‘Things have gone beyond that. Now, are you going to help me?’ Santos glared at the mayor, who shrank back. ‘Then get out of my way.’
The police chief ran across the square, rifle in hand. One of the side streets was only short, continuing as a track out of town towards the graveyard. The last building on the street was derelict. He positioned himself behind a crumbling wall to get a view of the entire hillside. There was little cover beyond the occasional tree or boulder; his target would have nowhere to hide.
And the moment he was seen… he was a dead man. Santos was an accomplished shot. The Remington’s magazine held only three bullets, but one would be enough.
He raised the scope to his eye, checking each potential cover spot in turn. No trace of anyone. Dust prickled the back of his neck. Irritated, he wiped it, then resumed his search. The Englishman was out there somewhere…
A loud, echoing clang from behind. The church bell. It chimed again. He frowned. The priest was an old man, easily cowed; if this was some sort of attempt to warn away the visitor, then he would have to pay him a visit and remind him that God did not call the shots in Lago Amargo.
Clang. Clang. The bell continued its tuneless toll. Santos swept his scope over the hillside once more, then raised his head from the rifle for a wider view. Still no sign of Chase, but he caught movement at the edge of his vision. He glanced over his shoulder.
Some of the townsfolk were advancing towards him, twenty or more, Silva and his daughter leading them. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Get back! This is police business. Go back to your homes or you’ll answer to me.’
The civilians stopped. He looked back at the hill, the dust clearing enough to reveal the road winding up to the graveyard.
Nobody was on it — or the surrounding open ground. Suddenly uneasy, he darted the sight from tree to rock to tree. Still no one. But Miranda had told him the Englishman was coming. Where was he?
He looked around again to find the young cop — and froze.
The bell clanged one last time. The townspeople, Miranda amongst them, parted from the centre of the street, clearing a path for a ghostly figure striding out from a dense wall of dust.
Eddie Chase.
Santos started to bring up the rifle, only to freeze again as the Englishman swept open his leather jacket to reveal that he was armed. The gun was in his waistband, but his cold expression warned the police chief that the slightest move would see it drawn without hesitation… and fired.
‘Miranda!’ Santos called. ‘Stop him! You have your gun — shoot him!’
Miranda stared at him, conflicted… then silently retreated out of sight. Dismayed, Santos turned to Silva for help. ‘Pablo! Do something! You’re in this with me — if I go down, so do you!’
The mayor breathed deeply before replying. ‘It… perhaps it’s time this ended, Eduardo. It has gone too far.’
Rage overtook fear. ‘You fucking coward!’ snarled Santos. ‘All of you! You’re cowards! This is my town — without me, you’d have nothing! I protected you!’
‘Protected?’ cried Julieta as the Englishman passed her, his stride relentless. ‘All you’ve ever done is threaten us!’
Santos shook with anger. ‘You bastards! I’ll remember who refused to stand with me, you—’
Eddie stopped about thirty feet from the cop. ‘Oi! Arsehole! It’s not them you want to worry about.’
Santos switched to English. ‘You should not have come back. You should have run away, as fast as you could.’
‘Well, people keep telling me I’m not that bright.’ He took in the cop’s rifle. ‘That a Remington? Decent gun. You should be able to take me down with one shot.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re fast enough.’
Santos hesitated, then turned to face him, keeping the rifle low. ‘What, you think this is a shoot-out? That this is the Wild West and you are a cowboy, like John Wayne?’
Eddie remained still, his dusty jacket flapping stiffly in the wind. ‘Was always more of a Clint Eastwood fan. But it’s up to you. You can either give yourself up so the feds can deal with you, or… draw.’ He moved his right hand fractionally closer to his gun.
Santos caught the movement, his eyes darting between the weapon and Eddie’s face. The Englishman’s expression remained unreadable. The cop licked his lips… then almost imperceptibly began to bring his rifle towards the other man.
Only Eddie’s eyes moved in response, momentarily regarding the Remington before fixing back upon the police chief. Now sweating despite the cold breeze, Santos again ran his tongue around his bone-dry mouth. If he was fast enough, he could get off one shot before his opponent reacted. It might not be a killing wound, but it wouldn’t have to be — if it stopped him from firing, then a second round would finish him…
The rifle’s barrel rose, millimetre by millimetre. Eddie remained statue still. Santos struggled to control his breathing, feeling every beat of his pounding heart. Just a little more, and no matter how fast the Englishman drew his gun, it wouldn’t be enough for him to get off the first shot. He could do it.
He could do it.
He could—
Santos burst into motion. The Remington whipped upwards, the barrel swinging towards Eddie’s chest—
Eddie was faster.
Santos was thrown back against the wall as a bullet ripped through his right shoulder, shattering bone. The rifle flew from his numbed hand and clattered to the ground. He gasped for breath as fire burned across his chest.
The Englishman closed on him, a near-silhouette against the dusty haze. He kicked the Remington away, then loomed over the fallen man, bringing up his gun. Santos felt a terror like nothing he had ever experienced before, not even when fighting in the Malvinas. ‘No, no!’ he gasped, feebly raising his uninjured arm in a pathetic attempt to ward off the shadowy figure. ‘Please, don’t kill me!’ His bladder let go, hot urine soaking his clothing.
The gun remained fixed on his face… then Eddie turned away. ‘You people need a new sheriff,’ he told the townsfolk laconically as he walked back down the street, fading into the drifting dust.
Miranda ran to Santos, his own gun raised. ‘Eduardo Santos,’ he said, almost unable to believe that he was making the challenge, ‘you are under arrest for attempted murder…’
23
Eddie looked up at a knock on the door of Silva’s office. Miranda entered, speaking to the mayor before addressing the Englishman. ‘Santos and Vargas are both in the jail. El Jefe’s shoulder has been bandaged.’
‘What’re you going to do with them?’ Eddie asked.
‘I will have to tell the federal police what has happened here. All of it,’ he added, with a mournful look at Silva.
The mayor dropped into a chair with a heavy sigh. ‘I was afraid this day would come.’
‘What, the day your town’s little secret got out?’ Eddie replied, scathing. ‘That you were hiding a bunch of Nazi war criminals?’
‘It has never gone this far before, never!’ Silva protested. ‘The cops were only supposed to scare people away. They never tried to kill anyone.’
‘But you didn’t try too hard to talk Santos out of it after you spoke to Kroll, did you?’
‘You do not understand,’ he said, hands jittering in agitation. ‘El Jefe is not a man you argue with. Even though I am the mayor, he… he has all the power.’
‘Had all the power,’ Eddie corrected. ‘You’re in charge now. So do the right thing.’
Silva put his head in his hands. ‘The men in the Enklave, the Germans… without them, there would not be a town. You have seen the dry lake, the farms — Lago Amargo is dying! It would be dead without their payments.’