Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (19 page)

He swiveled his head just as
Neal dipped his hand under his coat. Two young men on motorbikes thundered down
the narrow alley.

They were at an intersection, a
convergence of myriad side streets in this completely pedestrian zone.

'Split!' Neal cried, dashing
off to his left.

Joe cut a hard right and fled
down the slender avenue, boot heels crushing cobblestone. His right shoulder
was a blistering tear, the slug wounds from Costa
Negra
biting as his feet pounded rocky ground.

The roar of the engine grew
louder. He took another sharp turn. The hungry growl of the motorbike slid
after him.

Joe hit his first left, his
chest pulling for air. Up ahead was a gate to a private patio, swung open to
the street. He took a chance and lunged through the naked portal, pulling
wrought iron to him as he went. The gate clinked shut. He slipped the metal
guard into place and pressed his back against the courtyard wall. On the other
side, he heard the angry acceleration escalate in his direction. The engine let
out a roar as it shot through the narrow space. And then it was gone, taking
with it the soft, low moan of retreating wind.

Joe waited five minutes,
then
made his cautious return to the spot of their parting.
It was an old operator’s rule.
Back to the scene of the
crime.

It was a telling relief to see
Neal stepping from the door of the modest two-star hotel. Joe had realized in
Jerez that no one man could take this show alone. Now, if he only could get
Neal to believe it.

Neal carried a copy of a
Spanish newspaper under his arm and walked casually up to where Joe stood
beside an empty outdoor table. 'Give me the address,' he said out of the corner
of his mouth, barely pausing as he paused to shake out his paper, obliquely
scanning Section A.

Joe didn’t look at him when he
spoke. 'Better to get out of the Barrio.'

Neal gently rattled his paper
and began folding it meticulously in thirds.
'Not on your
life.
That’s just what they’d expect.'

Finally, they arrived at the
small pension. Joe motioned Neal over and rang the bell of the stucco rooming house,
Calle
Moreno '6' stenciled in black above the gated
door. Joe had found the listing in Denton's address book and knew from the
information penned there the
duena
was named
Consuelo. This tidbit proved to be their entree.

Consuelo at first eschewed the
Americans, telling them it was Feria and
por
su
puesto
her rooming house was
full. But when Joe told her Denton had sent them with assurance they'd find a
hospitable welcome, she’d relented. The only thing she had left, she told him,
was a small washroom on the roof. It was not heated, but the night air in
Seville was already warm. They would find two folding cots pushed into the
corner behind the basin. She would bring their linens later.

She led them up the narrow
curve of the stairs to the roof. It would have been a tighter squeeze had they
not lost their luggage to the cabby in Jerez. From the flat rooftop, the two
men could see the prominent landmarks of the city sparkling in the mid-day sun.

Joe noticed La
Giralda
, the old Moorish tower, and its adjoining Baroque
cathedral were not far away. Glistening on the east bank of the River sat the
thirteenth century 'Tower of Gold.' He had seen these things in pictures and
postcards, but it was entirely different seeing them in person from this
stunning bird’s eye view.

Across the glassy sheet of
water that divided the two
Sevilles
, old and new, lay
a modern mix of business and apartment buildings. And just beyond the last
flat-topped roof sprawled the barren soil of the fair grounds.

Neal walked to the edge of the
roof to get a better look at the distant men setting up colorful tents for the
evening festivities. He’d said very little since Joe had told him about
Cromwell.

'
Casetas
,'
Joe explained, breaking the silence. 'Each group of power players sets up
its own. It's a privilege to get invited, or so I hear.'

They watched as
the small Ferris wheel was engulfed by blooming canvas houses
.

Neal spoke without turning his
head. 'How tough do you think it'd be to infiltrate a tent run by the LPP?'

'LPP?' Joe laughed. 'Hell, I'd
be willing to bet those bastards are giving their tickets away!'

