Scorpion (21 page)

Up ahead the Mercedes squealed around a corner, headed toward the ocean. He wanted more speed, but his foot was on the floor. Then he was at the corner. He gave the brakes a quick tap, slammed in the clutch and threw it down into third, screamed around the corner and lost control as the Escort howled in protest, bouncing and slamming on a dirt road. The small car whipped around in a tight circle, but Earl managed to stop it without rolling it.

The road ended at the beach. The Mercedes was stopped ahead, with its doors open. The two men were running toward a dark group of abandoned buildings.

* * *

Broxton ran toward a Budget Rental sign, Ramsingh ran along with him, matching him stride for stride. The building was boarded and vacant, they hadn’t been renting cars for quite a while. Broxton tried the door, but he knew it was futile before his hand touched the knob. He was heaving air in and out and he could only imagine how the prime minister was doing.

“
I’m okay,” Ramsingh said, as if reading his thoughts.

“
We gotta move,” Broxton said. Then he heard the roaring engine and was captivated by the scene before him. The small Ford Escort spun around and was charging backwards toward the Mercedes. If we’re lucky, Broxton thought, but they weren’t lucky and the car stopped before the collision.

“
Quickly,” Ramsingh said, jerking Broxton’s eyes away from the two cars.

“
Right,” Broxton said, and together they ran along a series of closed, boarded and graffiti covered buildings. A small book store, a beauty shop, a tee shirt and dress shop, and a souvenir shop. Then he saw it. A huge monolith extending into the night sky. Dark, with a single light winking out from about the fifteenth floor. A failed hotel sitting smack on the beach, and there was a door on the ground floor, open wide and inviting. There was no place else to go.

“
I can make it,” Ramsingh said without waiting to be asked, and together the two men sprinted toward that door. Somewhere inside, down a corridor, a dim light beckoned. There was somebody in there. Hopefully not a trigger happy security guard, Broxton thought, as his feet slapped the hard ground. He was worried about Ramsingh, but the prime minister actually quickened his pace and Broxton had to fight to keep up, pumping his arms, forcing his feet to keep the rhythm.

Ramsingh burst through the door first as a gunshot ricocheted through the night and off the wall above the door.

“
Down,” Broxton screamed, diving forward and tackling the prime minister. They were both in the building, both down, both scrambling forward on hands and knees, when two more shots rang through the night. Broxton heard the bullets slam into something ahead in the dark.

Ramsingh crawled through a door on his right and Broxton pushed in after him. Ramsingh was on his feet first and he offered Broxton a helping hand. “We should keep moving,” he said.

“
Yeah,” Broxton said, and he led the way across a darkened banquet hall that must have hosted many conventions in the past. Would it ever host another? The moonbeams slicing through the hall gave the room a ghost-like quality, as if it was set up for a party that never happened. They weaved through chairs and tables to a door on the opposite side of the hall. Ramsingh pushed on through a swinging door into a full kitchen.

Bright, clean, stainless steel counters reflecting the moon’s rays gave the kitchen an even more supernatural appearance than the dining room. Spotless white tile, stainless steel pans hanging on stainless steel hooks around two stainless steel stoves, wide overhead skylights and spotless, white porcelain sinks all combined to chill Broxton’s spine.

The hotel had obviously been closed for a long time, judging from the state of the graffiti covered businesses outside, but someone was keeping it up, keeping it ready.

He heard the sound of running behind them and Broxton tapped Ramsingh on the shoulder. They crouched behind a long counter that ran through the center of the kitchen, almost to a second door at the other end. The door that Broxton and Ramsingh were going to have to get through if they were going to get away.

“
Lawman, Lawman. Undertaker here, how copy?” Broxton heard the unmistakable sound of a radio. There were more of them.

“
I thought you bought it, good buddy,” Lawman said. Now he had a name, Broxton thought and he recognized the Texas accent.

“
Where are you?” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio.

“
There’s a big abandoned hotel, real spooky, down by the beach. I’ve got them trapped in the kitchen.”

