Wild Country

Chapter Sixty-Three

Every man at the table recognized the newcomer. Quantrill instantly put aside the notion that Lufo Albeniz had arrived by accident; evidently Lufo was still on the job for Jim Street. Most likely, thought Quantrill, Lufo had been sent as backup. They could confer later in private, but for the moment Quantrill felt that burning his cover meant burning a new friendship. In a sense, then, at that moment Quantrill's life was hanging on his embarrassment. He had no way of knowing Lufo's cover name among cimarrones, so the only inference he drew from Longo's humming was that the man couldn't carry a tune in a Kelley Ramscoop.

Clyde Longo did not give a damn what young Coulter thought. Like Sorel and Slaughter, he knew San Antonio Rose on sight and announced the fact in the usual way. The rest was up to someone else.

Harley Slaughter realized a part of the problem: San Antonio Rose might be wary of Sam Coulter who was, as of this moment, very much underfoot. Slaughter put on an uncharacteristic show of goodwill, with an expansive wave toward the man who stood poised in uncertainty before them. "I know you from somewhere. What was your name in the States?" It was an old greeting from the days when Wild Country was turning wild again.

Felix Sorel only smiled and gestured for the newcomer to take a seat. "A friend of Mr. Cherry? Bienvenidos." In a detached way Sorel was amused. If he found it convenient to snub young Coulter from Monahans, drive him from the pack as it were, he could do it at any time. New friends or old, it made little difference; he used them, discarded them, found others with that graceful, lethal charm.

Lufo Albeniz took his time sitting down in the only avail able space, between Longo and Slaughter with his back to the entrance, composing his next moves. What in seven hells was Ted Quantrill doing here, rubbing elbows with Sorel? Hold on; with those few words, Sorel had disowned their old acquaintance. And Quantrill had given him the "cover" sign, plain as day. Lufo's conclusion was that Quantrill knew his quarry. Did he also know Lufo's connection? Lufo had expected no trouble, and his only weapon was the lockblade in his hip pocket. Oh, shit…

Lufo said the only thing he could: "Lufo Albeniz," and thrust his hand across the table to Sorel. Hell, they all knew his real name anyhow.

In moments he heard all the aliases he could handle. To Slaughter's casual question he replied that he had just happened by. With the tension palpable as a sheet of ice over the table, not one of them noticed the slender figure in the bulky shortcoat who had appeared in the doorway as Lufo was sitting down.

Marianne Placidas, knowing the destination of San Antonio Rose, had actually preceded him to Faro and picked him up as he got off the tour bus. And now the man had led her, with breathtaking suddenness, to within point-blank range of Felix Sorel. She did not recognize Quantrill or Longo, but Slaughter was easy to make. Almost as easy as Sorel, next to him. It all came together so quickly after her preparations that she did not give herself time to waver, nor even to tremble. Slaughter's hideously effective weapon was always drawn, so he would bear watching as closely as Sorel. It made no difference what weapons the others might use on her; Marianne had told herself many times that she had died with her beauty in Oregon Territory.

Her mistake was common among amateurs. Professionals rarely take time to savor revenge; and never before the fact.

"Felix Sorel, look at me." Her voice was steady. The little automatic was steady, too. Somewhere a waitress bleated, dropped a tray, scuttled for the kitchen entrance. Somewhere else, two patrons bolted for the exit. No one at the table moved quickly, except for their heads.

"Dios mio," Sorel said. He realized that his expression betrayed a horrified fascination as he looked into that ruined face. The voice he knew well enough, and her eyes removed any lingering doubt. Keeping his hands in view, he fashioned a bright smile for her. It had always worked before. "Marianne Placidas, is it you?" If Slaughter would only make his move, he might have time to draw on this dreadful apparition. Standing only meters away, positioned behind Lufo so that Slaughter would have to swing his arm, the woman faced Sorel, her chin proud, displaying the terrible scars this man had ordained for her. Without glancing toward Slaughter she said, "Not anymore. I wanted you to see what you have done."

Lufo made his decision then, twisting slowly to look at the woman, perhaps because he was the only man at the table who was not well armed. "Chica, you don't want to shoot a federal agent," he said.

"Embustero, liar; you are San Antonio Rose," she said without taking her eyes from Sorel's.

Mierda! So she knew. With his peripheral vision, Lufo saw Quantrill^:s face harden in shock. "But this man is Ted Quantrill of the Justice Department," he went on, pointing carefully and slowly. "Let him do his job."

"You sonofabitch," grated Longo, his face growing choleric as he stared at the man beside him, the man who had iced Mike Rawson. Marianne might have ignored the curse, but the reddening of Clyde Longo's face was a real endorsement.

Quantrill did not move. A half dozen tumblers within his mind clicked into place. So all these men were old confederates, and he'd been sucked in like a fucking amateur! It wasn't bad enough that he'd placed himself in the hands of Sorel, but his old compadre Lufo was playing both sides of the game. And any second now, that game would be over.

"Slaughter told me you were dead, novita," Sorel pleaded, hands open in supplication, nodding toward the cold-eyed Slaughter.

"That's a goddamn lie, Sorel," Slaughter hissed, and shifted his arm a bit.

"If Slaughter said that, he was right. And now my spirit is content," said Marianne, her face blazing in a ravaged, deadly smile.

They all heard distant footfalls racing in the hall, coming nearer. Marianne Placidas licked her lips, tossed what could have been a look of pleading toward Quantrill. and saw Harley Slaughter's arm slowly straighten toward the man who might, or might not, be a federal agent. If Slaughter thought so, that agent was now one second from an agonizing death. The muzzle of her little weapon flicked to a new target, and she fired without hesitation. The single slug entered Slaughter's head just above the right cheekbone, blossoming into the base of his brain. The pistol's report triggered instant pandemonium.

