Blackjack Page 21

  Muñoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the tiny falcon danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes now trained on its new enemy.

  Muñoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon’s courier pouch.

  A series of explosions sounded below—flash-bang grenades thrown through the glass windows of the bar. Muñoz heard machine-gun fire. A thin smile played across his lips. With one mighty swipe of his machete, he chopped the pigeon in half, then scrambled on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch. The kestrel watched calmly, continuing to tear apart the other half of the pigeon Muñoz left behind.

  The rooftop now held a pair of predators, each absorbed in its own work, totally unconcerned with the other’s.

  Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his M-4, screaming “Princess!” at the top of his lungs.

  Two men charged down the stairs, and were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace’s shotgun. Cross pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his modified Sig out and ready.

  At Buddha’s nod, Cross pointed to an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Ace began to climb the stairs, chest flat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.

  Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. Suddenly, he spotted Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder’s chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers.

  Princess’s head lolled against his chest—Buddha could see only the top of his shaven skull. He holstered his pistol, eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to unlock the chains.

  A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down and rolled, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion.

  A muffled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the basement told Buddha his shot had hit home. He changed direction, crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he popped straight up, firing a short, sweeping burst from his pistol at the same time.

  With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor. More shots peppered the wall behind him.

  Buddha scrambled so that his own body was covering most of the fallen Princess, calmly ejecting the magazine from his pistol and snapping in another. Then he called out ¡Vamos! as a challenge to anyone who wanted to come closer.

  MUÑOZ POCKETED the microchip and started down the stairs, a machete in one hand. On the third-floor landing, he cat-footed his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, then satisfied himself that his escape rope was still anchored to the floor.

  The drug lord had a car waiting below. If his luck held, he could be on his way to safety in seconds. As he gathered the rope to himself, Cross walked into the room, an Army-issue .45 in his hand.

  Muñoz turned to face his sworn enemy. He stood with his legs spread apart, the machete now held in both his hands.

  Cross held his weapon in both hands as well, aimed at the chest of the kidnapper.

  For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. Neither man noticed a thin black splotch at the edge of the room.

  “So, hombre,” Muñoz said. “It must always come to this, no?” Suddenly, he flung his machete point-first at the floor, where it stuck, quivering from the sheer force of its entry.

  The black splotch quivered, too, as if in harmony with the machete.

  The tiny blue brand on Cross’s face began to burn.

  Muñoz moved slowly toward Cross, hands curled into claws. “You always wanted to know, didn’t you, Cross? ¿Quién es más hombre? Any coward can fight with weapons. A real man fights with nothing more than his own hands.

  “Now we see, yes?” Muñoz snarled, as his entire body flowed into a hand-combat crouch.

  “No,” Cross answered, pulling the trigger of his .45. The heavy slug took Muñoz in the stomach, knocking him to his knees.

  Standing over Muñoz, who was writhing on the floor in horrific pain but still clawing with his hands, Cross carefully emptied the magazine of his .45 into the dying man’s skull. Cross released the magazine of his pistol, slammed in a fresh one, and turned to the door. He never noticed the ace of spades and the jack of clubs floating toward the ceiling. Nor the still-burning blue scar on his cheek.

  IN THE basement of Red 71, Buddha reclined on a cot, an IV running into his arm. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, finally recognizing Cross.

  “Everybody come home?” the pudgy man asked.

  “They weren’t fighters,” Cross said, “just punks with guns. You were the only one who took a hit.”

  “Muñoz?”

  “Same place as Humberto. It’s all done.”

  “You’re a real man, Buddha!” Rhino squeaked. “I’m sorry for everything I ever said bad about you. That was so brave, the way you covered Princess.…”

  “I still don’t see why that crazy bastard should get a share,” Buddha mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.

  BUDDHA DREAMED he was sitting at a blackjack table in a lush casino. So Long was standing behind him, her jewel-lacquered nails over his right shoulder. He looked down at his two cards. Both aces: hearts and spades.

  “Double down,” the pudgy man said, just before he left his dream-state and dropped down to recovery-depth.