By 10:00 p.m., the fairgrounds
were alive with the whir of amusement rides and the quick, staccato
strummings
of Spanish guitars. The Americans paved a path
through the Iberian masses dressed in traditional flamenco dresses and shiny
leather vests with matching matador britches. Cromwell had been right, Mark
thought, looking down at his gabardine trousers. He and blue jean-clad Joe
stuck out like sore thumbs, particularly on a night like this when the natives
were in their element. But he and McFadden were already here with a mission to
accomplish and time was running out.

Every day Ana was captive was
another day that brought her closer to death. Sooner or later her captors would
lose patience. It had already been seven days.
One terrifying
week.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours she would not soon forget or
forgive her father for putting her through. How Kane could have let it come to
this Mark didn't know. He must not have fathomed the consequence; reasoned his
family would be safe once he dropped out of sight. Only one of the Old Guard
would place that kind of faith in the system.

Directly ahead of them was the
LPP separatist tent, Libertad Para la Patria in swollen red letters on the
banner crowning the door.

'I'll go ask around,' McFadden
said. 'You spot me from here.'

He ambled over to the tent and
struck up a conversation with two men in fatigues.

Mark scanned the crowd then
took his place in a concession line. The carnival-like atmosphere reminded him
of the small-town county fairs back home. But the sound of Ferris wheel music
competing with bellowing gypsy madrigals was a sweet cacophony unique to
southern Spain.

Mark was checking his pocket
for change, when he noticed the mime, less than twenty feet away, holding a
sharp bouquet of custom-handled knives.

Glowering eyes set in white
pancake make-up turned toward him. There was barely time to register movement
before the catapulting crescent sliced toward him. The second blade fired
rapidly after the first, then the next buzz of steel, and the next.

Mark dove to the ground as the
shrieking crowd scattered in all directions. He looked up to see his assailant
disappearing through the flap of a bright orange tent. In a flash, Mark was up
and after him, drawing his Browning as he went.

The clown barreled through the
tent, deftly avoiding heel- tapping dancers. Mark followed his serpent’s weave
through the assorted tables and groups of revelers, careful to keep his pistol
pointed at the sky. The clown tore through the back of the tent and raced into
another. Mark kept up the hot pursuit, noting his attacker was losing wind. In
the third tent, Mark lost sight of him until a gentle burst of wind whipped
open the rear flap.

Mark slowed his gait,
cautiously approaching the back of the billowing room.

He could feel the mounting
tension.

He stepped into the night air
to find the gasping mime leaning into a wall of reserve casks. The clown stood
to face off with
Mark,
his painted smile an eerie
contradiction. Chalky hands floated heavenward, his ballooning lips parting in
concession. Then swiftly, he lowered his hand to his hip.

The yelp of pistol fire sounded
at Mark’s back.

He dropped to the earth and
remained motionless as the painted man before him clutched his middle and
curled into a ball.

Once the footsteps behind him
retreated, Mark hurried back to the concession area. McFadden was nowhere.

Mark instinctively slipped out
of the crowd and glided into the shadows of a large tree bordering the LPP
tent. He could hear the slur of angry voices and the sound of someone taking a
couple of uncomfortable slugs to the gut. He edged along the wavering canvas
wall until he found a small opening.

A burly man had McFadden pinned
like a butterfly to his chest. A second man was pounding his stomach with a
tarnished pair of brass knuckles.

A gypsy girl in the corner was
beseeching the Spaniards on the gringo's behalf, until they finally let the
doubled-over American fall to the ground and retreated to open another bottle.

Mark kept his eye on the girl.
He had a feeling. A feeling that was verified when the thugs lit cigars and
began clapping to the tune of a Spanish flamenco being played near the front of
the tent. Both men had ceased paying attention to the American who had rolled
over and was rising slowly to his feet.

But the young woman with hair
hanging in black strings around her pointy face had not. She stole over to him,
cat-like, barely parting the air with her muted steps. McFadden gave her a wary
look, but she reassured him with a gesture and tugged at his sleeve for him to
follow. And follow he did, to a place on the far side of the tent beyond view.

