The Mexico Run (31 page)

    There was no use speculating; certainly no use in wasting any more valuable time. The only thing to do was to go ahead.

    I found the road that led off to the left, some four or five minutes later. I cut over, and as the Cadillac slowly started to wind its way down the dust-laden, narrow private road which was little more than a cowpath, I switched off the high-beam switch.

    They had told me the inn would be less than two miles off the main road, and I drove for approximately a mile and stopped the car. This time I cut the lights entirely. I turned to Cortillo.

    "Hold the flashlight out," I said, "and keep it beamed to the right side of the road. I'm going ahead for another quarter of a mile, then we'll leave the car and go in on foot the rest of the way."

    He nodded.

    A few minutes later I again stopped the car, and we both slipped to the ground. There was no sign of life up ahead.

    We were in a narrow canyon, with wooded hills rising high on each side. The slivered moon was still high in the sky, but it gave us barely enough light to see without using the flash.

    I waited only long enough to beam the light down to the roadbed itself. I was hardly an experienced tracker, but it seemed to me that several cars must have passed over that lonely, deserted lane very recently. I knew that the road led only to the inn, where it ended.

    I got back in the Cadillac and carefully turned it around to face the opposite direction and pulled off to one side before removing the keys. And then we started out. I was carrying the flashlight in one hand and the bowie knife in the other. I had given the brass knuckles and the second knife to Angel Cortillo.

    My Vietnam experience was standing me in good stead. I was sure that we would be able to approach the lodge unseen, unheard. Angel, following a step or two behind me, apparently needed no such experience. He made not a sound as we moved silently into the night.

    

    

    It was the sudden staccato
rat-a-tat-tat
of gunfire which froze me in my tracks.

    We had been traveling for less than five minutes since leaving the Cadillac.

    I felt Angel Cortillo bumping into me from behind as I instinctively dropped to a prone position. The sound had come from somewhere directly ahead, and it was unmistakable. Somebody had let off a round from a submachine gun. There was a thin, shrill cry, followed by a faint scream. It could have come from the throat of either a man or a woman and it horrified me.

    I was on my feet then and running. We rounded a bend in the road, and far ahead in the distance I saw the flickering reflection of lights. Once more I became cautious, as we sought the shadows on the side of the road and proceeded forward.

    Knives would be of little use against a machine gun. The only real weapon we had would be surprise.

    We covered another five or six hundred yards, and gradually I was able to discern the dim outlines of a long, low structure. It would be the Rancho Grande Inn.

    We approached cautiously, and I made out the silhouettes of three cars parked in front of the inn. Ann Sherwood's white Volkswagen camper was unmistakable.

    Most of the sprawling lodge was dark, and it had a deserted look, except for the light coming from a pair of windows which faced a wide porch. There was a dead silence. Two hundred yards from the inn, I stopped and held Angel back.

    I whispered to him, "Wait here."

    Alone, I crept forward. There was still no sound from the inn. I had reached a spot within twenty yards from the entrance when I saw the man slouched against the fender of a long, dark sedan. I stopped and watched as he took out a pack of matches and lighted a cigarette. In the sudden flair, I saw the submachine gun cradled under one arm.

    During the brief moment that he held the light to his cigarette, I could make out his features. He was no one I had ever seen before.

    I turned and crept back to where I had left Angel. Again I spoke, my mouth close to his ear.

    "One man," I said, "outside, with a submachine gun, apparently keeping watch. The others must be in the inn. We've got to take him and get that gun, and we've got to do it without a sound."

    Angel Cortillo was already quickly unlacing his shoes. I shook my head.

    "I will do it," I said.

    He took me by the arm. "No, I will do it. I am very good at this sort of thing. Trust me,
amigo."

    "We will both…" I began. But he stopped me.

    "No, it will be safer with me alone. You may be sure I won't miss."

    "Be very quiet."

    Crouching, he slowly crept forward, and I waited a brief interval before following him. The man who had been left on guard outside had moved and he was now standing next to the camper, which I could see by the light from his cigarette before I was able to make out his actual outline in the almost-complete darkness. We were less than a dozen yards away when Cortillo suddenly halted, turning to me, a finger to his lips.

    I heard the sound of voices and I realized there were two of them. They separated, and the man with the cigarette stood by the camper as the other figure moved out from its shadows. He walked over toward the car parked next to Ann's Volkswagen and opened the car door. I heard it shut behind him.

    Cortillo reached toward me and thrust the brass knuckles into my hands. He kept his voice to the barest whisper.

    "You take the one in the car. I'll take the one with the cigarette."

    He was opening the front door of the car to step to the ground when I rounded the rear fender. He had no warning at all. I didn't use the brass knuckles. I wanted to make no sound at all. I caught him on the slide of the throat with a karate chop and then struck him two more sharp blows as he slumped. I caught his body before it hit the ground.

    Running my hands over him, I found a short-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster. I shoved it into my belt and then turned toward the camper.

    Angel was leaning over a huddled bundle on the ground at the camper's side. The light coming from the window of the inn fell on the prone body, and I saw the shaft of the bowie knife, which had been buried between his shoulder blades.

    "For God's sake, Angel," I whispered. "Did you have to do that?"

    "It was the only way,
amigo,"
Angel whispered. He stood up then, the machine gun cradled in his arms.

    There was a long, wide, wooden porch stretching across the front of the inn, and as Angel started for it I took him by the arm, shaking my head. I didn't want to risk crossing the bare, wooden boards of that porch before we reconnoitered. I wanted to know what might possibly be waiting for us inside.

    I indicated that Angel was to wait and I left and began circling the inn, seeking a. side window I might see through. There were side windows, but they were all dark. I took off my shoes.

