Slicky Boys (45 page)

Ma crouched low and checked around us. We were about ten yards behind the headquarters building, less than a block from Geographic Survey.

Scurrying like an Arctic wolf across the snow-covered lawns, Ma made his way through the moonlit complex. I followed. After a few yards, under the caged red bulb of a firelight, I spotted the sign:
8th U.S. Army Geographic Survey, Colonel J. Ramrock, Commander.

A short flight of steps on the side of the building led down to a cellar door. Ma scurried toward it. We crouched in the darkness. He tried the door. It was padlocked from the outside. We’d have to find another way in. But he grabbed my arm and pointed to the rusty metal hasp.

He pulled on it. The door swung open. The hasp had been sawed neatly in half, but the padlock had been left in place. From a distance, the door looked secure. At least enough to fool a half-asleep security guard.

Ma pointed into the darkness and his somber face took on a seriousness that was unusual even for him. I immediately understood what he meant.

Shipton was already inside.

I reached beneath my pullover, unsnapped the leather holster, and pulled out the 38. Ma nodded in approval.

He opened the door. We entered.

The long hallway was like a tomb. Still, at each doorway we stopped and listened. Ma gently twisted each doorknob. Locked from the inside. Shipton had to be downstairs. Underground, where Strange had told me they kept the classified documents. I pointed toward another stairway leading down. Ma nodded and took the lead.

Although I took each step as silently as I could, my hard-soled combat boots seemed to be making way too much noise. Ma turned, frowning.

I knelt down and unlaced the boots, took them off, and set them against the wall. Ma shook his head. I picked them up, knotted the laces together, and draped them around my neck. He nodded.

As we inched our way downstairs I thought about running back up, sprinting through the headquarters complex to the MP’s at Gate 7, and ordering them to call for about five jeeps full of backup. It would be a lot safer, but I knew it wouldn’t work. By the time I arrived back with help, Shipton would’ve sensed something was wrong. He’d be long gone. Besides, he probably had escape routes planned, escape routes I knew nothing about. We had to catch him now. While he was busy photographing the documents or trying to break into a safe. Now, while he was close.

When we reached the bottom of the landing, my knees were shaking. Down the hall, at the last doorway, light filtered out. A flashlight. Someone was inside.

Ma’s face was grim. He motioned me forward. I had to admire him: the guy was fearless.

At each door we passed, we stopped and listened but now Ma didn’t try the doorknobs. Any whisper of sound would betray us. The glow of the light in the last room grew brighter as we inched forward.

At the edge of the door we both froze. Ma pointed to his chest and motioned that he would go in first, veering to his left. He signaled that I should follow, moving to the right and taking aim with the pistol. My hands shook and I hoped that my lips weren’t quivering but I knew they were. Ma placed one hand on the doorknob, held out three fingers with the other, and started to count them down.

One. Two. Three!

We slammed through the doorway.

Ma moved left, I moved right, both of us scanning a room lined with file cabinets, searching for anything that moved. I held the .38 in front of me but I saw only a safe, untouched, and a lighted flashlight resting atop it, its beam reflecting off a coffee cup of burnished bronze. I realized what had happened but before I could turn, Ma was moving back toward me, his hands waving frantically, and something dark burst through the door and lunged at Ma. I saw only a gleam of silver and heard Ma grunt and then he was flying, lifted through the air, his squirming body heading straight toward me.

I swiveled and pointed the gun. But there was nothing to shoot at except Ma’s stomach. I stepped backward, but the soaring body arched toward me and slammed into my hands and my chest and I saw the gleaming blade and a hand around its hilt and the knife slashed toward my chest. I rolled but it was no good, the blade slammed into me with a thud, and I expected a searing pain but I felt nothing. I knew that was probably because I was in shock and that the pain would come later.

Then the laces of the boots jerked at the back of my neck.

I realized the blade hadn’t reached me, it had slashed into the boot hung around my neck.

Still, I was on my back and Ma was on top of me and someone was on top of him. Something heavy stomped my wrist. The pain flamed up my arm like molten lead.

The gun. The gun!

It was gone. My hand was useless, probably busted. I rolled, trying to get away from the monster above me and the pain, until I slammed into the wall. When I looked back I could see in the steady light of the flashlight that Ma lay sprawled beside me, blood seeping out a huge gash in his back. Above loomed a man. A man holding a bloody Gurkha knife.

Shipton.

I scrambled for the gun, found it in the dark. But before I could turn and fire I heard his heavy footsteps pounding out the door.

No time to think now. I tried to rise, pushing with my free hand, but pain exploded up my arm, Something was broken. I rolled. Using my knees, I managed to struggle to my feet and stumbled forward.

At the door I paused. Listened. Nothing.

Shipton could be just around the corner, holding his breath, knife raised to strike again. Unsteadily, I raised the pistol and charged into the hallway, slamming backward into the far wall. Turning. Aiming. Nothing. I scanned the corridor. He was gone.

I moved forward. Could he have escaped that quickly? I remembered the corridor of doorways. We’d checked inside none of the rooms. Shipton must’ve emerged from one and now had ducked back in. I crept forward, keeping my back pressed against the wall, darting my eyes constantly to the right and left.

At the first door I held my breath and listened. Silence. Reaching out with my injured hand, I turned the knob. Fire shot up my arm. Grimacing, I twisted. Finally, slowly, the door opened.

I gazed into a pitch-black vacuum. Shipton could be just inside. Waiting. Quickly, I reached in, felt for the switch, snapped it skyward, and stepped back out. Nothing happened. The lights were out.

I remembered the glowing bulb of the red fire light out front. Shipton hadn’t cut the electricity, that might’ve set off an alarm. But unscrewing the fluorescent lamps inside the building would’ve been easy enough.