Mark kept an impatient vigil
outside the LPP tent until 5:30 a.m. when it appeared the last of the revelers
had departed the fairgrounds. The silhouetted movement inside the separatist
tent had ceased more than twenty minutes earlier and there was still no sign of
McFadden. Mark decided to risk it. He strode boldly from his post under the
tree, walked over to the tent and in through its front door. He found its
interior deserted, save a host of small wooden tables with companion stools and
a large bin of empty sherry bottles emblazoned Jerez.

Carnova
drew closer and spat the cigar from his lips. 'I’m telling you, Ana Kane, your
days as an orphan are numbered.'

Ana sat strapped to the chair.
It had become a daily routine punctuated by the sound of pounding surf
outdoors. 'I am not an orphan, you pig.'

'Ah yes,' he said, an evil
glint in his eye as he toyed with his pistol. 'Your mother, you mean. Poor,
deluded little girl.'

'My mother is not dead.' She
strained against the rope that bound her wrists behind her,
then
grimaced in defeat.

Carnova
grinned with putrid amusement. 'Hah! You think you are so smart, just like your
father.'

Ana returned his gaze with
burning hatred.

'But even your father realized
the merit of staying alive.'



'You
speak in riddles,
Carnova
, and riddles are a child’s
game. If you were half a man...'

'If I were half a man – '
He shoved his pistol under his belt and violently grabbed her by the shoulders.
He lowered his humorless face to hers and puckered his lips.

Ana recoiled.

'Well, well,' he said, shaking
her hard in his crushing grip. 'What is it,
princesa
?
Not clean enough for you?'

'Not clean enough for a dog,'
she grated between clenched teeth.

'Bitch!' he shouted, slapping a
hand across her cheek.

Carnova
reclaimed his pistol and positioned its cold steel barrel against her forehead.
'You, Miss Kane, are a very impolite guest. I try giving you some good news and
you insult me.'

Ana steadied herself and shut
her eyes. 'The only good news you could give,' she muttered softly, 'is that
you’re letting me go.'

Carnova
howled into the air and pressed the pistol harder. 'Do you communicate with
spirits, Miss Kane?'

Ana opened her eyes and
narrowed them into slits. 'Spirits?' she asked, setting her jaw.

'Afterlife, Ana,' he said,
sawing a playful finger back and forth across the trigger
.

She
felt the tears coming in spite of herself and damned herself for her inability
to answer.
He pulled the pistol back at last with an evil grin. 'Maybe
it’s a topic you should discuss with your father.'

The girl led Joe down a back
alley and up a rusty fire escape to a run-down one-room apartment. He knew why
she had taken him there. She was hungry. It was in her eyes. She had helped him
slip out of the tent unnoticed and now she wanted a little something in return.
Joe wanted something, too, and he was betting she had it.

He extracted
his wallet
,
hoping money would be enough
. But
she laid his wallet on the table by the bed and wrapped her hands around his
back. She hesitated a moment when her probing fingers met the rise of the
sweaty bandage still strapped to his shoulder, then came round to the front of
his shirt where she gingerly undid his buttons, starting with the one just
below his collar.

She was very much of the
street.
Half feline, really.
In the old days, it
wouldn't have mattered much. It would have been part of the job and he would
have gotten it done. But now he was having trouble. It seemed cheap, selling
himself for information.

But Ana was worth anything, he
reminded himself, as he unzipped his fly and let his jeans drop to his knees.

Even this.

The girl drew her hands around
the backs of his thighs and nuzzled her face against the bulge in his briefs,
tugging a little at the waistband with her teeth.

Joe took her by the shoulders,
and pushed her back a ways. 'First, we talk,' he told her in Spanish.

'I’ll talk to you,' she purred,
peeling down his briefs and taking his cock into her mouth. She cupped his
balls in a gnarly hand, tugging a little.