Fires of Midnight (28 page)
Authors: Jon Land
T
he Valley of the Dead’s confines worked like a wind tunnel, twisting the desert-dry dust about in all directions. The long drought had scorched the land, and it shed its anger by coughing itself into the air.
he Valley of the Dead’s confines worked like a wind tunnel, twisting the desert-dry dust about in all directions. The long drought had scorched the land, and it shed its anger by coughing itself into the air.
At the head of the procession, Thurman simply gritted his teeth and pressed on. His team could see ahead, but not very far. Their arsenal of weapons should more than compensate for this. McCracken’s Indians might have held a logistical advantage, but as soon as they showed themselves in any number his commandos would be free to slice them down at will.
Thurman’s experience with guerrilla-type fighting was nothing compared to that of Colonel Ling, who’d mastered the art of it in Vietnam. For this reason he had sent Ling on slightly ahead to serve as scout. Ling had been on the other side of this form of battle often enough to sense from where the enemy’s next strike would be coming. Thurman could barely see him out there ahead in the dust swirl. He strained his eyes to catch sight of the small man and almost jumped when Ling appeared right in front of him.
“Trouble,” the Vietnamese said through the whipping dust.
T
he old depressions in the ground had been easily camouflaged. Wareagle had taken three braves with him for this particular task, and in laying the
groundwork he had the odd sensation that he was repeating part of the very strategy the original defenders of this valley had employed.
he old depressions in the ground had been easily camouflaged. Wareagle had taken three braves with him for this particular task, and in laying the
groundwork he had the odd sensation that he was repeating part of the very strategy the original defenders of this valley had employed.
The wind made it tough to hear the men passing atop them, but Johnny could feel them and knew the braves could as well. There had been no set signal to rise, just an apportioned amount of time to wait after the last set of boots had passed overhead. Wareagle lurched out from his hiding place beneath the ground mere seconds ahead of the three other warriors. Spread well apart, they vanished into the wind for the next stage of the plan.
L
ing pointed out the Indian figures hidden in the brush up a slight rise that gave way to the last of the valley. Thurman continued on briefly before dropping into a crouch, opening up with his M-16. The rest of his men joined in instantly and the gunshots echoed in a continuous rattle through the hills.
ing pointed out the Indian figures hidden in the brush up a slight rise that gave way to the last of the valley. Thurman continued on briefly before dropping into a crouch, opening up with his M-16. The rest of his men joined in instantly and the gunshots echoed in a continuous rattle through the hills.
“Cease fire!” Thurman signaled finally, the echoes lingering after his men had obeyed. “Hold positions. You two, with me.”
Thurman led Goza and Rijas forward into the cloud of gun smoke that sifted through the dust. The stink of gunfire hovered over them every step of the way as they neared the brush.
“Fuck,” Thurman muttered.
What was left of the targets they’d been firing at hung from the trees. Other remnants lay tied to bushes. Pieces of straw and fabric were still fluttering through the air, caught by the whims of the breeze.
“Fuck,” Thurman said again.
Dummies, scarecrows …
“Four more men missing!” a voice bellowed from the rear of the pack.
Taken while we were firing,
Thurman realized, gnashing his teeth. “No more games,” he said to Ling. “And no more hiding places. Let’s finish them.”
Taken while we were firing,
Thurman realized, gnashing his teeth. “No more games,” he said to Ling. “And no more hiding places. Let’s finish them.”
And Thurman led the way south over the rise into the last of the valley atop a dry riverbed. He was careful of his footing once the parched remains of what had once been the bottom began crackling underfoot, testing the land for more potential traps. The remainder of his men followed him onto the plain confidently, Goza bringing up the rear, the Arabs and Ling in the middle with Rijas.
Suddenly Thurman heard the now familiar whizzing noise through the air and dove for the ground.
“Arrows!” he screamed. “Down!”
Thurman had been right about the arrows, but wrong about their intended targets. They surged through the air, tips aflame, coming up strangely short of his troops. Thurman rejoiced at first until he realized the purpose of the fiery arrows.
