Blaine tossed his M-16 away and eased his hands into the air. A dozen gunmen charged him and forced him against the asphalt, pinning his arms and legs. Cuffs were slapped on his wrists and, after a brief pause, irons strapped tight around his ankles. He managed to keep his eyes righted long enough to see a half-dozen of the female commandos, some wounded, being led off as prisoners. He noticed that the wounded Sal Belamo was nowhere to be seen before a heavy boot squashed against his skull and forced his eyes down. His view of what was happening to the rest of his team was cut off. All he could see were a pair of small feet encased in boots shuffling slowly forward. Flanking them were two pairs of far larger boots worn outside identical pairs of precisely creased khaki trousers.
“Let him up,” the voice he recognized from the loudspeaker said.
He was yanked to his feet, and the first thing he saw were the empty expressions on the twins that had barely missed killing him at the hotel in Izmir. Between them stood a much smaller, older man who faced Blaine from ten feet away.
“Shalom, Mr. McCracken,” said Arnold Rothstein.
Chapter 34
Johnny Wareagle watched the end of the battle from the same hill that Blaine McCracken and Sal Belamo had made their final plans on. The sight turned his stomach. His breathing stopped altogether when a figure he knew was Blaine’s emerged into the killing range of two dozen guns. He took a shallow breath when McCracken dropped his gun and surrendered.
The fact that McCracken was still alive was reason for hope. The Old One had told him that they would be finishing this battle together, and had hinted that they would win. Besides, now that Blue Thunder had gotten him here, the rest seemed simple by comparison. Toothless Jim Jackson’s toolbox had turned out to contain just enough magic to do the job. It took three additional stops along the route north, but somehow he kept the bus sputtering on its way, top speed reduced successively and the grinding of the engine reaching an ear-splitting pitch.
“Looks to me like we be in a heap of trouble,” Tyrell Loon said from Wareagle’s side on the top of the hill. Blue Thunder was parked not far from the bottom, its occupants waiting outside it in nervous expectation. “We goin’ in against that?”
It took a while before Johnny responded. “Not we, Sheriff.”
“We got us a job to do, ’case you’re forgettin’.”
“Not anymore.”
“What chance you figure you got alone?”
Johnny didn’t say a word.
“Well, whatever it is, it be a hell of a lot better with us along. You can’t argue with that.”
Wareagle nodded reluctantly. “We’ll need more firepower than what we have with us.”
“Find it in town, you think?”
Maybe, Johnny reflected, in the unlikely event that the stores in downtown Hanover contained the kinds of supplies he required to add substantially to their firepower.
“You forgettin’ we’re still blessed,” Sheriff Loon reminded when Johnny remained silent. “Old One ain’t here, but she blessed me ’fore I left. Made me a kind of luck charm for ya. I got to stay around, got to stay close for her magic to work, she say. We go into town, we find what we need. You can rest assured of that.”
“Then we must go,” Johnny said. He had moved past the sheriff when something on the ground grabbed his attention again.
“What’s wrong?” Loon asked him.
Johnny seemed not to hear him. His eyes traced a path up the last bit of the hill to the position they had been occupying until seconds ago.
“Someone else was up here,” Wareagle said finally.
“Your friend, probably.”
“Besides him, I mean. Here between Blainey and us. Left in another direction just before we arrived. Left in the midst of the battle after he had seen what he needed to.”
“Who?”
Wareagle’s response was to brush past Sheriff Loon and pick up his pace down the hill.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Rothstein said after McCracken had been hoisted to his feet. His leg irons clanged together.
“I’m not. Not totally, anyway.”
Rothstein nodded knowingly. “Ah, my ill-fated attack on the kibbutz, no doubt.”
“Seemed a difficult trick, slipping forty men and eight armed vehicles by the IDF lines. Takes a man who knows the territory — and the weaknesses of its security. You were trying to kill your sister.”
Rothstein didn’t bother denying it. “Besides you and that troublesome Indian friend of yours, she’s the only one left who can hurt me.” He eyed the Twins. “Bring him,” he ordered.
The Twins moved to either side of McCracken and beckoned him forward with their eyes, while a hefty complement of guards kept a safe distance. Blaine walked toward the entrance to the base headquarters between the Twins. The deterrent they presented would have been enough, even if his hands hadn’t been cuffed.
“Ah, Tovah,” Arnold Rothstein said softly, from just behind Blaine now. “So brave and persistent, and yet such an annoyance to my work. I should have killed her years ago, of course, but what kind of man would that make me?”
“Not much worse than the kind of man you are now.”
“You have hard feelings because you have been defeated. But you were up against powers you couldn’t possibly comprehend. You never had a chance.”
McCracken’s mind flashed back to what he had seen in the secret chamber and had learned later from Tovah. “You killed the other three members of the original Tau in the cavern. You stopped them from destroying the White Death.”
“Because even then I saw how much it would be needed another time. Now.”
“What exactly are you planning to do?”
“Join me inside, Mr. McCracken, and I’ll share the future with you.”
“Might be a whole lot better, if you went ahead and told me what was troublin’ you.”
Melissa looked at the old, leathery-faced man who had slid into her booth without invitation. She mustered up a slight smile for him, more ironic than anything else.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“You’d be surprised.” Pop slid a little closer. “You know, we don’t get too many talk like that in these parts. You a Brit?”
“Yes.”
“Then just what is it that brings you here?”
Before Melissa could respond, the door to the bar creaked open, and Pop swung around to see an Indian whose head barely cleared the doorway when he entered. He might have been a giant of a man, but he walked like a jungle cat.
“Is that your truck outside?” the Indian asked him.
Pop gave him a Who, me? look and then shrugged. “You hit it or something?”
“Something,” the Indian said.
“Huh?” from Pop, as confused as he was relieved.
“I need your help.”
Pop slid out of the booth and gazed up into the big Indian’s eyes. He’d only seen that look once before, but he remembered it well.
“You’re shittin’ me, right? This is some kind of joke.”
“No joke,” the Indian told him.
“Not again,” Pop followed. He almost laughed because it was the only thing he could think to do. “Not fucking again….”
Then he realized that the nervous woman had stood up and was staring hard at the big Indian as well.