Mariposa (29 page)

Chapter Sixty-Three

The Smoky

Fouad maneuvered carefully between stumbling, disoriented guests, through the door taken by Price and his guards as they evacuated the ballroom—down a curving external hallway to the outdoors.

They all seemed to be living through an Edgar Allan Poe horror story—the Masque of the Red Death. He had read Poe with guilty pleasure in grade school, in poor Arabic, better than nothing—but the vivid pictures remained, and now the mummers, the dancers, the guests, were in complete confusion, the world turned on its head, those who should be dead walking amongst them through darkness and smoke and pain . . .

Fouad picked up his pace after he left the ballroom and angled to the left, under drifting smoke, around the kitchens and dining areas. He avoided a few knots of wandering Haitian troops, who seemed to have lost all sense of cohesion and discipline.

They might have been well-trained, but the strike of a deadly invisible god reaching down and burning their flesh . . . Stopping their assault rifles and pistols from working (none carried guns now, and the ground was littered with expensive weapons—Fouad did not bother to pick them up)—

That had evoked an old, deep fear.

Three Torq-Vees squatted abandoned around the corner of the employee kitchen complex. Nearby, on the gravel employee lot, several small cars stood empty with doors open.

One old hybrid still had a driver, a young woman in cleaning staff whites who was stubbornly trying to switch on the electric motor, which did nothing—not even whir.

The volume of smoke increased. The air filled with whirls of ash. A foul wind began to rise, bitter with the corrosive stink of burning brush.

Fouad suspected there were no working aircraft or modern vehicles within many miles. The one place that might contain vehicles that could survive an electromagnetic pulse—that was what had happened, he was sure of it—would be old cars and trucks, cars without alarms or security systems or black boxes or complex electronics—cars with simple carburetors, where electricity only flowed if ignitions were switched on.

Cars that could recover well, if not completely, from a hot flash of radiated energy.

Classic cars.

Price kept a warehouse full of very expensive classic cars about a hundred yards from the ballroom, near the far end of the Smoky, where he sometimes took them out on a fenced oval track.

Price would no doubt gather up his family as quickly as possible and drive as far away as he could. Loyal staff would stay with them—they would use knives or whatever came to hand. Price could conceivably equip them with classic firearms.

Fouad needed to find Price before he had a full complement of guards effectively armed and in some sort of order—and before he reached his family.

He broke into a loose run, ignoring the shadowed vision in one eye, the spiking pain in one leg, and his ripped lips where Schmitz had thrust a forefinger to bring his head around—before Fouad had nearly bitten that finger off.

The crunch of the man's knuckle under his teeth remained fresh in his mind, an awfulness that would require much prayer to expunge.

He saw the garage, a long barn-like structure, the humped roof set on high concrete walls and studded with air conditioners and rotating steel vents.

Nearby, striding in that direction, a tight group of six men, two walking at a pace of protected if hurried dignity—in confident expectation of that nearby safety and security accorded only to the wealthy—and to royalty—

And four in black, two carrying long knives, two more carrying what might have been spears.

One of the four was Price.

Another was the Saudi prince who had slapped Fouad—him! Slapped a man worth a hundred million Euros.

Fouad hung back for a moment—then looked into the open rear doors of an abandoned Torq-Vee. In the rear cabin, behind the parallel seats, four poleaxes were racked on metal loops—three on one side, one on the other. Each six foot fiberglass shaft sported a razor-sharp ax and spear point on the business end and a steel point on the butt.

This was what two of the men accompanying Price had chosen for armament—sensibly enough. Fouad had no idea how they were ordinarily used—perhaps for cutting brush or as a particularly vicious form of crowd control. But he certainly knew how to use one. He had taught his Janissaries with similarly effective and simple weapons back at Incirlik airbase.

He yanked one down, hefted it, balanced it on a finger—found its center of gravity—then grabbed it in midair in both hands and followed the six toward the garage.

Chapter Sixty-Four

JPB

The swanjet landed with a series of bumps in the wind-blown haze, then braked and veered sharp left. Rebecca had moved forward to be with the HRT. They helped her don body armor, then prepared their weapons, reconnecting the team electronics and Lynx.

