The Taste of Fear (31 page)

He looked at her, cocked his arm at the elbow, launched the knife.

She screamed.

The blade flashed past her head. She spun to follow its trajectory and saw it splat into the chest of Rambo. He released the assault rifle he’d picked up, scowled as if life was suddenly unfair, and collapsed to the ground. Scarlett turned back to the Irishman and was about to say something—maybe even thank him—when, beyond him, the door to the ruined helicopter cockpit shoved open. A dark shape stumbled out, dragging a large gun. The words that had been on the tip of her tongue faltered, and she rushed toward the bedlam scene to help whoever had survived.

The man pulled off his helmet, and Scarlett immediately recognized the dark good looks of Danny Zamir. He heaved over in a fit of coughs.

“Is anyone else in there?” she demanded. The fuselage hadn’t exploded, but it was on fire, engulfed in billowing black smoke.

Danny shook his head. Something inside her shriveled.

“Sal?” he said.

“No.”

Danny didn’t react. Or at least she didn’t think he did. Not until she noticed the cords of muscle standing out in his neck. “How?” he asked very quietly.

She told him.

“Harah,”
he mumbled. He hefted the machine gun across his chest decisively. “Who’s left?”

“Just me and Thunder and—”

“Hey! You!” Danny shouted. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The Irishman, who had been limping away toward the woods, stopped. “Where there are some rebels,” he said, “there are likely more. I for one am going to be gone when they arrive.”

Danny stiffened. He’d obviously had no idea the man was the assassin sent for Sal until he’d heard the accent.

“Let him be,” Scarlett said. “He saved my life.”

Danny ignored her. “I was told you were here,” he said to the Irishman, walking forward. “I thought you would have scurried off by now.”

“Do I know you?” Fitzgerald asked.

“No. But I know who you are.”

“Congratulations. You’re in a rare club.” He started to turn.

Danny raised the deadly looking gun. “You’re not going anywhere,
koos.
”

“Excuse me?”

“Drop the knife,” he said, referring to the weapon the Irishman had retrieved from Rambo’s corpse.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“Drop it.”

Fitzgerald tossed the knife into the mud.

“Good,” Danny said, setting the machine gun down as well. “Now it’s fair.”

“You want to fight me?”

“Yes.”

Fitzgerald seemed amused. “But why?”

“Because,” Danny said, “it’s what capo would have wanted.”

Zamir swung again. Fitzgerald parried and countered, knife-chopping the top of Zamir’s forearm just below the elbow, striking the radial nerve and numbing the arm. Almost simultaneously he followed up with a left-handed thumb jab to Zamir’s left shoulder, numbing the man’s other arm as well. But Zamir proved resilient, pivoting with a roundhouse kick to Fitzgerald’s ribs. Fitzgerald threw up his arms and blocked the powerful attack at the last moment.

They broke apart.

“Not bad for an old man,” Zamir said, rolling his shoulders to get the feeling back in his arms.

“Not bad for a Jew,” Fitzgerald shot back.

Zamir rushed, obviously thinking he could wear his much older opponent down with a brute-force, concerted onslaught. Fitzgerald countered by spinning away to the left and landing a hammer fist to Zamir’s temple. He yanked the man’s head down while bringing his knee up.

Teeth shattered.

Zamir wobbled backward, dazed, blood gushing from his mouth. Fitzgerald finally took the counteroffensive. He struck the side of Zamir’s neck with another closed fist, knocking him backward. But he was too confident. As he moved in for the kill, Zamir—somehow still with it—sprung a short hook punch to his solar plexus, knocking the breath from him.

They stumbled apart, both breathing heavily.

Zamir faked left, lunged right, getting close enough to grapple, bringing an elbow up under Fitzgerald’s jaw, stunning him. He tried another elbow strike, this one to Fitzgerald’s face, but Fitzgerald moved with it, twisting around and ending up behind Zamir. He grabbed the man’s collar and tugged him back off balance while jabbing him in the left kidney. He kicked the back of Zamir’s knee, collapsing him to the ground.

Before Fitzgerald could swoop down, however, Zamir executed a low sweep kick, striking Fitzgerald’s injured shins. He cried out and dropped.

Zamir was on him immediately, raining fists into his face, over and over and over.

Fitzgerald heard cartilage crunch. Started to see black. He tapped into a last reserve of strength, grabbed Zamir’s hair, yanked down, and brought up his own forehead to land a Glasgow Kiss right between the man’s eyes.

Zamir grunted and went limp. Fitzgerald rolled over so he was now on top. He raised his left fist, intent on finally ending the fight—

Someone slammed into his side, sending him sprawling into the mud.

Thunder’s face turned red. He was struggling to breathe.

Scarlett scrambled for the nearby rifle, pointed it in the air, and pulled the trigger. It was on full automatic and spit half a dozen rounds into the sky, rattling her entire upper body so hard she thought she might drop the weapon. She recovered and aimed the barrel at the Irishman.

