Eddie bent low and kept running, squinting as more gritty dust blew up the hillside. He swerved around a statue, intending to use it as a shield, but instead had to make a running jump as he almost fell into an open hole behind it, mud and a rusty shovel at the bottom of the half-dug old grave. He swore as he regained his balance on the other side, then hurried on. The next decent cover was a gnarled tree. He ran for it—
Dried bark exploded just behind the Englishman as he reached safety. The pursuing cop fired again, but struck nothing.
Vargas was not a skilled shooter, then; the chances of hitting a small target with a handgun while running were minuscule, but he had still taken the shot, driven by anger and testosterone. He had a second magazine on his belt, though, so playing cat and mouse until he ran out of ammo wasn’t an option. Eddie knew that his only hope of survival was to take the Argentinian down — but how?
He turned into the gritty wind. Lower down the slope, a small, blocky mausoleum stood about thirty yards distant. A plan came to him. Risky, and it depended on Vargas acting on instinct rather than logic, but it was all he had…
Eddie broke cover and ran. Grave markers blurred past. A shot, then another, lead striking stone behind him. Fifteen yards, ten — but the whipcrack of a third shot snapped past barely a foot in his wake. Vargas had got smart and stopped, gun in both hands for greater accuracy. Five yards, but Eddie knew that the next round would be on target—
He threw himself into a dive, thumping down in the dirt just short of the structure. A bullet seared above him. Vargas adjusted his aim and fired again — but hit only soil as Eddie scrambled behind the mausoleum.
Panting, the Englishman jumped up and grabbed a foot-long hunk of stone that had broken from the wall. The cop would take at most twenty seconds to reach the little tomb. Would he go around its right side, or the left? Vargas was right-handed, so coming from that side, rounding the obstacle anticlockwise, would give him the most advantageous positioning; he could lead with his gun as he circled. But doing so would also mean he was facing into the dusty wind at the first corner…
Eddie couldn’t cover both sides of the tomb simultaneously. He had to make a choice, now. He heard the cop approaching, the gear on his belt rattling. Which way would he go?
The Englishman went to the left side, gambling that the enraged Vargas would follow his natural instincts and protect his vision.
Pressing his back against the weathered wall, he held the stone like a baseball bat, ready to swing. The footsteps slowed, the Argentinian uncertain which side to take…
Left.
Eddie waited, arms tensed. Boots crunched on gravel. The gun’s muzzle came into view, Vargas leaning forward to see what was around the corner—
The chunk of stone smashed against his head.
Vargas staggered backwards. The gun went off — but the bullet hit the tomb, ricocheting away. Eddie threw the stone at the other man’s chest. The Argentinian fell on his back.
Eddie was about to dive for the weapon, but instantly changed his plan when he saw it was pointing almost at him — and Vargas still had his finger on the trigger. Instead he darted for the nearest row of gravestones. These were as old as the mausoleum, moss-scabbed stone teeth giving him a degree of protection.
But not much. Vargas shrieked breathless abuse as he ran, firing a couple of wild shots from the ground.
The old tree was just ahead. Eddie swerved to put it between his back and Vargas’s gun as he raced towards the car. It would keep him out of the cop’s sight for a few seconds, but could he turn that to his advantage?
Yes.
Another change of course as he angled to retrace his own steps — and jumped down into the open grave.
The hole was four feet at its deepest, the edges crumbling. Eddie backed against the grave’s end, holding his breath as he listened for Vargas. Angry gasping reached him as the cop lumbered up the hill… then slowed as he found he had lost sight of his target.
Eddie tensed. He knew he could never have reached the car before Vargas spotted him — but did Vargas realise that? If the cop thought the Englishman had gone for the vehicle, then he had a chance. If not…
Vargas set off again, the jangle of his equipment growing louder. How close was he? Eddie couldn’t judge — and didn’t dare raise his head to look. All he knew was that each step was bringing his adversary nearer, nearer…
And past.
The noise receded. Eddie cautiously peered out. Vargas had passed about twenty feet away, a large neighbouring gravestone blocking the hole from his view. His back was now to the Yorkshireman as he advanced on the car — but it wouldn’t be long before he realised his prey was not there.
Eddie picked up the rusty spade and climbed out, moving up behind Vargas. The Argentinian stopped, head cocked, listening. Eddie slipped closer.
The cop turned—
The shovel’s rusted head came down on his hand like an axe, the dull clang of metal accompanied by a snap of bone. Vargas screamed, the gun falling from his broken fingers. Eddie swung the spade again — and blood and broken teeth sprayed from the Argentinian’s mouth as the flat of the blade hit him in the face.
He dropped the shovel and forced the cop into a headlock, then dragged him to the open grave and threw him in. ‘You’re fucking lucky I’m not burying you in there,’ he said, kicking loose dirt on to him. Vargas curled up in fear. The Englishman retrieved the gun, then returned to the police car.
Miranda was slumped against it. He looked up as Eddie approached. ‘Where — where is Vargas?’
‘In a grave. Don’t worry, he’s not dead,’ Eddie added as he saw the shock on the young man’s face. ‘He just wishes he was. He won’t be causing any trouble for a while, though.’ He looked at the settlement below, then his gaze snapped back to Miranda. ‘Question is… what about you?’
The wind had picked up by the time Santos returned to town, dust from the dry lake billowing across the streets. Squinting even behind his mirrored sunglasses, he was about to head into the police station when the frantic bleat of a car horn reached him. He peered into the haze. It was the car in which Vargas and Miranda had taken the Englishman to the graveyard — but now only one man was inside.
The vehicle skidded to a halt. ‘What is it?’ Santos demanded as the frightened Miranda jumped out. ‘Where is Vargas?’
‘The — the Englishman,’ Miranda stammered. ‘He got loose and beat the crap out of Vargas! He was gonna do the same to me, but I got away. But he’s coming, he’s coming for you! He’s got a gun — he said he’s going to kill you!’
‘Like hell,’ Santos growled. He stared towards the hills, but the dust obscured all detail. ‘Did you come straight from the graveyard?’ Miranda nodded. ‘Then he can’t have got far. We can stop him before he even reaches the edge of town.’
Miranda’s arrival had drawn attention, people coming out of nearby buildings. Silva emerged from the hotel and jogged to the two cops. ‘What’s going on?’ he called, worried.
‘That English asshole’s still causing trouble,’ Santos replied, before hurrying into the station. He returned carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight.
Silva’s eyes widened. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking care of a problem.’ Santos slapped a magazine into the Remington’s receiver and drew back the bolt.
‘But what if someone comes looking for him? What if they tell the federal police or the gendarmerie that he was here?’
‘You’ve done well out of our town’s little secret,’ the police chief growled. ‘Now it’s time for you to help keep it.’
Silva glanced around nervously. More people — including his daughter — were watching. ‘You can’t just kill him!’ he said in a strained whisper. ‘You said you were only going to kick them out of town!’