“
Remember leave the bodyguard alive,” Broxton heard the radio voice crackling through static. He thought the accent was White Trinidadian, but it could have been British.

“
Shithead,” Lawman said into the radio. “He might have heard.”

“
Fuck,” came Undertaker’s reply.

“
You coming?” Lawman said.

“
Two minutes,” Undertaker said.

There were cabinets under the counter and Broxton started feeling around for a door handle, found it and eased a door open, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. Inside he found plates and bowls, enough to set table for an army. He picked up one of the plates and tapped the prime minister’s arm to get his attention. Ramsingh turned and Broxton showed him the plate. Then he pointed, first to the other side of the room, then toward the door, a long ten or fifteen feet away.

Ramsingh nodded, understanding the message.

Broxton didn’t know what kind of weapon the man had and he didn’t know if he had spare ammunition. He figured six shots for a revolver and eight, possibly more, for an automatic. The man had used up three. Broxton was counting on a revolver. A lot of counting, a lot of hope.

He held his breath for a mental four count. One for the money. He grabbed the plate, like it was a Frisbee, firmly in his left hand. Two for the show. He raised his head till his eyes were barely above the counter and he saw the man standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the room. He wasn’t looking in his direction and he held a shiny gun in his right hand. Shiny meant revolver, at least Broxton thought it did. Three to get ready. He stood, loose as an alley cat, surprised that he wasn’t afraid, surprised that the tingling at the base of his neck was gone, surprised that he was calm under fire. Four to go. He flung the plate across the room and it sailed as true as any Frisbee he’d ever thrown on a Southern California beach during a hot Sunday afternoon.

Then he slapped Ramsingh on the shoulder as the plate crashed through a window on the opposite side of the room, but the prime minister needed no urging, he was up and running as gunshots rang through the ghostly kitchen. Broxton heard both the shots and the explosions the bullets made as they ricocheted off of stainless steel pots and pans. He counted three and he hoped that meant the man was out of ammunition, because he was running right behind Ramsingh, protecting the prime minister with his back.

Ramsingh flew through another swinging door with Broxton right behind. They ran down the hallway, sprinted through a door at the end of the corridor and found themselves in another banquet room. “There,” Ramsingh said, and they dashed toward a door on the far side of the room, dodging and weaving between more tables and chairs, with Broxton again protecting Ramsingh with his back.

“
Stop,” Broxton said as Ramsingh reached the door. “Me first, in case there’s someone out there.” He opened the door to the outside and set off a loud wailing alarm.

Ramsingh bent, pulled off his shoes and took off across the sand.

“
Shit,” Broxton said, grabbing at his own shoes, then he ran toward the sea, chasing after the prime minister.

“
Can you swim?” Ramsingh asked, standing in wet sand at the water’s edge. Sweat glistened on the prime minister’s forehead and his silver hair gleamed in the moonlight. It was quiet, the only noise other than their labored breathing was the gentle sound of the lapping surf.

“
Sure,” Broxton said, and Ramsingh pulled off his shirt and grinned. “We never give up,” he said. His lips were tight. His eyes looked like he’d seen the very fires of hell. He was tense. He was rock hard and Broxton was impressed with the old man’s full chest as he took in the scars left by the heart surgery. The man was battle weary, battle scarred and battle tough, and Broxton knew that his first impression of the man was way wrong as Ramsingh turned and loped into the black sea.

“
There’s gotta be a better way,” Broxton said under his breath, wading into the water. Maybe if they just swam out a little way and floated, just beyond pistol range, till they gave up and left, but Ramsingh was swimming like he’d been born to the water, striking out toward the sailboats anchored almost a quarter mile away.

“
There they are,” Lawman said, his smooth drawl up an octave. He was a big man, big, excited and deadly, and he was less than a hundred feet away. Broxton wanted to strike out after Ramsingh, but he was frozen in place. He felt the sea swirl around his legs as the sand seemed to be pulling his feet down under. He was like a tree, planted in place, his sunken feet as solid as any root system.