    "Wait," I said.

    I crept up to the porch. A board creaked as I crossed it. I waited breathlessly, but there was still no sound from inside.

    I stood at the side of the window, leaning over to press my ear close. I heard the low rumble of voices.

    The window was covered on the inside by a set of Venetian blinds, which had been partially closed. Behind the blinds was a thin curtain, and I leaned forward to peer into what seemed to be the lodge's large reception room and lounge.

    There was no sign of Ann Sherwood or her sister Lynn.

    But the room was not empty. There were five men in that room. Four of them were alive, and the fifth one lay on a couch to one side. Someone had thrown a blanket over most of his body. Part of his legs and his feet were exposed. At the side of the couch was a puddle of blood.

    Of those four men in the room who were alive, I immediately recognized three.

    Captain Hernando Morales came as no surprise. But the two men who were handcuffed together and standing against the wall facing him were a considerable surprise. One of them, the one with the blood running down from the wound on his forehead, was my old friend, Mr. O'Farrell of San Francisco. He was handcuffed to the boy whom I had met previously, on my last trip to San Francisco. The boy who had directed me to the restaurant in Sausalito.

    A large rectangular refectory table separated Captain Morales and the man at his side from the other two. His companion's back was toward me. He was a tall, beefy, youthful-looking man with short, blond hair and large ears. He was wearing khaki pants, a khaki shirt, and there was a gun belt with a holster strapped around his waist. There was a gun in the holster.

    If Morales was armed, it didn't show. My eyes took in the scene in an instant, but then they focused on the table which separated the two groups.

    There was an oblong, wooden box lying on the top of the table. The hinged lid had been opened. Brown wrapping-paper was crumpled up next to the box.

    I pressed my ears closer to the window and I heard the last few words of a sentence. It was Captain Morales who was speaking.

    "… pure heroin. Very high grade," he said. "Must have a street value of a million and a half at least."

    I crept back across the porch. I took Angel by the arm and pulled him several feet away before whispering to him.

    "There are five of them inside," I said. "Two of them have been handcuffed together. One has been killed. The others are Morales and a second man I don't recognize. They must have just finished with the hijacking. The second man is armed. Morales may be. We are going in."

    Angel started to move forward, but I held him back.

    "I will go first," I said. "I don't know whether the door is locked, but it probably isn't. In any case, I will crash through, and you follow. I want you to be free to use that gun if you have to."

    I turned then and once more crept toward the porch. This time when I crossed it, I made no effort to be silent. I covered the brief expanse in four, quick, running steps and then my shoulder hit the door of the lodge. Angel Cortillo was directly behind me as I crashed through and fell to one knee.

    Morales and his companion swung around as they heard the door crash in. Morales had half drawn a revolver, and his companion was reaching for his holster. They froze as Angel followed me into the lounge.

    For a moment it was a silent tableau, no one moving, no one speaking.

    "Their guns," Angel said.

    Morales glared at me as I took his revolver. His companion's holster yielded a.38 calibre Police Special. Cocking the.38, I pointed it at Morales' stomach.

    "The girls," I said. "Where are they?"

    Captain Morales spoke, his voice bitter.

    "Senor Johns," he said. "You are not only a criminal, you are a goddamned fool."

    I took a step forward and raised the barrel of the gun.

    "I asked you where they are."

    "Your young ladies," he said, and there was nothing humorous about the thin smile on his face, "are in a bedroom down that hallway to the left. They are tied up and gagged, but they are uninjured. It seems our friends here," he nodded toward O'Farrell and O'Farrell's stooge, "got to them a few minutes before we arrived."

    I wasted no time. I called over my shoulder as I started for the hallway.

    "Shoot if they make a move, Angel."

    I found the hall-light, and then I was at the first door to the left pushing it open. The light was out in the room, and it took me a moment to find the switch.

    Ann and her sister lay side by side on the double bed. Their hands had been bound behind them, and there were gags across their mouths. Both of them stared at me wild eyed as I stepped into the room and moved over to the bed.

    I reached down and untied the handkerchief which had held the gag in place in Ann's mouth.

    She said, "Oh, thank God," and then she started to cry. I untied her hands.

    "Are you all right?"

    She nodded, unable to speak.

    "Stay here, don't leave the room. Take care of your sister."

    I turned then and started back for the front of the lodge.

    As I did, the silence was shattered by the crash of gunfire.

    I pulled the revolver from my belt and ran forward.

    Angel Cortillo was lowering the machine gun. Opposite him, Captain Hernando Morales was still standing, but the man next to him had suddenly slumped and fallen back into a chair. He was holding his right arm, and I could see blood spurting through the sleeve. I looked at Angel.

    "What in the hell have you done?" I yelled.

    Angel didn't answer me, but Captain Morales did.

    "What has he done?" he repeated. He looked at me bitterly. "Why, your friend has just shot a United States customs official in the performance of his duty."

    "What the hell are you talking about?" I asked.

    "Exactly what I said," Captain Morales said. "He has shot a United States customs officer. I expect in a moment that he will shoot me too. Are you surprised? I told you that your friend was a killer."

    I looked at Angel in bewilderment.

    "Give me the gun, Angel. I'll hold them. See if a phone is working. If it is, call the state police."

    Angel merely stared at me for a minute and then shook his head.

    "I'm sorry,
amigo,"
he said. "But I can't do that. You see, there is that package on the table. If it is what I think it is, why, it must be" worth a million dollars or more."

    I still didn't think I was hearing right.

    "Have you lost your mind, Angel?"

    "No, my friend, but if you think I am going to walk away and just leave it, or call the police to pick me up, you are the one who is crazy."