“No!” he bellowed and lunged back to his feet.
Too late. Just as similar ones had done in the legendary battle over a century before, the flaming arrows ignited the kerosene freshly soaked into the ground around the plain. The hard-packed brush and weeds, bone-dry from the drought, quickly became an inferno and effectively sealed Thurman and the remainder of his team in a ring of fire.
They spun around, weapons firing furiously at nothing.
“Stop! Stop!” Thurman ordered.
The enemy wanted them to panic, giving in tantamount to giving up. The front wall of the flames was the weakest, showing several breaks.
“There!” Thurman pointed. “Through there! Out that way before they come! Take them as they charge in to finish us. Go!” he instructed, urging his men on when they were reluctant to leave him. “Go on!”
Weapons poised, Thurman brought up the rear to provide cover. When the last man hurled himself forward through slight cracks in the front wall of flames, he backed up to allow for the same running start his troops had utilized. He peered through the wall of fire for something to leap for.
And realized his men were gone. Thurman slid close enough to the flames to feel them licking at his flesh. Eyes starting to water, he squinted and saw a dark ditch rimming the front of the fiery plane, the ditch his men had plunged into when they lunged to safety.
A crack snapped through the air and the leather of a bullwhip closed on Thurman’s throat and yanked backwards. His weapons dropped from his grasp as he flailed upwards to tear the whip’s death wrap off. Backpedaling, he felt his legs go out from under him and his head hit the parched ground hard. Then the whip was torn free, taking some of his flesh with it.
“Get up,” a voice commanded.
Thurman rolled onto his side and saw Blaine McCracken standing there with him inside the ring of fire. He had discarded the whip but something else was gripped in his hand—tied to his wrist, it looked like.
“Get up, Thurman.”
Thurman propped himself up slowly, feigning weakness in order to prepare himself for a lunge toward his lost weapons. He sneaked a glance at them.
They were gone.
“It’s been a long time,” Blaine continued.
Thurman rose to his feet. McCracken tossed him the other end of what was tied to his wrist, a thick leather strap.
“Tie the thin edge around your left wrist, just like this,” Blaine ordered, and held his up for Thurman to see.
Thurman held the strap, but that was all.
“No more games,” he said staunchly, jutting his jaw forward.
“This is the way it has to end, Thurman, just like it did over a century ago.”
Thurman stiffened and tied the edge of the leather strap around his wrist. Blaine tossed a shiny, hand-molded knife his way. It thumped down on the hard-packed ground beneath him.
“Second chances,” McCracken told him. “Take your best shot.”
Thurman leaned over to pick the blade up. The flames licked at the air in the circle of flames around them, so even and symmetrical they looked as though an artist might have painted fire onto the landscape. The wind blew the heat inward, drenching both men in waves of sizzling gusts.
“We’re improvising here, Thurman, but I think it’s good enough to satisfy the spirits.” Blaine made sure Thurman could see the knife’s twin grasped in his own hand.
“You’re a fool,” Thurman said, handling the knife nimbly and sticking out his massive chest.
“Tell me who you’re working for and maybe I’ll let you survive this.”
“You really are a fool. Who do you think saved your life in that library by turning on the lights?”
“Why’d you bother?”
“Because we needed you,” Thurman said, and whirled in at McCracken with knife leading.
McCracken anticipated the move perfectly and tugged on the strap connecting them just as the big man committed to his thrust. The move dragged Thurman off balance and sent his swipe terribly off target. Blaine sliced at him as he surged by and the blade caught his side, Thurman just managing to arch from its path. He swung and tried to fool McCracken by yanking. But Blaine countered by entering into the move and kicking Thurman under the chin.
He followed the strike with a thrust of his knife. Thurman, learning fast, used the leather strap to expertly deflect the blade and then wrapped it around Blaine’s wrist. A quick tug provided the opportunity for an equally quick lunge. McCracken used his left strap arm to block it and took a nasty gash on his forearm for the effort.
