Stop Angel! (A Frank Angel Western Book 8) (5 page)

‘
As long
as he wishes,’ Nix purred.

‘
I
don’t get it.’

‘
The
fact that you don’t “get it”, as you so elegantly put it, is a
matter of supreme unimportance,’ Nix told his lieutenant. ‘The only
important thing is that our little fly eventually finds his way
into the spider’s parlor.’

‘
You
goin’ to sit back, an’ let him come on in here?’

‘
Of
course.’

‘
You
don’t want us to go out an’ get him?’

‘
No
need. He’ll walk right in.’

‘
How the
hell can you be so sure of that?’ Elliott wanted to
know.

‘
Ah,’
said Nix, with a smile like Death watching a knife fight. ‘I happen
to know the fly.’

And with that enigmatic explanation
Elliott had to be content.

It was a long time since Angel had lived off the
land like an Indian, but it had been part of his training and it
came back to him fast. Long ago, when they first brought him East
to join the department, he had been taken first by train and then
on horseback somewhere deep into a swampy wilderness far from any
trace of civilization. They blindfolded him and plugged his ears
before taking him out into the middle of the wilderness and turning
him loose. He had no idea where he was. They gave him nothing, no
food, water, or weapon. Somewhere in the wilderness, they said, was
a
‘safe’
house. He had to find it. He had a one-hour start over the three
men who would try to find and kill him. No other instructions, no
other rules. Survive, they said.

He was out for four days.

When he finally found the
‘safe’ house, he was
eighteen pounds lighter, and as gaunt as a man who’d been a year in
Andersonville. In the process of eluding his pursuers and coming
safe home, he had learned many things. How to find water where none
seemed to exist, or strain the worst filth out of brackish puddles
through the cotton of his tattered shirt. How to trap, skin, and
cook small wild things. Which berries were edible, and which would
kill you (the birds taught you that). How to make a lair and
conceal it as well if not better than any other hunted thing. All
this he learned as he learned what they wanted him to know: how to
survive. By the third day in the valley, had Nix sent his men out
after Angel, he would have been hard to find and take. But Hercules
Nix had no need to pursue Angel. He knew his quarry would come to
him, and on the fourth night, Angel did.

He had learned a great deal about the
valley by this time. Keeping to cover, moving little during the
day, using twilight and night for exploration, the sleeping dawn
for reconnaissance, he had spied unseen on the Comanche village
upon which he had almost stumbled that first night. He assessed its
probable strength by the number of teepees, women, and horses.
Unseen in the night he watched the listless guards at the crude
barrack half-hidden in the fringe of the thornbreaks at the
northern end of the valley. He did not need to explore the breaks
themselves, for Welsh Al had told him that they stretched over a
mile, briars and thorn trees twining around the feet of logwoods
and stunted oil palms and forming a barrier of formidable density.
God alone knew what lived in there, Davis had shuddered, what
reptiles and other horrors.

Angel had skirted the perimeter
of the swampy lake, following its outline and testing its shore
here and there. He had noted some of its denizens, moved to wonder
why
Hercules
Nix had imported such exotic creatures, and to ponder over the
madness that must thread through the man’s brain. He had very soon
learned to avoid the river and its savage population waiting for
the unwary one who would use the dummy fords along its length. Only
a sharp-eyed tracker, used to noting the minute marks that might
enable him to follow where others could not, would have noticed
that on the opposite bank of the river there were no tracks of any
kind, no marks, no scarred rocks, nothing.

Now, wary of everything he could
not see, Angel made his way along the bank of the man-made river,
using the advancing twilight to shield his movements from the
guards on the stockade. By the time he had made his way to within
striking distance of the
hacienda
the valley was as black as the inside of Satan’s
ovens. Through the tiny gaps between the logs of the fence Angel
could see the lights of the house. Above him, the guards exchanged
hoarse commonplaces. Just above the stockade on the northern
perimeter a meshed gate such as is used in trout farms and
fisheries was set between the river banks, and when he saw it Angel
allowed himself a sour grin. Hercules Nix had peopled his
wilderness with savage creatures, but he wanted none of them to
infiltrate his personal domain. Inside the stockade, Angel knew,
lay the man-made pool and the crucial well that supplied all the
valley’s water. He could hear the soft thump of its machinery as he
eased around the edge of the stockade and wormed close to the
western wall.

He had long since discarded his
mountain clothing. Now he wore a black woolen shirt, black leather
pants, soft black moccasins. He worked up a dirty daub with earth
and spittle, striping his face with it so he would be harder to
see. Then he checked his weapons and eased forward and down into
the deep black shadows below the base of the stockade wall. The
western side was by far the longest, its guard platforms further
apart. From the map that Welsh Al had drawn, Angel had memorized
the ground plan inside it.

The
hacienda
was basically L-shaped, with the base
of the L facing this long wall, shaded by English yew trees. He had
long since decided that this wall afforded his best chance of
getting inside the enclave unseen.

From beneath his woolen shirt he
unwound the long silken rope that had been readied at his request
by the Armorer in Washington. At one end was a flat unfolding metal
bar that split into three to become a small grappling hook when he
pushed onto the end of each bar three small rubber balls with
barbed spikes. He swung the rope, lengthening it slightly on each
swing, until he had enough play on it to loft it high into the
night sky. Up, over, and down on the other side of the pointed
stakes of the stockade it went, making a soft but audible bump as
the spikes bit into the timber. Angel froze, waiting in the
darkness like a trapped animal; but there was no challenge from the
sentries. Nothing moved. He stood warily and tested the rope. It
stretched slightly as he put all his weight on it, and then he went
up the rough face of the stockade like a squirrel. Pausing at the
top, he threw one arm over and checked for any sound of alarm.
Hearing none, he unhooked the grapple and threw it down to the
invisible ground inside the enclave. Below him was impenetrable
darkness. He swung over the top of the fence and vaulted down. He
rolled to break his fall, not silent but very quietly, and found
himself among ornamental shrubs and bushes, perhaps fifty feet from
the rear of the building. The soft thump of the pump was louder,
more powerful. The ground trembled slightly with each stroke.
Inside the house someone was playing the piano. Liszt, he thought,
surprised.

