Delta Ghost (26 page)

He raised his middle finger to Salazar, whose face was filled with his wide-open, yelling mouth.

Then Clune hit the ground hard and felt himself rolling and the pain exploded in his head and he knew nothing more.

*

T
he plane’s wheels would clear the ground in ten seconds, Venn estimated.

He held his breath.

Dammit. The kid had lost his nerve.

Then he saw the door swing open and the distant figure launch out.

“Go,” he yelled, slapping the roof of the car.

On the other side, Harmony smashed the barrel of the Armalite M16 through the window and opened fire.

The four men with AK-47s had been distracted by the yell from the plane, and while they hadn’t all turned to face it, their reactions were delayed. The Armalite sprayed them from left to right and back again, sending them dancing like grotesque puppets. Venn felt the Subaru rocking with the recoil from Harmony’s rifle.

The other two men, the ones who’d been in the tower with Salazar, began running in the opposite direction, across the airfield and away from the carnage. Venn watched them go.

He turned, because he hadn’t heard the accompanying explosion from the SMAW.

And saw Franciscus, several yards farther back than he should have been, with the rocket launcher on his shoulder, the business end enlarged horribly by perspective, like an open mouth.

It was pointing straight at Venn.

Venn dived away from the car, flinging himself onto the tarmac just as the flame erupted from the end of the launcher and the rocket whooshed past, its slipstream catching the back of his jacket.

He hit the ground with his shoulder and rolled and came up and swung his leg round in a great swooping kick that caught Franciscus’ bent knee before he could straighten up and knocked him sideways.

Venn was on him, pummeling him into the ground with fast, hard blows. Franciscus had dropped the SMAW with a clang but didn’t get his hands up in time. His head rocked back and he slumped, supine.

Venn picked up the hot, smoking tube. He scrabbled in the canvas sack beside the car, found a third rocket, rammed it home, and hefted the fifteen-pound weapon onto his shoulder.

He raised it and squinted down its length.

The plane was airborne, arcing into the sky, climbing steadily.

The SMAW was an anti-tank weapon. It wasn’t a surface-to-air missile launcher, and it had a range of 550 yards maximum.

The plane was maybe 400 yards away, and rising fast.

Venn gave it a second, to be certain of his aim.

He fired.

The launcher jolted, threatening to wrench his shoulder loose, and he felt the spew of the backblast behind him, scorching the earth.

In the distance, the left wing of the plane splintered in fiery fragments.

The aircraft veered crazily, its engines screaming, and cartwheeled through the air, over and over, losing the little altitude it had gained as it spun across the sky.

It hit the ground somewhere behind the airfield building, beyond Venn’s line of sight, and in the waves of thunderous noise that juddered across the airfield he thought he heard human screams.

A
t first, Clune thought he was dead, and that Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone but unbroken darkness.

Which was, in some ways, worse. Eternal monotony was something he didn’t think he could cope with.

Then he realized, when his body began to hurt all over, that he was still alive.

But he was blind.

He tried to yell out in terror and despair, but it felt as though a fist wrapped in sandpaper was being wrenched out of his throat.

Then he opened his eyes.

The brightness was too much to bear and he quickly squeezed them shut again. Besides, the lids felt gummed together and it was an effort to prize them apart.

In that instant, when the outside world intruded, he saw a familiar face a few feet away.

“You awake, kid?” came Venn’s voice.

Clune used his other senses to investigate his environment. The back of his head was pressed against something soft and yielding. He tried to lift his hand to confirm that he was indeed lying on a pillow, but the movement caused a flame of agony to shoot across his chest and he abandoned the idea.

“Drink,” he managed to croak, surprising himself.

He felt a plastic cup nudge his fingers and with difficulty he took it and felt another hand guide his up to his lips. His mouth found the end of a straw and he gulped greedily.

“Steady,” sad Venn. “A little at a time.”

The cup was withdrawn.

After what seemed like several minutes, Clune cracked his eyes open again.

The brightness was from fluorescent panels in the ceiling above. Through his bunged-up nose Clune could just about make out the unmistakable clinical smell of antiseptic.

“Where?” he whispered.

“You’re in hospital, kid,” said Venn. “In San Antonio. It’s five in the morning.”

Clune stared at him. Venn was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his large frame too big for the seat. He looked haggard, hollow-eyed.

“Salazar’s dead,” said Venn. “It’s over.”

Clune’s lips moved, mirroring the words soundlessly.

“You did good, kid.”

Fragments started to come back to Clune. The trip to the storeroom with the arms cache that Franciscus had shown them. The array of weapons there.

The ready-made suicide bomb kit.

It had been Venn’s idea. Attach the kit without the actual charge, so that it looked authentic. That way, even if the original plan failed and Salazar somehow got his hands on Clune, Clune would have a bluff, a card to play at the very end.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

I got thrown out of a plane.

He turned his head and retched, too fast for Venn to grab the dish on the bedside cabinet and place it below his face in time. But his stomach was almost empty, and all that came up was ropey fluid.

Venn reached for a handful of paper towels and wiped Clune’s mouth.

“That’s gonna happen a lot,” he warned. “There’ll be nightmares, too. Believe it from someone who knows.”

A horrible thought struck Clune. How much of me is left? Did they have to amputate anything? He tried raising his head to peer down the bed, but a sharp pain in his forehead pounded him back onto the pillow.