Thurman backed off, grinning. “I’ve learned a little over the years.” Blaine grimaced in pain, trying to judge how much he could rely on his strap arm now. Sensing weakness, Thurman could either go for the kill now or prolong things by waiting until an opening was more evident. Probably the latter.
“What do you mean you needed me?”
“To find the boy for us, after he disappeared.”
And then Blaine realized. “You were the ones who took over Operation Offspring … .”
Thurman jabbed again with his knife. McCracken backed out of its way and kept backing up, avoiding swipe after swipe until the highest flames licked at his back.
“Where’s the boy, McCracken? Hand him over and you can walk away from this.”
Thurman was trying to reel him in like a fish, wrapping the leather strap around his wrist to draw him closer, daring Blaine to strike at him with his own knife.
McCracken finally took the bait and lashed outward. Thurman used the strap to capture the blade in a tight loop and yank. Stripped from Blaine’s hand, it skidded across the hard-packed earth and stopped near another section of the flames enclosing them.
“I’ll find him anyway,” Thurman sneered.
And then he lunged. Blaine moved when the tip of the Thurman’s blade had nearly found his stomach. Thurman felt only air where his target had been and went surging by. Instead of stopping him, McCracken used the now tightly wound strap to hurl the big man around toward the wall of fire he had been ignoring in his desire for the kill.
McCracken heard Thurman’s agonizing screams as he entered the flames, his knife totally forgotten as the fiery pain stretched mere moments to seeming hours. He was still screaming, covering his eyes, when McCracken yanked him out at the same time he snatched his own blade up off the ground. Thurman was still in motion when Blaine slashed the knife across the right side of his face, the slice almost identical to the one scarring the left.
“Now they match,” Blaine taunted.
Thurman’s mouth dropped in shock, about to scream when McCracken kicked his legs out and held the knife poised over his throat.
“Son of a bitch,” Thurman rasped, the blood running out of the gash.
McCracken brought the blade down closer.
“Live or die, your choice. Who are you working for? Who’s kept Operation Offspring up all these years?”
“Go to hell.”
McCracken jammed the blade down, buried it in the fleshy part of Thurman’s upper arm, just a flap on the outside of his tricep but enough to hold him just where he was. The big man screamed.
“
Who
?” Blaine demanded.
Who
?” Blaine demanded.
“Fuck you! You should have died in Cuba. I told him I could handle this myself.”
McCracken felt something shift deep in his gut. “What do you know about Cuba?”
Thurman would have smiled if it wasn’t for the pain. “Give me some credit.”
“Jesus Christ!
You set everything up to get me down there, so Harry could come to my rescue. You set me up to kill Marokov. He was working for
you
!”
You set everything up to get me down there, so Harry could come to my rescue. You set me up to kill Marokov. He was working for
you
!”
“And you fucked it up, fucked
everything
up.”
everything
up.”
Then Blaine remembered the picture Marokov had shown him just before the shooting had begun in the Buena Vista bar.
“
They have a job for me. This man. Someone I believe you know
.”
They have a job for me. This man. Someone I believe you know
.”
“Looks like you must have fucked up somewhere, too, Thurman,” McCracken told him. “Marokov was in Cardenas waiting for a job: your execution.”
“Go to hell!”
“He showed me your picture. Looks like someone figured you’d outlived your usefulness. I’d say you’re on borrowed time even as we speak.”
Rage filled Thurman’s features, squeezing out through the pain in scarlet fury. “That
son of a bitch
!”
son of a bitch
!”
“Who?”
“The fat man.”
“
Livingstone Crum
? That’s who you’re working for? That’s who’s behind this?”
Livingstone Crum
? That’s who you’re working for? That’s who’s behind this?”
Thurman didn’t bother nodding.
“I guess the Company didn’t phase out his private little group, after all,” Blaine continued. “All the bad press on those radiation tests conducted on the mentally retarded must not have been enough for them. Where’d you fuck up, Thurman? How’d you get on the fat man’s bad side?”
“Joshua Wolfe,” Thurman said with sudden calm. “The operation was mine all the way. I was the only link back to him.”
“What operation?”
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