There were two of them. The second one had to be Undertaker. He was masked. Fear, mingled with the cold, sent icy tingles rippling over Broxton’s skin. He had never known real fear, never been under fire, never been in an accident, had barely ever fired a gun. His stomach cramped. His bowels felt like they were going to cut loose. He couldn’t move.

Undertaker probably had a gun, he thought. Then gunfire answered the thought, shocking the quiet night. In an instant he realized he was in no danger. Undertaker was shooting out toward where the prime minister was swimming, and he remembered what he’d heard earlier. Leave the bodyguard alive. The electric tingling vanished. The queasy stomach calmed and his bowels clamped closed.

He felt like he was having an out of body experience as he studied his pursuers. He inhaled the sweet night air and pulled a foot out of the sucking sand and moved backwards, toward the deeper water. Then he pulled out the other one. One step back, two, three, he kept easing away from the enemy, all the while watching them, as they were bathed in the overhead light that framed them as they stood just outside the doorway.

Lawman was wide in the shoulders and lean in the waist, like a quarterback. Although the overhead light cast harsh shadows, he could see that the man was shit handsome, a lady killer, big, tough and good looking. Undertaker was wearing a black ski mask and Broxton shuddered at the terrorist look. “Oh, shit,” he moaned as the masked man pointed the gun toward him. But lightning fast Lawman snatched it from his hand, sending a scream curdling from Undertaker that raised the hair on the back of Broxton’s neck.

Part of him screamed, turn away, swim for it, but he couldn’t. He was once again planted in place, feet being sucked into the swirling sand below, but this time it was more curiosity than fear that kept him rooted to the spot.

Lawman crouched low, presenting as small a target as possible. Just in case I have a gun, too, Broxton thought. Then the big man clasped his left hand around his right wrist, holding the weapon in his right hand. He was assuming the classic shooter’s position and one word shot through Broxton. Cop. Lawman aimed both his body and the gun out into the dark where Broxton imagined Ramsingh might be, but he didn’t fire, probably because he couldn’t see the prime minister. A cop for sure. He held his gun like a cop and he held his fire like a cop. Like his name, Lawman.

The big man stepped out of the crouch and waved to him with his right hand, the gun hanging loosely on his trigger finger, telling him it was over for now. Telling him they were safe, for now. Safe from them, but not safe from the dark sea. Broxton couldn’t help himself, he waved back. He didn’t want to follow the prime minister blindly into the dark ocean, but he didn’t want to face those men either. He wondered why they spared him, why they wanted him alive, but when the man in the mask showed him the middle finger of his left hand, he decided he didn’t want to stay around and find out. So he turned back around, and like a dolphin he slipped into the cool, dark water and started out after Ramsingh.

Chapter Fourteen

Earl knew better than to waste ammunition firing at things he couldn’t see. He stood out of his crouch, letting the pistol hang off of his trigger finger and waved to the bodyguard. To his surprise he waved back. The man had balls. Most men he’d known would be swimming away to beat the band, but this one was cool, standing there in water up to his chest, watching him, burning everything into his memory.

And here he was, standing under the lights, like a rookie out of the academy. The bodyguard was getting a good look and all Earl saw was shadow. Better to kill him now, but the woman said to leave him alive and that’s what he was going to do, although he felt that one day he’d regret it.

The night was quiet again and Earl listened for the sounds of sirens, high pitched voices or running feet. He heard nothing except the gentle surf. He looked out into the dark and saw nothing except the lapping waves, reflecting the moonlight.

“
Let’s move out of the light,” he said, and he moved a few feet away from the doorway. After a few seconds his eyes started to get used to the dark. There were several boats at anchor, but his more immediate concern was the four thatched hut restaurants lining the ocean less than a hundred yards off to his right. He kept his eyes on the tropical buildings, looking for movement. But if they had people in them, they were minding their own business.