Havana

Someone had beshat himself, but Earl didn't know or particularly care which one.

He crouched beside them.

'When I rise up and fire, y'all break into the jungle. But don't lose sight of the road. Don't get lost back there and drown in the swamp or something. I think they're all on the other side of the road. I will hold them here long as I have ammo.'

'I can't do it,' said Lane Brodgins.

'Yes you can, Mr. Brodgins. You are younger and stronger than Boss Harry and he needs you like he never needed you before. Ain't that right, sir?'

'Actually, no, Earl. In fact, you're completely wrong. I really don't care if Lane comes or goes. I just don't want him holding me back. Plus, he smells. His pants are full of shit. That's how I see it and I always call it the way I see it.'

'Well, in cases like this, teamwork is the best thing.'

'Teaming up with Lane ain't going to do me no good whatsoever. Earl, you hold them here. I will run as you say. As for Lane, I have no idea. Lane, you're fired. You're on your own now.'

'Goddamn you, Harry Etheridge. If I get out of here, I will tell all that I know about your filthy doings and it will?'

'Boys, boys, shut up, I can't think. I am low on ammo, and they're creeping around out there, possibly changing positions. I have killed two but there are at least two more and possibly a goddamned third I don't yet know about.'

'Well, can you kill them all, Earl?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Well, what goddamned good are you then, boy? You were hired to do a job and now's a fine time to see you ain't up to it.'

'Sir, there's a goddamned bunch of them. Just shut up, old man. I will try and get your precious Arkansas ass out of here.'

'Did you hear how he talked to me, Lane? The nerve.'

'You fired me, Harry, so I don't give no two shits. Earl, shoot him. They came for him. If he's dead, they'll let us go.'

'Lane, you are showing me no loyalty at all, and I want you to know that I have noticed it.'

The two gunners opened up again, obviously having changed drums. Their fire ripped into the car, raising hell's own worst racket, and the vehicle shuddered as it took so many more hits.

And then-poof! — something somehow lit, and a sudden feathery fountain of flame leaped upward, accompanied by a smeary fog of smoke, black and thick.

' Go, go!' screamed Earl, rising not behind front fender or rear tail fin as before, but more or less in the center of the car, where he had not been, to shoot through the shattered windows. He pumped his nine rounds out fast, and saw a man with a heavy gun sit back and set his gun down. But immediately more bullets came speeding after Earl, and they kicked slivers of metal and glass into his face. He sat back, wincing, and saw that the two old friends had skedaddled, though in which direction he did not know.

He dumped his mag, slammed in his last one-only nine left! — and drew back, to cover the retreat of his charges.

The sergeant was very close now. He had seen the two fat ones depart, and thought to shoot at them. But they were not a problem. The problem was this hero here. If he wasn't killed and killed soon, the whole thing went down in defeat.

But still he wasn't quite close enough. He wanted to be close enough to make sure. He wanted to be at muzzle distance and watch the blackness of cloth where the flash burned the clothes of the man he was killing, and burned his flesh, even as it sent bullets into him.

So he paused. Across the way, he saw his last machine-gunner, crouching, moving ever so slowly, trying in his own way to get close to the American.

The sergeant stared hard at him, commanding him mentally to turn and make eye contact for signals.

Of course, not being a wizard, the sergeant was unable to influence his colleague in any way; no such thing happened. But then it did. The man looked directly to him.

The sergeant raised a finger, to halt the man. Their eyes met passionately. The sergeant gave pantomime signals, pointing to the man, then to himself, then raising one, two and three fingers, hoping to communicate the following: on the count of three, we both rise and fire. He cannot cover two points and will retreat and that is when we will have him.

The man nodded.

The sergeant gave the signal.

He nodded at the man, who steeled himself for the final rush.

The sergeant rose, the man rose. The man rushed the car screaming and firing.

The sergeant did not. He was no one's fool. He simply dropped down, and began to slither forward.

The man ran at the car, and the American shooter dropped him with one shot to the head.

The sergeant, creeping around, got close enough. He fired at the man, hitting him. He saw blood spurt, and the gun fly away.

Ha! Amigo, I have you now!

Earl saw a man come at him, wildly, and put an easy shot into him, thinking for just a second that this wasn't?

Then he was hit.

He felt the whack of something crashing into his hip, another buzz as something flew by his face as he went down, and then by the crazy laws of these things, his gun hand went numb. He couldn't have pulled a trigger, even if there'd been a trigger to pull, for the simple reason that a wild shot smashed hard into the Colt right above the trigger guard, mashing the gun terribly and blowing it out of his hand in the same instant.

Earl slid to earth, coming to rest next to the tilted Cadillac. Even now he was working. His hand flew to his hip and felt a black, hot welling of blood. But he didn't panic. He would fight to the end, and in a fast second or two, he spied the gun lying a few feet beyond him. He scuttled toward it, picked it up and saw that it had been ruined. The bullet had savaged the slide, bending it so grotesquely it could not operate on its rails. It was totally dead.

He spun around, hunting another weapon, but saw his own slayer standing above him. So this is what the guy would look like. A black, wild negro in khakis, with dusty boots and a lined face that had seen several hundred battles. Dead eyes, no curiosity, no light. Gray shot through the wool of tightly knitted hair. Sweat circles under the arm. A uniform of no army on earth save the universal one of desperate men good with guns, for hire cheap for any work at all.

'Choo fucked, man,' the fellow said to him.

'Fuck you, Jack,' said Earl.

'Yah, fuck choo, man, that's who eez fucked, no? I kill you then chase down those fat pigs and kill them. Ha! You so brave, but it comes to this, poor fucker.'

The man was too experienced to come close enough for Earl to kick him in the nuts. He had the gun, the advantage and all the time in the world. He would make no foolish mistakes. It wouldn't be like a bad movie, where the hero kicks dust in the bad guy's eyes. He'd just shoot Earl, reload, finish the job and move on. By tomorrow the memory would be vague and by Friday gone forever.

He raised the pistol.

Then he lowered it to study a curious phenomenon.

His chest was spurting blood. Wasn't this an odd development? He couldn't believe it. Where had such a terrible atrocity come from?

He went to his knees, finding the Star pistol immensely heavy, letting it drop to the ground. His ears were filled with pounding, so much so that he did not hear the second burst that cut into him either. A presence loomed suddenly before him. He reached out and touched the face of Odudua, who gathered him to her dark bosom, a former servant and now, alas, just another john.

Earl watched him die. He lay babylike in the mud. His eyes were blank, his shirt red with new blood, lots of it. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air.

Earl thought he'd heard the shots, especially the second burst. He thought they came from the right. He