Resurrecting Midnight (34 page)

Two armed guards were on the sidewalk near us, tan uniforms and orange reflective vests. Rain drummed the car as I looked around. I wanted to find The Four Horsemen. Didn’t like being hunted. I’d been hunted too long, all over the world. A man could only escape so many traps. I was made to be the hunter, not the prey.

I said, “We need to stash the package. Set them up. Let me get Konstantin and Shotgun in position. When they go for it, we corner them, take them out from behind.”

“In broad daylight.”

“It’s overcast. Dark enough. The rain helps make everything obscure.”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

“If we ride around until we’re out of gas, we’re fucked. The moment we pull into a Shell or YPF, they could block us in and gun us down. I suggest we use the package as bait.”

Arizona said, “No. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to use the package as bait.”

“These guys are good at using explosives.”

“They won’t use explosives, not on the package, not if they want it intact.”

“Then let’s hope they want it intact.”

To my right, I saw the armed guards on the sidewalk.

I saw their unmistakable expressions.

Death charged toward us.

I saw their panic, their mouths open wide as their body language became defensive.

Gunfire peppered the businesses behind them as they reached for their guns.

They tried to draw their weapons, but they were caught off guard.

One head exploded like a melon that had been dropped from twelve stories high, abrupt redness and brain matter covering the glass of the pharmacy and the sidewalk he had been patrolling. Before the second guard could fire a shot, his head had opened up too.

A shadowy figure raced up from behind. Dark clothing, dark coat, dark fedora. A patch over his eye. I saw the patch. And when he raised his head, I saw part of his face.

For a moment . . . everything moved in slow motion, so slowly I could see every separate raindrop, could’ve counted each one before it touched the ground.

I was sucked into a nightmare.

A ghost charged at me. I saw the man I had killed when I was seven years old.

Then came the silenced gunfire, muffled explosions that spat out hot lead.

Six shots that came so fast they would’ve sounded like one gunshot.

The surreal moment exploded, and reality rampaged back at twice the normal pace. Rain fell like rocks, beat the car a hundred times a second, echoed like rapid fire from a submachine gun. With the rain falling, with the cacophony of sounds, no one noticed the muffled noise.

If I’d been in any other vehicle, I’d have been sleeping with the fish.

The car’s windows were bulletproof, one inch thick. But that didn’t stop me from flinching when the bullets struck the glass at eye level, didn’t stop Arizona from doing the same.

Then another merc dressed in black appeared, a sledgehammer in his hand. That sledgehammer came down hard. The window took the impact and didn’t give.

All of this happened as people stood in the rain. They probably thought they were witnessing a botched assassination. Or a wicked battle between Colombian drug dealers.

Arizona tried to duck down, bullets bouncing off the window at her head.

My foot pressed the accelerator to the floor. Tires spun on wet pavement as the rear end fishtailed and bumped the ghost that had caused me to freeze in time.

It had bumped him. He was solid. He was real.

Bullets bounced off glass as I got the fuck out of that war zone.

The first man I killed.

I’d seen his ghost.

Capítulo 33

The French-style station building was one of the largest transportation hubs in Argentina. Subte Line C, omnibuses, city buses, taxis, and trains. People moved in every direction. Tourists and
Porteños
with babies, backpacks, and tons of luggage. High-rises were a block away on Libertador, the Sheraton Hotel and the British Clock Tower in the distance.

Medianoche had hurried to his car, followed the Peugeot to that rambunctious area.

A fucking bulletproof car. Medianoche wasn’t surprised. Bulletproof cars had become commonplace when the economy had hit rock bottom and the have-nots started robbing the wealthy, yanking them out of their Benzes and BMWs and demanding a quick ransom. Express kidnappings were a profitable epidemic. The doors and windows of that car were solid enough to stop a sledgehammer’s blows and shake off AK-47 blasts.

A lot of money was on the line.

Many people had expired in pursuit of these the two packages.

Dented by gunfire and a blow from a sledgehammer, the Peugeot had fled down Avenida Alicia Moreau de Justo, then fishtailed and cut up San Martín. That block-long street was one-way traffic divided by a concrete island, dead-ending at the train station, forcing a left or right turn.

Traffic was impossible. Horns blew as rain fell hard on the unmoving vehicles, the rain trying to wash away the smell of
pollo
, empanadas,
huevos fritos
, carbon monoxide, and dog shit.

Medianoche abandoned his car, kept his gun down low as he ran up the line of cars, his run parallel to the markets and sidewalks two lanes away. He sprinted past slow-moving people and stomped through puddles, water splashing like he was in the fields of Africa. He slowed his run twelve vehicles later and crept up on the Peugeot. A car that was trapped because three cars in front of it were blocked by city buses. It was easy to spot with damaged glass and bullet wounds in its impenetrable frame. Both doors were ajar. He peeped inside, business end of his gun leading the way.

The car was empty. Abandoned on the left side of the street.

Police had shut down the area. The avenue was blocked. It was one of many disruptive protests sponsored by the
piqueteros
. Protestors marched up Ramos Mejía toward Libertador and Avenida Alem, droves moving toward San Martín Plaza, most of them banging pots and pans, creating a loud racket.

Medianoche cursed.

The children and grandchildren of immigrants protested another corruption. People who had worked in silver and tin mines were marching side by side with bankers and clergy from the Catholic Church. Fucking plate-banging protestors who had no regard for rain, at least thirty thousand carrying damp banners and wet signs, thousands using black garbage bags and clear plastic as raincoats, their inexpensive shoes and blue-collar clothes soaking wet, the winter storm magnifying their determination to change the cold ways of their brutal world one protest at a time.

They blocked traffic, banged pots and pans, and chanted.

Medianoche wiped rain from his face, searched for his targets.