The last of her fashion accoutrements was the command-grade helmet, big and black and covered with cameras and visors and other stuff she had no idea how to use.

"Don't worry about it," Forester, said. "It's all pretty automatic. Just pull down whatever looks right and slip it over your eyes."

"Make sure it still works," his second in command warned, and they ran quick tests before the plane lurched nose-down to an abrupt stop.

"We're clear—no hostiles in range," the pilot said through the open cockpit door.

"
Currahee
!" Forester cried. "Me and my brothers and sister, we stand alone!"

Before she knew it, the plane's door had dropped and Rebecca was on the runway, following the five HRT agents at an ankle-jarring clip toward an abandoned Torq-Vee.

Pain did not matter.

Smoke covered much of the airport and the runway.

Forester pulled open the Torq-Vee's passenger door and hauled the black box inside, then sprung it open and pulled out a gray and black unit the size and shape of a toaster.

The youngest team member popped open the hood and rummaged in the engine compartment with yet another replacement component.

In three minutes, they had the Torq-Vee convinced it was operational. The engine roared to life. They all climbed in.

Forester showed her how to pull down and snick her combat gogs. Maps of the airport, the Talos campus, and the ranch popped up, downloaded from a satellite.

"What would we ever do without this shit?" the second in command marveled.

"Cavemen!" the team grunted as one and thrust their gloved fists in the air.

"Braves, you mean," Forester corrected. "Where to, ma'am?"

Rebecca pointed her gloved fist northeast. Fouad was last seen at the ranch. Who knew where William Griffin might be, if he was still alive?

"Jeez," one of the agents commented as they rolled. "They got poleaxes back here—wonder if they know how to use 'em?"

"
I
do," Forester said. "Back in medieval times, they taught peasants how to kill knights with those things."

Chapter Sixty-Five

The six men first noticed Fouad as the wind momentarily blew aside the smoke. The two with knives—not Haitians, Fouad saw, but beefy Middle Easterners, part of the prince's innermost protection team—broke left and right to flank him, while the others hung back.

The flanking pair assumed combat stance to test his revolve. They were going to do this the old-fashioned way and engage in hand-to-hand.

That was not his plan. He had neither the desire nor the patience.

Fouad came in spinning the poleax, dropping to one knee and swinging in a wide arc. The double-edged ax cut through the first man's boot and ankle and nearly severed his leg.

From his knee, Fouad lifted and thrust the ax blade past the man's throat, then pulled it back with a reverse cut. The man managed a breathy gurgle before he died.

The second guard fell over the body trying get out of the way. He did not fall fast enough to miss another series of thrusts and cuts—first from the side, incapacitating his knife hand, followed by a double-handed downswing splitting his skull.

Fouad jerked out the ax.

He looked up and sucked in smoky air.

Price and the Saudi prince were making a desperate dash for the garage. Their pace was no longer stately, privileged, or royal—they were in terror for their lives.

The last two guards, Americans attached to Price, moved in, brandishing their poleaxes like novices. Born of a gun culture, no doubt—in love with loud noises and gunpowder and not at all happy with blades.

Fouad was up again, jabbing and feinting.

The three formed a circle, poleaxes inward, almost tip to tip. The man on his right stepped forward and made his own jab, long and off-balance.

Fouad again leaped aside and brought his ax down. The first American's gripping hand flew off and his poleax dropped to the dirt and double-bounced, singing.

Fouad speared his upper leg, then sliced again as the guard dropped and rolled—his roll slowing and eyes glazing, lips turning blue, as he bled out from his femoral artery.

The second American leaped toward Fouad, eyes wild. This man handled his weapon better, keeping Fouad back with balanced, measured thrusts—then tried to hook his leg with the ax.

Fouad jumped left and brought his ax down. The man parried with an outward blow, hooked Fouad's shaft, twisted it, then grabbed and pulled it toward him until Fouad let go. This close, the poleax was of no use. Fouad seized the man's arm before he could again double-grip his weapon.