As if reading his mind, Venn said, “You’re gonna be okay, kid. Concussion, a whole bunch of cracked ribs, and you dislocated your shoulder but they’ve already fixed that. Don’t expect to be able to move, or cough, even breathe for a while without a hell of a lot of pain, though.”

The door opened then and Dr Beth Colby wafted into the room. She didn’t really; she strode in purposefully. But to Clune’s sore eyes she might as well have been gliding on air.

Venn tipped his head at her. “This is the lady you’ve got to thank,” he said. “Gave you the once-over at the airfield, and arranged your transfer here.”

Clune stared at her, wanting to say thanks but afraid that if he opened his mouth he’d start crying. He felt pathetic.

She shook her head gently, a slight smile on her lips.

“Come on, Venn,” she murmured. “He needs to rest.”

*

S
ix hours later Clune had learned to tolerate a sitting position. Venn was right. He hurt like hell, everywhere, and all the time. The nurse had just left, saying that this was the fourth and final time she was responding to his call, and that he simply couldn’t have any more pain relief.

He sat propped against the pillows and sucked on a plastic cup like a baby with a bottle. There was a plate of food by the bed but even the smell of it made his stomach heave.

Venn was in the chair by the bedside again. This time Harmony Jones was beside him. She gazed at Clune like he was an exhibit.

“Thought you might like to be brought up to speed,” Venn said. “Franciscus is in Federal custody. He’ll talk, reveal the names of the people behind the Delta project.”

“More likely he’ll plea bargain,” Harmony muttered sourly.

“Then I’ll track him down and make sure he gets what he deserves,” said Venn amiably. “It’s a win-win.”

Clune said weakly, “What about me?”

Harmony rolled her eyes in a look that said:
typical. Thinking about yourself again
.

Venn said, “The Feds will need to talk to you. Extensively, and as soon as the doctors allow it. You’re a key witness in all of this.”

Clune felt his heart plummet. He couldn’t survive in an American prison. He’d be put on a chain gang, overseen by fat guards with handlebar mustaches and names like Earl. Sadists with badges. He’d get violated in the showers every night. He’d get stabbed, hooked on drugs, sent to solitary confinement for weeks on end...

Venn continued. “And the next time you decide to take a hiking vacation, try not to wander across South Texas into the middle of a drug turf war. You never know what you might see, and you’ll end up being chased across the country again.”

Clune took a moment to digest this. He searched Venn’s eyes, unsure if he was reading him right.

“But I told you what I -”

“To tell you the truth, kid, I forgot half of what you told me. There were so many lies, so many contradictions, I gave up trying to keep everything straight in my head. As far as I’m concerned, and as far as the Feds need to know, you were pursuing your rock and roll dream across the US of A when you stumbled off course and ended up witnessing one drug baron shooting another.”

“The suitcase...”

Venn sighed in exasperation. “
What
suitcase? There is none. There’s no million dollars. All there is, is a drug lord, Salazar, now deceased, who noticed a British tourist witnessing him shooting another gangster, Flowers. And Salazar had to find you before you told anybody what you’d seen.”

Venn leaned closer.

“You understand what I’m saying? You were never really here, kid. Not in any meaningful way. You were a ghost passing through.”

Harmony said, “Jeez, Venn. He’s too dumb to see an opportunity when it’s shoved under his nose.”

“No,” said Clune. “I do understand.” He swallowed. To Venn he said: “Thanks.”

“Shut up,” said Venn. He stood, Harmony rising with him.

At the door, Venn turned. “Oh, and kid? Word of advice.”

Clune waited.

“You’re a pain in the ass, as I’ve said before. You’re dishonest, and a lousy liar to boot. You attract trouble like flies on dog crap. But you’ve got a brain. A not-very-frequently-used one, to be sure, but a brain nonetheless. And from time to time, you’ve got balls, too.
Bollocks
, you’d call them.”

Venn paused.

“So my advice is, do something useful. Get your shit together. Go back to school. Make a contribution. You’re getting a second pass here. Use it.”

Clune opened his mouth to speak. Venn held up a finger.

“One more thing. Never, ever come back to New York City. Because as I get older, I just get meaner. And I won’t be pleased to see you again. Not at all.”

The door swung shut behind Venn, and Clune was left alone.

*

V
enn was due yet another round of interviews in a few minutes, this time with the local DEA. He felt the weight of the past few days heavy on his shoulders, and the thought of the hassle he faced in the coming days and weeks didn’t help either. He’d be buried in an ocean of paperwork from which he might never emerge. And if Kang came out of all of this with anything less than a commendation, he’d eat Venn alive.

But there was something else foremost in Venn’s mind at that moment. Something he wasn’t going to put off for a second longer.

“Catch up with you,” he said to Harmony, and he headed away from her and through the hospital’s maze of corridors until he found Beth sitting alone in a waiting area, nursing a cup of coffee.

She looked up as he approached. Through the fatigue that had stretched the skin of her face tight, through the pallor that wouldn’t go away, he saw her smile.

He’d almost lost her. Yet again.

Venn eased himself into the creaking plastic seat beside her. He put his arm across her shoulders and she dropped her head on his chest.

In her ear he murmured: “Will you marry me?”

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J
oe Venn will be back in
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T
im Stevens

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