Women had united underneath dark skies. They were shutting the city down. Would march until they reached Plaza de Mayo. Refused to let buses out of the terminal. Cars and taxis were at a standstill. Women protested gender violence. Gigantic banners screamed that more than a thousand women a month had to dial 911 because they were abused and beaten by partners, former lovers, and boyfriends. The crowd was as wide as the avenue, and at least a mile long.

That was why the Peugeot was abandoned at Madero and Mejia.

Medianoche turned back to the car to look inside, wanted to see what had been left behind. As soon as he turned, the car burst into flames. He jumped back from the flames.

That had been done by a remote.

They were near. Wherever they were, they could see him.

He moved past the fire, hurried through the rain, and searched for the targets. Across the concrete island were businesses that stretched toward Avenida San Martín. Buses had pulled into the gridlock. Medianoche spied toward the British Clock Tower. That area was fenced off. There was no quick way to get inside. Then he evaluated the area toward the strip of mom-and-pop businesses, but his instinct said the enemy hadn’t gone that way.

He looked straight ahead. Beyond the protesters was another wall of people trying to get to trains, subtes, and buses. There were a half dozen entrances to train stations, and each entrance stretched at least a quarter mile. He looked to the right, toward the station for the omnibuses. He looked to his left. Foot traffic hurried across twelve lanes, battled the weather and headed beyond the soldiers who stood in front of the monument at Plaza San Martín. Droves of people moved toward the park at the top of the hill.

A dozen directions to flee.

Medianoche looked at the sensor. The signal was bright green.

They were still here. They were close. Might be as close as the Peugeot that was burning a few feet behind him. People passed as rain fell on garbage-bag raincoats and umbrellas held high.

Medianoche noticed a young man was staring at him as protestors passed.

Gideon.

Midnight. He heard the name Midnight shouted among the din.

Gideon stared at him. A vague face separated by a thousand human shields.

People passed. More umbrellas up high. More garbage-bag raincoats.

Medianoche took a step as he blinked.

Then Gideon was gone.

He had vanished like a vampire, as if he never was.

Medianoche looked to the left, to the right, tensed, wondered if he had frozen up again.

He searched the crowd again. Rain and gray skies made the pandemonium a blur.

Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez negotiated the horn-blowing traffic, pulled over and took to the sidewalk, parked their motorcycles and looked into the crowd, then came to his side.

His soldiers were soaking wet. They’d been riding in the rain for hours.

It had taken them hours to finally locate the fuckers with the package.

Medianoche stood, one gun resting in the small of his back, two more inside holsters underneath his coat. He wanted to howl like a wolf. But he frowned and adjusted his eye patch.

Señorita Raven looked at him, said nothing. Medianoche saw her thoughts on her face, saw her being professional. Her taste lived inside his mouth. Her smell permeated his flesh.

Medianoche stood behind Señorita Raven.

Last night. After the tango. Clothes stained by sex. Her scent on his genitals. He had gone to her apartment. He was ready to kill her. She had fired at him twice. Put two bullet holes in the wall near his head. He hadn’t flinched. Wasn’t afraid. Had stared at her. Dared her.

Then he had left.

There was a pecking order. Called The Beast until he made contact. The Beast was out handling part of the Caprica Ortiz contract. He had put two of the men who had been responsible for the thirty thousand missing in the ground. Medianoche cut to the chase, asked permission to put Señorita Raven down. He told The Beast that she had crossed the line. She had shot at him. Twice. He’d had enough. The Beast listened.

But his request was denied.

The Beast had told him, “Friends close. Enemies closer.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“We have bigger problems. My servant is monitoring the sensor.”

“There a problem?”

“Draco informed me that the sensor went from red to amber.”

“How long ago?”

“Within the last hour.”

“Red to amber. They are in the area.”

“You sound surprised. They had no choice.”

“City or province?”

“Not sure. So we need Raven. Get ready. All of you. We have work to do.”

Medianoche said, “Friends close.”

“Enemies closer. When this is done, we can dispose of all enemies.”

“Well, it’s about to be World War III over here.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m warning you the way they warned America about Bin Laden before nine-eleven.”

“Not yet, not yet.”

Her presence was hard to deal with, made him feel like he was naked with clips on his nipples and nut sac, a car battery supplying the juice that exacerbated his torture.

After hanging up the phone, he had gone back to Señorita Raven’s apartment. Went back and faced the woman who had shot at him twice. The woman who thought she knew his secrets. He stepped back into her den of rage and dejection. She was still naked, gun in hand.

She fired at him again. The bullet hit the wall. She was in the middle of a meltdown.

He didn’t know if her problems were chemical or behavioral.

Or if the horrors of war had given her demons she’d never be able to escape.

But he knew they ran deeper than giving a man a blow job for a C-note.

No matter what, she was his enemy.

Friends close. Enemies closer.

He knew what he wanted to do. But he was a soldier. And a soldier followed orders.

Even when the orders made no sense.

He told her, “You’re right. I did freeze.”

“Get out.”

“And a soldier should have another soldier’s back.”

“Get out, you one-eyed, fucked-up, broken-down piece of misogynistic shit.”

He walked toward her loaded gun, took slow steps until the barrel was close enough to touch his skin. Then, with a finger, he eased the barrel to the side.

She scowled. “Get away from me.”

He touched her breasts.

She swallowed. “Get your hands off me.”

He lowered his head, sucked her nipple.

She sighed. “Stop . . . stop doing that . . . you one-eyed . . . you one-eyed . . .”

She melted down to the wooden floor, legs opening.

He said, “You’re crazy.”

“And crazy gets your dick hard.”

He took her on her living room floor. Holding his gun in his hand, he had entered her hard. She had held onto her gun, wrapped her left arm and legs around him.

“What’s the matter? Can’t get it up?”

“I can get it up.”