MORTAL COILS (51 page)

The
tension in the yo-yo’s string vanished, and it fell limp.

The
now freed wooden disk careened through the air, bounced off the brick wall, and
rolled down the alley.

Fiona
let out a heavy sigh. “Guess that one wasn’t ‘for me’ either.”

Aaron,
however, was no longer concerned with her. He craned his head around either
side of the Dumpster.

“Guess
again,” he murmured. “You have inherited your mother’s talent.”

He
touched the corner of the Dumpster.

A
section of the corrugated steel an arm’s span across slid free and crashed to
the alley. The edges of the cut metal were mirror smooth as if they’d been
severed with a laser.

Fiona
approached and stared at this curiosity, trying to understand what Aaron meant
. . . and how this had happened.

She
traced the angle of the cut metal: it matched the angle of her yo-yo’s
trajectory.

Aaron
faced her, smiling broadly. “Try again, child. It is important you understand
when you can and cannot do this. What frame of mind you must be in to cut.”

Was
he suggesting that she had cut through metal with a string? Was that any
stranger than a talking crocodile?

Yes,
very much stranger, in fact. A talking reptile might be explained by mutation
or some never discovered line of reptilian evolution. But a cotton string
cutting steel? That violated the laws of physics.

She
looked at the string in her hands, then to Aaron. He wasn’t kidding.

So,
although it felt silly, she held out the length of string and approached the
iron drainpipe running down the wall.

She
hesitated. “If this works, wouldn’t it cut me, too?”

“Only
if you let such a thing happen,” he said.

Fiona
tensed and pressed the string to the pipe, lightly at first, then harder.

Just
as she thought—nothing happened. The length of cotton fiber was no more likely
to pass through solid iron than a pat of butter could pass through a brick
wall.

“Remember
what you felt as we fought,” Aaron said.

Felt?
Fiona hadn’t felt anything . . . other than being sick of being pushed around.
By Grandmother. By the Council. And hadn’t she wanted to hurt dear old Uncle
Aaron? Just for a fraction of an instant? Hadn’t she wanted to bash his brains
in with that yo-yo?

The
string glistened.

It
snapped taut on the far side of the pipe.

The
motion was sudden and as impossible as a stage magician’s sleight of hand.

Aaron
gently pulled her aside.

The
pipe groaned; the top section slid free and clattered onto the asphalt.

Fiona
stared dumbfounded at the cut. She reached to feel the edge, but stopped,
knowing it was sharper than any razor.

“You
said my mother could do this, too? With just string?”

“Cut
through anything when she put her mind to it,” he told her. “So you are her
daughter, after all. And my niece.”

She
looked at him. He was the same mountain of a man, still tougher and scarier
than anyone she had ever before seen, but his gaze had softened as if something
about her now didn’t completely repulse him.

Shadows
flickered through the alley and Fiona glanced up. A hundred crows were
airborne, circling. Some dived at the Pink Rabbit, bouncing off its skylights
and walls.

“Listen,”
Aaron whispered. “Your brother tests his arsenal as well.”

Fiona
was about to ask him what he meant, but Johnny banged open the back door.

“Fiona,”
Johnny shouted. “Phone—some boy.”

She
turned and shouted, “Okay, hang on.”

She
turned back to her uncle. She had more questions for him.

But
the bundle of weapons and Uncle Aaron were gone.

37

LANCELOT
COMPLEX

Robert
Farmington rolled his Harley to a halt next to three dusty Cadillacs with Baja
license plates. He stripped off his leather jacket to his sweaty T-shirt
underneath.

It
was funny that so many locals were at the cantina. It was a sweltering
afternoon—prime time for a siesta on this sleepy Mexican coastline.

He
glanced over the cliff at the village of Puedevas, nestled by the ocean. A few
savvy fishermen knew about this place . . . and too many smugglers.

Robert
cruised down to Puedevas whenever he could. The señoritas always smiled at him,
the lobster enchiladas were heaven, and most important, the cantina served him
cervezas.

He
strolled toward the entrance, but halted. The cerrado sign sat in the window .
. . but the door was ajar. It had to be a mistake. The cantina made a point of
staying open in the afternoons for the rich American fishermen looking to
quench their thirsts.

Robert
pushed through. Inside, the adobe walls were covered with turquoise paint and
ceiling fans pushed the hot air to little effect.

Eight
local men sat at the bar, reeking of three-day-old perspiration and a hint of
cordite from recent gunplay. They wore cheap leather jackets, even in this
heat, and Robert noted the bulges of obvious handguns.

These
were middle-management thugs between drug kingpins and their distributors on
the U.S.-Mexican border. Robert classified these types as “banditos.”

