Slowly, my fist contracted, my finger squeezing the trigger. The rifle bucked slightly in my hands. The spotlight smashed out simultaneously with the sharp crack of sound in my ears. Quickly, I worked the bolt, pulling it up and back, the spent cartridge flipping up into the air. I fed another round into the chamber and slammed the bolt shut and locked.
I fired again. The second light exploded. There were shouts at the hacienda, but the front gate and the area around it was in darkness. Once more, I ejected the spent case and reloaded the rifle. Through the open grillwork of the gate, I could see the plate glass window of the living room that looked out onto the still floodlit pool area.
I adjusted the sights for the additional distance and aimed again. I put a bullet through the glass, spider webbing it almost dead center. I heard faint screams coming from the house as I reloaded. I put the fourth bullet through the plate glass window not more than a foot away from the other hole.
There were more shouts from the house. Suddenly, all the lights went out So did the music. Someone had finally gotten to the main switch. I put down the rifle where Fuentes would be able to find it easily, picked up the grapnel rope and ran across the field to the wall that surrounded the house.
Now that I was close, I could hear the shouts and screams coming from inside. I heard Carlos yelling at the guards. One of them fired into the darkness until he emptied his pistol. Carlos shouted furiously at him to stop.
Swiftly, I made my way along the wall. About forty or fifty feet away from the gate, I stopped and took the grapnel from my shoulder. I flung the hook up over the wall, and the tines caught on the first throw, the metal biting firmly into the brickwork of the wall. Hand over hand, I pulled myself up onto the top of the wall. Unhooking the grapnel, I dropped it over the other side and jumped down beside it, landing in a jarring crouch.
As I ran through the shrubbery to the wall of the house away from the pool area, I coiled the rope again. Stopping below the balcony, I flung the grapnel once more and it caught on the railing.
I pulled myself up until my fingers caught the wrought iron of the railing and, in a twisting scramble, I swung myself over the edge. It took only a moment to haul in the rope, and then I was running along the balcony to the room I had left more than an hour before.
As I opened the doors to slip inside, I heard the first rising howl of the police car sirens. Consuela was still unconscious. In the darkness, I shoved the coiled rope far under the double bed. Quickly, I stripped off my clothes, letting them drop to the floor in a pile. Naked, I slid under the topsheet beside Consuela’s nude, warm body.
I heard the insistant, rising and falling howl of the police sirens coming closer, then the shouts from downstairs and from outside. Then there was a pounding on the bedroom door. The knob was rattled angrily.
Someone shoved the key in the lock and twisted it savagely. The door was flung open, slamming against the wall. Ortega stood there, with a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
“Get dressed! There’s no time to lose! The police are here!”
Hastily, I grabbed for my slacks and shirt and slipped into them. I shoved my feet into my loafers, not bothering to put on my socks.
“Wake her up!” snarled Ortega, turning the flashlight on Consuela. She lay as I’d left her, her hair flowing over the pillow, her arm bent over, her head, her face turned sideways.
I grinned at him. “Not a chance. She’s had too much to drink. She passed out on me just when it was getting interesting.”
Carlos swore in frustration. “Then we leave her,” he decided. “Let’s go!” He motioned with his gun.
I went out the door ahead of him. I heard the police sirens again.
“What the hell are the police doing here?” I asked.
“I’d like to know that myself,” Carlos snapped angrily. “But I don’t intend to stay and find out.”
I followed Ortega down the hall to the stairs. He shone his flashlight down the steps. Brian Garrett was at the foot of the staircase, blinking in the beam, looking up with fright written over his florid face. He ran halfway up to meet us, the drunkenness leached out of him by the sudden panic.
“For god’s sake, Carlos!” he shouted. “What the hell do we do now?”
“Get out of my way.” Carlos moved down the steps to get past Garrett Garrett caught him by the arm. “What about the forty kilos of horse?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Goddamn it! It’s my house! They’ll get me for it! Where can I run to?”
Carlos halted in midstep. He turned to Garrett, the light from his flashlight illuminating them eerily.
“You’re right,” said Carlos. “You don’t have any place to run, do you?”
Garrett looked at him with frightened eyes, mutely pleading with him.
“If they catch you, you’ll talk. I don’t think I need that kind of trouble,” said Carlos, brutally. He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger twice. The first shot caught Garrett squarely in the middle of his chest He was opening his mouth in shock when the second bullet smashed his face apart.
Even as Garrett’s body was crumpling slackly against the railing, Carlos was moving down the stairs again. He was almost running now and I was just a step behind him.
“This way!” Carlos shouted over his shoulder at me as we turned at the end of the living room. He made his way down the corridor to the kitchen and out the service door. The big sedan was waiting there, its engine idling, the same driver at the wheel.
Carlos flung open the rear door. “Get in!” he snapped. I threw myself into the car. Carlos ran around to the front seat, slamming the door shut
“Vamanos, Paco!” he shouted. “Pronto! Pronto!”
Paco put the car in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The fat, wide-tread tires dug into the gravel. We were picking up speed as we skidded around the corner, of the house, careening around the curve of the circular drive in front of the entrance. Paco spun the wheel desperately to straighten out for the gate, blowing the horn frantically, swearing as loudly as he could at the idiots to open the gates.
He slammed on the brakes momentarily, slowing up the car until one of the gates opened enough for us to squeeze through, and then he stepped on the gas pedal again. The big car shot through the gate.
The first of the police cars was parked less than twenty yards away, blocking the driveway to the main road. Police were crouched behind the car, firing at the gate as we came through.
Paco didn’t hesitate. With a curse, he twisted the wheel of the car, sending it off the driveway into the rough ground of the field, still jamming the accelerator to the floorboards. In the darkness, without headlights, the heavy sedan hurtled across the field, bucking and lurching like a wild mustang suddenly gone berserk, throwing up a rooster tail of dust and dirt clods behind it.
The bouncing, slewing roll of the sedan flung me helplessly from side to side. I heard a fusillade of shots being fired at us. The rear window disintegrated, showering me with shards of broken glass.
There were more shots, and then the car ceased its pounding as Paco suddenly spun the steering wheel again and brought us back onto the road. We roared away in high gear.
There was no pursuit. Once on the highway, Paco flicked on his headlights and brought the big car up to almost racing speed.