Mr. Ma might still be alive, bleeding to death back in the other room. He needed help and he needed help now. It might take me hours to flush out Shipton. I decided I couldn’t let Mr. Ma die.

I backed down the hallway, twisting and turning with each step, keeping the pistol pointed in front of me.

I slipped back into the file room and knelt beside Ma’s body. Hot blood seeped into the denim of my blue jeans. Keeping my eyes on the doorway, I shoved the pistol in my belt, and reached for his neck. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. I gave it two minutes, pinching deeply into the loose flesh of his throat, searching for an artery. No pulse. He was dead.

When I stood, the blood on my knees dripped down my pantlegs to my socks. I remembered my boots. I unraveled them from around my shoulders, fingering the ugly gash made by Shipton’s knife. Then I heard the shouts of panicked men.

I forgot about trying to slip on the boots and just strapped them over my shoulder. I pulled the revolver out of my belt, staggered back to my feet, and hobbled forward, out of the room and down the hallway. It seemed like a long trip. As I climbed the stairs, pain rocketed up my arm, slamming into my skull like exploding artillery shells.

Outside, flames licked the winter sky. A fire in the Aviation Battalion offices, about thirty yards away, on the far side of the headquarters building. I pushed through the door and emerged into the cold night air. I wasn’t worried about Shipton popping out at me. He couldn’t be here. He’d started that fire. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

The flames swelled, enveloping the building. Men shouted and ran toward the conflagration. I scanned the scurrying faces in the dark. No Shipton.

A couple of men were decked out in dress uniforms. One in red with a white sash across his chest, a British Honor Guard soldier. The other in green, ROK Army. The night guard at the 8th Army Headquarters building. They joined the frantic crowd, searching for hoses, yelling for buckets.

Then it dawned on me what must’ve happened.

Once Shipton had tricked Mr. Ma and me into entering the Geographic Survey file room, why hadn’t he just disappeared down the hallway, left us searching for him in the dark like a couple of dimwits? Why had he come back and attacked? He must’ve known that I’d be armed—and attacking us for no reason was too big a risk. He’d attacked because he wanted to delay us. Or kill us. When that hadn’t worked, he’d set the fire. It was clear to me now. It was a diversion.

Strange had told me that after the Geographic Survey people completed their final list of possible tunnel sites, they would pass the documents on to the 8th Army Commander. That’s what had happened. When Shipton couldn’t find what he wanted in the Geographic Survey files, he realized the papers must’ve been moved earlier than scheduled.

Shipton had killed Ma—and would’ve killed me too—so he wouldn’t be interrupted while continuing his search. And now he’d set a fire to pull the Honor Guard soldiers away from their posts. The Headquarters building was unguarded.

I started to run.

The men responding to the alarm were too busy, too fascinated with the flames for me to bother asking for their help. It would’ve taken too long to explain what was wrong, what I needed. Shipton would work fast. I couldn’t risk delay.

The corridors of the 8th Army headquarters building were dark. A red lamp glowed in the carpeted foyer.

A few yards in, I stopped and peered down the hallway. Nothing. I stood for a moment, listening. No sound. I crept forward.

The commander’s office was back in the corner of the building, in a position of honor. I’d never been inside, but I’d heard about it. Plush furniture, valuable paintings, an outer office with a gorgeous Korean receptionist, a small conference room next door.

I stopped in front of the big double-door entrance to the commander’s office. A replica of the 8th Army cloverleaf patch, bigger than a basketball, had been carved with loving care into varnished teak.

Everything was quiet. No sign of Shipton. He must be inside.

He had to be.

I stepped forward, grabbed the brass handle of the door, and pulled it open.

In the receptionist’s office, moonlight filtered in through open curtains, glistening off leather chairs and gleaming coffee tables.

I slipped my finger into the trigger housing of the .38 and took another step forward.

The noise was like a great ripping of wood. I swiveled instinctively but saw nothing. I tried to locate the sound. It seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. I had only a split second to look up but as I did, I realized that the sound I had heard was plywood sliding above me, and the heavy darkness that crashed into me was Shipton.

He had dropped on me from the ceiling.

40

T
HE KILLER REPLACED THE PANEL IN THE PLYWOOD
ceiling and dragged the tall Mexican into the 8th Army Commander’s office. After leaning the CID agent’s limp body against a file cabinet, he knelt and felt for a pulse. Still strong. This man who’d been hounding him—this Sueño— would regain consciousness soon.

Prying one of the bayonets off the rifles the Honor Guard soldiers had left, the killer ran the sharp tip along the agent’s neck. Flesh rippled beneath the gleaming blade. Waste him now, he decided. Take no chances.

Something made him hesitate.

Angel and Chuy. Two ranch hands from Matamo-ros—perched on the edge of the corral. He could still see them. Watching.

This Sueño had proved to be the same type of Mex. Watching. Always watching.

And the killer remembered the woodshed. The door slamming behind him. The foul reek of cheap rye whiskey. His father turning, slowly, hatred filling his eyes. Unraveling a black leather belt from his emaciated waist. Swinging the huge silver buckle, slapping the weight of it into his palm.

And he remembered the crying, the pleading—the way his little boy whimpers seemed to enrage his father. And most of all he remembered the relentless battering.

After his father had left the shed, the boy who was not yet a killer staggered out, covering his eyes, trying to hide his injuries, into the bright noonday sun. Into the pitiless stares of Angel and Chuy.

It was their eyes he couldn’t stand. Always watching. Always knowing. Their faces showing nothing. Like two vultures feeding off his soul.

When his father died, the killer inherited a pile of debt and a worthless ranch. But he was big now. And strong. After he’d disposed of everything that had ever belonged to his father, he disposed of two more things: Angel and Chuy.