the dog. There is only space for one at a time—”

“Hush,” Nick breathed at her. Christ! she was coldblooded, although she might be right. Except that the patrol was hardly likely to stay around to be picked off one by one. Return fire, one to race for help, and they would have had it. End of Mission Treasure. “Too noisy. Last resort.”

“Do you have a first resort?” She sounded scornful and bitter.

He drew her face toward him and turned her head so that her ear brushed against his mouth. There was a lingering touch of perfume on the tiny lobe, and her hair was silky-soft.

“What is the local superstition?” he murmured. “Something we can use?”

She made an impatient little clicking sound and then said softly, “Oh. It is
djuba,
fear of dead souls returning to snatch the lives of others. But—”

“Ah!” It was one he knew something about, and he felt a glimmer of hope. Anything was worth trying.

The makeshift blackout curtain of dark cloth and shrubbery billowed inward near their feet. The snuffling became a snarl. Nick drew the girl away in a swift and silent movement and felt a pounding in her chest that was oddly pleasing to him. He sensed rather than saw the curtain dropping back into place at a quiet command. Then there was a whispered consultation outside. He could not hear the words but he could guess what was being said.

“I suppose you plan to let them come in here and then you’ll frighten them to death?” the girl whispered, a little too loudly.

“Quiet!” he hissed urgently. “Get as far back into the cave as you can—climb onto a ledge if you can find one. Then keep your mouth shut and your gun still until I fire the first shot. Understand?”

He felt her head nodding against his lips and on impulse he took a quick nibble of soft ear. He grinned to himself at her little intake of breath and pushed her firmly toward the back of the cave.

The snarling started again and something heavy threshed about in the bushes outside. Nick glided swiftly to his makeshift pillow and reached blindly into the pack, cursing quietly at the thing that jabbed at his probing hand. He pulled it out, still sticky as it was, and slipped the knuckle rings over his fingers. Then he padded toward the narrow entrance and squinted through the darkness for the thing that snarled and snuffled near his feet.

He wondered if the dog was on a leash or whether they would let it bound in to chew the living hell out of whatever they thought was inside. Or if they would start yelling at him to surrender and then start pitching in stink bombs or something worse to smoke him out. But he did not plan to wait for their next move.

His lungs filled with the dank air of the cave and his throat worked strangely. AXE’s Department of Special Effects and Editing taught many things to those with the capacity to learn, and Carter was their most accomplished pupil. That was why he was Killmaster, and that was why he was here.

A chilling sound came bubbling up from his larynx, the sound of a soul in the distant reaches of hell, the babble of a creature driven mad by the tortures of the damned. He let it rise slowly and inexorably, listening to the horrors of his own unrecognizable voice with a sort of awe and dimly seeing the thick snout and spatulate paw of a huge hound scrabbling through the covering of the crevice. He edged back against the side wall of the cave, away from the hole but still within reach of it, raised his killing hand in readiness. His voice rose into a babbling howl of tormented laughter.