Swiftly locating the rope and grapple,
Angel disassembled it and stowed it in the many-pocketed pants. The
rope he wound around his waist beneath the shirt. Then he squatted
on the ground, taking the time to control his breathing, summoning
the inner sense of presence that his Korean teacher, Kee Lai, had
taught him long ago.

Then he moved like a prowling tiger
toward the house.

Flattened against the wall, he
eased along it until he came to the first of the tall, brilliantly
lit windows. A rapid glance inside revealed a huge dining room, lit
by cut-glass chandeliers, the table laid for dinner. The tablecloth
was snow-white linen, the cutlery silver, the glasses sparkling
crystal. Three place settings, he noted idly, wondering who
Nix
’s guests
might be. Then he worked around to the northern corner of the
house, concealed by the blue-black shadows near the ground, until
he could see the paved-stone patio in front of the pool. Over the
patio was a loggia, from which depended grape-bearing vines and
climbing plants whose flowers gave off a honeyed perfume. A low
table and some chairs stood in the center of the sheltered patio,
and a man came out of the house with a silver tray bearing a wine
bottle and glasses which he proceeded to set out on the table. The
man was short and squat and when he moved into the slab of light
coming from the windows, Angel saw that he was an
Oriental.

Now Angel eased around the front of
the house, flat to the wall, moving like a stealthy predator,
senses alert for the faintest sign of danger. The absence of guards
was jarring, and he frowned. Inside the house, the Liszt sonata
continued. Whoever was playing played beautifully, he
thought.

Then all the lights went
out.

~*~

‘
So, the
sleeper awakes. Welcome, Angel. Welcome to the kingdom of Hercules
Nix!’

Angel opened his eyes, and the blurred
figure standing above him became clear as focus
returned.

‘
You?’
he said. He tried to get up, then winced as he felt the stiffness
of the muscles in his neck.

‘
Me,’
Nix said. ‘I am surprised you remember me so well.’

‘
I
remember you, Hecatt,’ Angel said, sitting up and looking
around. He was in a sumptuously appointed bedroom with velvet
drapes on the windows and what looked like an Aubusson carpet on
the floor. ‘You’re the kind nobody ever forgets.’

‘
I am
pleased to hear it,’ Nix replied. ‘More than you can
imagine.’

‘
You’re
Hercules Nix?’

‘
That is
correct. The man you once knew as Ernie Hecatt is, to all intents
and purposes, dead and buried. In his place stands one of the
richest men in the United States—I, Hercules Nix!’

‘
You can
call a rat any damned thing you want,’ Angel said flatly. ‘It’s
still a rat.’

His host
’s darkly smiling mien changed
suddenly to a black mask of anger, and the gloved left hand drew
back as if to strike Angel down. Then, with a huge indrawn breath,
Nix controlled his anger and pasted the smile back on his face.
Only the eyes, burning like fire, betrayed the passion beneath the
surface. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, softly. ‘You’ll not enrage me, Angel. I
have waited far too long to spoil my pleasure. There will be no
cheap escape for you.’

‘
Escape?
What are you talking about?’

‘
Surely
you do not think you are here by accident?’

‘
I’m
not?’

‘
My dear
Angel, I thought you would be flattered at all the trouble I have
taken to get you here.’

‘
I’m
flattered, I’m flattered. Now tell me what the hell you’re talking
about.’ Angel said. He swung his legs down to the floor and got to
his feet warily. His head swam slightly, but that was all. ‘How did
I get up here?’

‘
Yat
Sen,’ Nix said. ‘My valet. I found him in San Francisco, where he
was working in a hand laundry. He has passed through every known
level of the martial arts, Angel. I have heard that the Justice
Department teaches these skills.’

‘
Have
you, now?’ Angel parried.

‘
Let me
warn you just once,’ Nix said silkily, ‘not to be foolhardy. Yat
Sen would be to your puny abilities what a Grand Master would be to
a beginner at chess.’

‘
Sure,’
Angel said, letting his scorn show.

‘
Just
remember that he came across twenty feet of open ground to stun you
and you did not hear as much as the whisper of his
feet.’

‘
True
enough,’ Angel admitted, remembering. He had never heard of any man
possessing the skills that Nix boasted his man had. That didn’t
mean it wasn’t possible. He decided to repeat an earlier
question.

‘
My dear
Angel, I have been expecting you confidently ever since I first
started trading with The People—the Comanches, in this case. Isn’t
it amazing how all these Mongolian savages refer to themselves as
The People? To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed that
it took so long to attract you to my little, ah, hide-away. I
thought at first that the Tyrell business would do it, but instead
you sent someone else.’

‘
Jaime
Lorenz,’ Angel said.

‘
He was
very clumsy, Angel. Clumsier even than you, and you were very
obvious. My men took him outside San Antonio and brought him
here.’

‘
He’s
dead, then?’

‘
Alas,
yes. So very few men survive the, ah, rigors of the valley. But he
served his purpose. I knew that when he arrived, your coming was
but a matter of time. What is it, sixty days after departure you
assume death?’