Now Carter fended off a looping right from a fourth attacker, but the one who'd thrown the baton had come up into position and blind-sided him, driving him down, where a 9mm Luger was thrust in his face.
"Hold, Killmaster!" a voice said in a now familiar accent. Carter smiled and extended his hands. As he did, he saw one of the attackers holding a Luger on Margo Huerta. Carter could not tell if she were being held for cosmetic purposes or not. The attacker who held the gun on her nudged her toward a row of parked cars. "It would be amusing to turn the tables on this one and hold an auction for her," he said. "I wonder how many of her liberal friends would bid anything."
"Depends on what they'd be bidding for," another said, and they all laughed.
"Up on your feet, Killmaster," the tallest of the group said, and began nudging Carter toward a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Margo was loaded into a Blazer where a driver already waited, the engine at idle. They pulled out into the late-afternoon traffic first.
Carter was nudged into a Toyota Landcruiser, a vehicle that had seen some extensive use but was obviously in a good state of repair. It accelerated smoothly, was tuned quietly, and did not emit huge billows of fumes.
As they angled away from Bucareli toward Reforma, Carter saw that no attempt was made to keep the Blazer in sight. Perhaps they were even being taken to separate destinations. Only when they turned onto Avenida Insurgentes Sur and Carter caught a Meeting glimpse of the Blazer did he realize that both vehicles were going to the same place.
"I don't suppose you're giving any hints about where we're going," Carter said.
His captors did not respond.
"I suspect," Carter said, trying to get a rise out of them, "that if we're away long enough for dinner, we're bound to see some lamb flavored with cumin."
One of them started to speak, but his seatmate nudged him to silence.
Carter asked for a cigarette, giving his Arabic a particularly Palestinian spin. Without thinking, the one who had started to answer him moments before reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a crumpled blue pack of Gitanes. Carter laughed aloud, and once again the sterner of Carter's captors scowled.
"You have all the small victories you want, Killmaster," he said. "We have you. The big victory is ours."
The Toyota lost contact with the Blazer until the merge point where Highway 57 turned into the deluxe toll road, 57D, moving north from Mexico City. The Blazer passed the Toyota and remained about six car lengths in front.
The terrain gradually grew more mountainous and rugged, but the highway was splendid, a series of well-crafted grades, turnouts, and gently elevating straightaways. The only thing that spoke of any difficulties were the road signs, often appearing to give conflicting information.
Highway 57D entered the State of Mexico, left it, and entered it again for a time. The city limits of the capital, also called the Federal District, were alternately straight ahead, to the left, and directly behind them. Carter had no clue as to where they were going. The major destinations within reasonable driving time were the village of San Juan del Rio and, about an hour's fast drive beyond that, the increasingly trendy arts and retirement center of San Miguel de Allende. Even though the drive was smooth, the surgical work on Carter's shoulder began to throb, and the Killmaster decided the best thing to do was settle into a light doze in preparation for what lay ahead.
Carter felt himself move forward into full alert just at the exit to San Juan del Rio, where the Blazer took a turnoff after failing to heed honked warnings from the Toyota. The driver of the Toyota and the surliest of Carter's captors were visibly and verbally irritated with the Blazer, and attempts at signaling with hands, handkerchiefs, and neck scarves began.
After continued honking and waving of scarves, the Blazer stopped and the captors pulled out a road map and began consulting it.
"I see you have trouble with the Mexican road system," Carter said.
The captor sitting next to him cuffed him. "Laugh all you wish, Mr. Professional. We hold you prisoner. We do not intimidate through your cheap humor."
"Ah, but it isn't my humor," the Killmaster said, "it happens to be your humor. At least, it's humor at your expense. It is my professional attitude and it helps keep me alive. One thing you might remember. Until I'm dead, I'm a professional. If I go, I'll take a lot of you with me."
There was no rancor in Carter's voice or eyes. He was so matter-of-fact that his message found his mark. His captor offered him a cigarette.
Just north of the city the Toyota drew abreast of the Blazer and the two cars pulled over to the side of a narrow, two-lane road, a maneuver that proved to be imprudent when a large pickup, its bed loaded with chicken cages, careened around a dirt road, began honking at the two parked vehicles, and slammed on its brakes, but not before delivering a sharp crease to the left rear of the Blazer, miraculously avoiding smashing its taillights. A short, feisty man with a Pancho Villa mustache and a faded pair of mechanic's overalls bounded out of the cab, complaining vigorously, actually pounding the back of the Blazer.
Carter was handcuffed to the metal tubing under his seat as all but the driver of the Toyota got out to deal with the driver of the pickup. A number of children from a nearby yard appeared, watching with open-mouthed wonder. Carter was not amused to note that Margo Huerta was nowhere to be seen in the Blazer.
The driver of the Toyota had a 9mm Luger trained on Carter.
"You'd better not let the federates see you waving that," Carter said conversationally. "They don't take kindly to guns being waved in their country unless they're doing the waving. And you can be sure they'll be along if someone doesn't deal properly with the driver of that pickup. They or the Green Angels. You can be sure of it."
The driver coaxed a cigarette out of a package and thumbed a wooden match. "You'd better not try anything, Carter."
"You're doing well enough without me," the Killmaster said, noting with unconcealed amusement that another vehicle, a white-and-green-striped repair truck with wide-track heavy-treaded wheels pulled up to join the congregation.
"Speak of the devil," Carter said. "I do believe the Green Angels have come to someone's rescue."
Carter noted that his captors were completely intimidated by the appearance of the Green Angel truck and by the two men riding in it, one of whom, a tall, robust man with an L.A. Dodgers baseball cap, emerged and advanced on the group.
The Green Angels are the Mexican equivalent of an auto club, an emergency road repair service, but even more, they are occasional arbitrators in disputes between motorists and local garages, rescuers of tourists who were stranded or thought they were.
Large quantities of Mexican money appeared to be changing hands as the Green Angels and Carter's captors gesticulated and the owner of the pickup truck began yowling in a plaintive voice.
The Green Angel in the baseball cap approached the truck-driver with the money he'd extracted from the captors.
The truck driver looked at the money, turned from it with disdain, strode purposefully over to the Toyota, and kicked the side panel.
"Be honest, now," Carter told his driver. "Do your companions understand Spanish very well? You appear to be in a problem that can only worsen."
"Two of them speak it well enough."