Even as Slaughter folded forward, his face shattering the plate before him, three of the men were reacting in almost identical ways, using other bodies for shields. Clyde Longo, without years of military training in close-quarters combat, had the horrendously bad luck to be sitting between two men who had learned from the same instructors. He found himself gripped from both sides as Quantrill and Lufo Albeniz propelled him over backward toward the woman. Sorel hurled himself sideways to the floor, taking refuge behind the inert Slaughter, reaching inside his jacket as he dropped.

Marianne stumbled back to avoid the stocky Longo as he tumbled backward from his chair, holding her little weapon with both hands. She fired again and Slaughter's body jerked.

As he released his two-handed grip on Longo's right arm and shoulder, Quantrill continued moving in a side roll. He ended it on one knee. Chiller in hand, and saw Longo on his back near the woman's feet. Longo's teeth were bared as he looked up at her, flexing his legs, reaching into his boot top. She seemed completely unaware of the man as she fired that second round across the table.

The Chiller coughed twice, the muffled thumps of its tiny detonating slugs lost in Longo's bulk. Quantrill saw the man quiver, then relax. Kneeling between adjacent tables, his eyes above the level of the tabletops, Quantrill fired several rounds between table legs where he hoped Sorel would be; in the killing trade, the expression was "for effect." One of the slugs had its effect all right. It shattered the right rear leg of the chair supporting the corpse of Harley Slaughter, and the slug's detonation sent oak splinters flying. Quantrill selected then from between two options. He could drop prone, the aggressive option, and face Felix Sorel in a forest of spindly table legs. Or he could opt for the prudent move and vault atop a table for a commanding view and a better field of fire.

Prudence won; Quantrill's leap carried him atop the nearest unoccupied table. But the hangover won, too; he missed his footing and rolled onto his side, cups and plates scattering, the table teetering but remaining upright. At that point, a burst of firing from Sorel's vicinity said that he was still doing business. The woman gave a choking cry and staggered to the side, flinging her gun hand out as she fell toward Quantrill. At the moment, Quantrill was her only hope, and the savagery of her luck was that, in falling, she caught him across the bridge of the nose with the barrel of her pistol.

Lying on his back, Felix Sorel could see the trousered legs of Marianne Placidas from under the table. Something was happening to his left with the little brick agent, but "Coulter" had shown no deadly potential on the previous day, and the Placidas bitch was already firing in his direction. First things first: he tucked his legs, spreading them enough to fire twice from between them, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman's right leg buckle as he thrust upward with both feet beneath the near side of the tabletop.

But before he could bring the table crashing over, Sorel was distracted by several thin, sharp reports, one near his head. He felt the peppering of wood and tiny metal fragments from the Chiller against the side of his face, then realized that the body of Harley Slaughter was collapsing on him. He flailed his left arm hard to deflect the corpse, using the impetus to continue in a back shoulder roll.

Lufo's blade was locked and in flight as the table flipped over, its blade sinking into the oak, pinning the tablecloth in place. His only other weapon was the heavy oak chair he grabbed as he ducked, it might do as a shield until he could tip another table over. He saw Ted Quantrill cut loose against Longo, saw the effects of Sorel's shots as the woman screamed and staggered to her right. Lufo began to swing the chair — it was a heavy devil, and he was out of shape — and then saw Quantrill's head snap hard against the tabletop, pistol-whipped by sheer accident.

Lufo had not been recruited into T Section for nothing all those years ago. He could reassess a problem as quickly as anyone, and his reflexes had once been almost as fast as Quantrill's. He continued the swing of that heavy chair and, instead of hurling it directly at Sorel, tossed it in a high spinning arc before he dived for the revolver poking out of Clyde Longo's boot top. A large object tumbling in a high arc tends to draw attention for a crucial second or so.

Sorel saw the chair coming as he bounced to his feet near the wall; sidestepped; saw Quantrill stunned on the tabletop and partly hidden by the woman. He fired at the only person who was in furious motion. The parabellum slug tore into Lufo's left pectoral muscle, was deflected by the high second rib, and exited after cutting a shallow trench to the sternum. Sorel skipped to one side, turned his attention to Quantrill, who had struggled to one elbow, blinking his eyes, and then realized that Marianne Placidas was again staring at him down the barrel of her little automatic. Who would have thought the bitch had so much vitality? He made a feint, then jerked back, and her next round buried itself in the wall.

Sorel fired while diving away, a throwaway shot intended to upset her aim more than anything else. Marianne Placidas spun and sat down hard on the floor, shot through the right bicep, her little weapon clattering onto the table near Quantrill's head. Ted Quantrill saw through watering eyes that his target was scrambling on all fours through the kitchen service entrance. While blinking furiously, he took a groggy sort of aim and fired a full-auto burst. One round carved a grazing welt across Sorel's back before detonating against the swinging door. For the next few seconds, Quantrill could estimate Sorel's success from the wild uproar of shouts, footsteps, and crashing of metal pans that receded through the kitchen.

Rolling from the table. Quantrill sprinted for the kitchen, went through the swinging door in a fast duck walk, bobbed up, and then stayed up, leaning against the doorframe. The shouts of alarm were now coming from the dusty street outside. Cursing himself, he reseated the Chiller and pushed back into the dining hall. Then he raised his hands. He was facing a very nervous fellow with a security star and an enormous Buntline Special.