They
were easy to deal with one at a time, but not like this. They were like a pack
of hyenas . . . and even lions backed down from too many hyenas.

He
was about to back out, but he spotted Theresa, the cantina owner’s daughter.
She was a sweet girl, maybe eleven years old, and she stood in the corner like
a trapped animal.

She
gave him a shake of her head.

The
message was unmistakable: Get out while you can.

Her
dark eyes, though, were wide with panic and they had an equally clear message:
Save me.

Robert
smiled. Marcus Welmann had always told him that he had a thing for “damsels in
distress.” He also told Robert it would get him killed one day.

Marcus
had never understood, though, why Robert had taken this job in the first place.
Damsels in distress, danger, adventure, never having to grow up—who cared about
your life span when you had all that?

Besides
. . . who was still alive, and who was now dead?

He
nodded to Theresa and then sauntered to his favorite booth in the back. He’d be
able to watch the banditos from there.

They
could see him, too. This would make them feel at ease, like they had him right
where they wanted.

And
so what? Maybe they did.

The
banditos looked him over, murmured something, and laughed. A few of them helped
themselves to more beers from behind the counter. No bartender in sight. That
was not a good sign.

One
of them went to the front door and slid the dead bolt. He grinned at Robert and
stumbled back to his barstool.

Yeah,
they were going to get good and drunk, then the fun would begin. They’d take
care of him first . . . then, he guessed, Theresa.

Robert
held up a greasy menu with one hand while his other hand slid to the holster in
the small of his back. He pulled out his Glock 29 and set the tiny gun on the
bench next to him.

Theresa
came to the table. “Order, señor?” she said, loud enough so the banditos could
hear.

“Lobster
enchiladas and black beans.”

“Go,”
she whispered. “Quickly—if you can.”

Robert
smiled even wider. “And dos Coronas, por favor.”

She
sighed and moved to the kitchen.

Eight
against one. Robert would soon be dead unless he found some angle. For now,
though, he was happy to let them drink and let their reactions degrade. From
the way those guys were tossing back the tequila and beer, he figured he had
about ten minutes before they were liquored up enough to do whatever they were
working up to.

He
had, as they say, “time to kill.”

Robert
grabbed a salt shaker and sprinkled the table. He traced a map of the world. He
smudged the approximate center of North America.

He
had lived most of his life in Arkansas off Country Road 32. He’d worked the
fields with his family and caught a little school in the afternoons. One day
after stepfather number three had taught him a lesson for “back-talkin” that
gave him a split lip, Robert decided he’d had enough.

He
kissed his mother good-bye as she slept and headed to the crossroads where
Highway 20 turned into 43. Robert had heard that if you waited at such a place,
at midnight the devil would come and you could sell your soul.

Midnight
came. The devil never showed, but the Greyhound bus had, and that was good
enough.

He
traced an arc in his salt map to the Atlantic.

Robert
was big for his age and a fair liar. Still, the Virginian shipmaster had to
know he was only fourteen. He let him work, though, for his passage. Robert
picked up some Spanish on the voyage, then jumped ship in Barcelona.

He
drew a big line across the ocean and a bunch of zigs and zags over Europe.

That
year had been crazy. Robert had almost died while he learned his new trade:
thief of fine art.

That
stopped in Turkey, though, when he crossed paths with Marcus Welmann.

Robert
sighed and blew away most of the salt.

What
good was all this remembering? Marcus was dead. Sure, he had hassled Robert,
but he’d also taken care of him, shown him how to ride, fight, and think . . .
which was more than any of his mom’s boyfriends had ever done.

“It’s
not the punks that’ll get you in this business,” Marcus had once told Robert.
“It’s our bosses. You start thinking of them as people—that’s dangerous.
They’re more a force of nature than flesh and blood. Lose sight of that, cross
them once . . . and you might as well try talking your way out of a tidal wave
for all the good it’ll do you.”

Which
is what had happened.

Marcus
had crossed Ms. Audrey Post. No one had told Robert that, but it’s the only way
his mentor’s disappearance and Robert’s replacing him made any sense.

Robert
had tried to hide his feelings when he’d delivered the Council’s message to the
Posts. Ms. Post, however, had looked straight into his soul and seen it all.
Any plans for revenge he had, had been snuffed out in that instant.

But
those were problems in the past. His troubles in the here and now had reared
their collective ugly heads: the eight banditos turned on their barstools.

“Hey,
chico,” one of them said. “Come over here. We talk with you.”

If
Robert made his move now, they’d all start shooting. But if he played along,
all sorts of unpleasant things were likely to happen.

Not
much of a trade-off.

He
reached for his gun.