With a push of the guard's elbow Fouad shoved in face-to-face, caught the sweat slinging from the man's forehead—tasted its salt in his mouth—and used his two-inch height advantage to straighten, lift, and hard-jerk the arm up and sideways.

Not enough to break it, but Fouad's foot went behind him and the man tripped and landed on his back.

Fouad spun him on the ground and as he struggled, retrieved one of the crossed poleaxes and neatly removed his head.

A moment and no more to catch his breath.

The killing made him angrier and angrier, that he had to do such things because men were filled with arrogant greed, because some wished to rule with neither the wit nor the self-knowledge to see their inadequacies—and how many of their people would die.

Fouad followed the fleeing pair, poleax held before him, pacing himself: one-eyed, lip split wide, face swollen and smudged and dripping blood, an awful
ifrit
in pursuit.

He had to plan his moves carefully, not to be lost in fight-heat and regret it later.

They should not get away to regroup their wealth and power and try this again.

Killing them . . . perhaps necessary.

If there was no alternative.

Chapter Sixty-Six

The Smoky

The Torq-Vee took Rebecca's team down a short road to the ranch complex.

Forester pulled up in front of the main house. Staff dressed in white skirts and uniforms, and a few older men in dirty, torn suits, wandered down the steps and across a section of knee-high prairie grass, all half blind from smoke.

"Little people and a few humps, I think," Forester said.

"Humps?"

"Perps. Bad guys."

"Right. Forget them. Let's check out the ballroom," Rebecca said, consulting the map in her gogs.

She pointed and Forester turned the Torq-Vee about, making a counterclockwise circle.

"Along the way," she said, "We need to check out the bungalows and see if they have any of our people tied up or stashed."

Forester coasted the Torq-Vee along the guest roundabout. Three of the team worked in unison to search each of the bungalows. The three came back at the end of the circuit, shook their heads, and climbed aboard.

"Place is a mess," one said. "Two old dudes dead in their bathrooms. Looks like their heads exploded. What's that—brain chips or something?"

"Could be implants to control palsy. God forgive them," Forester said.

"I think one of them might be a congressman or something. He looked familiar."

"There's a garage up ahead," Rebecca said. "Could have vintage vehicles that still run."

"My thinking exactly," Forester said.

"Aston Martin! Ferrari! Jaguar XKE!" the youngest of the team enthused. "Spoils of war?"

"You wish," Forester said. "We can't afford the gas."

"For a day, I could."

To Rebecca, they all seemed little more than boys.

Rebecca watched the big garage grow close. Again, three of the team prepared to leap out and do reconnaissance.

"Squad on our right, waving," Forester said. "They seem to think we're with them."

"Colonel Sir's Haitians," the youngest guessed.

"Do we confront and subdue?" Forester asked.

"No," Rebecca said. "Go right, to the other end of the garage. I'll go in with you."

"Yes, ma'am," Forester said.

The wooden doors hung open, electronic locks sprung.

They climbed out of the Torq-Vee, leaving the youngest—against his wishes—to guard their ride.

Inside, three aisles passed between what might have been a truly beautiful selection of antique cars and trucks—but the lights were out and they saw little more than glimmers in deep shadow. Rebecca walked halfway down the garage's length, listening while the team ran down the aisles, then circled back.

"No gaps in the vintage parade, nothing obviously missing," Forester reported.

She gestured for a return to the Torq-Vee.

Just as she was about to shut the door, she glanced back and saw a woman standing in the dark at the far end, a diminutive, slender figure in white carrying a single candle. Three young children clutched her long dress. Rebecca thought there might two more farther back, standing in a doorway—outlined in faintly glowing pink.

She closed her eyes for a moment and the effect went away.

"You took my husband!" the woman shouted down the length of the building. "That awful man grabbed him from right in front of us! Where is he?"

The Haitians chose that moment to enter from the far end. They surrounded the woman and her children, carrying their own candles and boldly, loudly brandishing rifles and pistols.

All of them looked terrified, lost, desperate.

Rebecca let the door swing shut and climbed back into the Torq-Vee.

"Mrs. Price, I think," she said to Forester. "No sign of our people. One more circuit—avoid crowds. Then back to the airport."