“Let him go!” she ordered.

Fitzgerald only stared at her. Thunder continued to flop and twist, trapped in the death pinch.

Scarlett fired another, albeit more controlled, burst into the air.

After a dreadfully long wait, Fitzgerald finally unlocked his legs and rolled away into a crouch. One hand was pressed against the left side of his torso where Thunder had crashed into him. The rain had washed away the mud that had covered his face, and now she could see his nose looked broken while ugly purple circles had begun to form around his eyes. A white scar tattooed the length of his throat.

Thunder, rubbing his own throat, got to his knees. To the right of him Danny stirred, shaking the cobwebs from his head. Rise and shine everyone, Scarlett thought stupidly. When Danny noticed Fitzgerald crouched a short distance away, he immediately spun to face the Irishman, as if to continue the interrupted fight.

Scarlett swung the rifle at him. “Don’t move, Danny,” she said.

“He’s an assassin,” Danny told her, never taking his eyes from the Irishman. “He followed you here to kill Sal.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you pointing that damned thing at me? Let me kill the bastard.”

“He saved my life.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Didn’t you hear what
I
said?” She swung the rifle back at the Irishman again. “Why did you do it?” she said, blinking rain from her eyes. “Why help me?”

He didn’t say anything.

Thunder got to his feet, wobbling a little before steadying himself. He looked at Danny, then at Fitzgerald. “Well, this is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it?”

“There’s a satellite phone in the church, Thunder,” Scarlett said. “It’s on the altar. Can you get it? Also, there’s some rope in one of the wings. Get that too.”

Thunder nodded and jogged off.

“Give me the rifle, Scarlett,” Danny said, taking a step toward her.

She swung the barrel back at him. He stopped.

“You’ll shoot him,” she said, glancing at the Irishman, who remained in a crouch, watching everything that was happening with dark, calculating eyes.

“What alternative is there?” Danny said.

“We tie him up. Take him prisoner.”

“He’s too dangerous. It’s not worth the risk. Give me the rifle. You don’t have to watch.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nobody else is dying. Nobody.”

Lightning flashed, flooding the black sky with white light. Danny ran a hand through his soaked hair. “At least let me get my gun then.”

“You won’t shoot him?”

“If you don’t want me to, no.”

Scarlett knew she couldn’t play mediator forever, and so she reluctantly conceded. Danny retrieved his monster machine gun from the mud and looped the strap over his shoulder so the weapon hung in a shoot-from-the-hip position. He swung the barrel at Fitzgerald. Scarlett held her breath, waiting for him to squeeze the trigger. He didn’t. Thunder returned a minute later with the rope and secured the Irishman’s hands behind his back. Scarlett finally lowered her rifle and relaxed, feeling as if the tiger had just been caged.

“Where’s the sat phone?” she asked Thunder.

“Couldn’t find it. The wall that collapsed buried the altar.”

“Can we dig it out?”

“Not a chance. Even if we could, I reckon it would be crushed to pieces.”

“Then we walk out,” Danny said.

Scarlett shook her head. “There’re terrorists on the boat.”

“They’re dead,” Fitzgerald said, not looking at anyone in particular.

“I suppose you killed them?” Danny said.

“You suppose correctly. And I suggest we get moving. As I mentioned earlier, where there are some rebels, there are likely more. They might have heard the explosion. They’ll be here soon.”

The prospect chilled Scarlett. She’d cheated death enough times today to know better than to press her luck.

Danny picked up the machete and said, “We head due south and try to keep in as straight a line as possible until we reach the river.”

“Actually,” Fitzgerald said, “we should go southeast.”

“He’s right.” Scarlett withdrew the pendant-compass from her shirt. “And I think this will help.”

Danny nodded. “Okay. Keep a reading.” He yanked the Irishman to his feet, shoved him forward. “You. Start moving. I’ll follow. Scarlett, you come next and . . . ?”

“Thunder, mate.”

“Thunder, you take up the rear.”

“Okay,” Scarlett said. “But first, Thunder, can you take care of Sal’s body? Put—” She was about to say “the rest of it” but stopped herself. “Put it on the fire. Cremate it.”

She would have offered to help, but she didn’t think she could stand to see what remained of her husband.

Thunder went to do what she’d asked. When he returned a few minutes later, he nodded solemnly, to say the deed was done. Danny, his face wooden, shoved the Irishman forward and started off toward the howling African wilderness.

Scarlett followed, resisting the nearly overwhelming urge to look back at the fire, silent tears spilling down her dirty cheeks.

Progress was slow and wet. The dense canopy blocked out most of the rain from reaching the small party, but Scarlett was still soaked and shivering. She focused on putting one foot down in front of the other, trying not to think, although her thoughts were banging around inside her head, impossible to ignore.