He didn’t realize the mistake he’d made.
He was holding a glowing flashlight the same way those crazy villagers held flaming torches in old Frankenstein movies.
Approaching a concrete bunker the same way those morons approached Castle Frankenstein.
He might as well have trumpeted his arrival with a Franz Waxman score.
Jack Baddalach was a sitting duck.
And so was Angel Gemignani.
Tony had checked out the house. He’d found Harold’s.357 Magnum, but there was no sign of Harold anywhere. Tony hoped his partner wasn’t dead, but Harold’s fate wasn’t exactly his first priority at the moment.
The bathroom mirror was.
Tony stared at himself in the mirror. Man, he looked pretty fucking gruesome. Some of the cuts on his arms and legs were really deep, and the sunburn was world-class. And his nose. . Jesus. A red mess. What was left of it, anyway.
He fingered the hole in the side of the mask-one of those black leather S amp; M jobs with all the zippers and shit. God, it was like he hardly had a cheek under there.
This was awful. And the mirror didn’t lie. Tony recognized his eyes all right, but he didn’t recognize the fear that burned in his irises. Man, he was afraid to take off the mask, just like that monster under the opera house in the old creature feature-
Tony heard voices. . someone was outside. He snatched up the.357 Magnum and returned to the bedroom, where he peered through the open pillbox window.
Two people were headed his way.
He recognized both of them.
Angel Gemignani led the way, limping, carrying a.45.
One look at her and Tony’s nut started to ache.
That little bitch Jack Baddalach brought up the rear, carrying a flashlight. He was packing heat, as well.
Both of them, right here on Tony’s fucking plate.
The Tiger could serve them up raw and bloody. Snuff them with some other guy’s gun. No one would ever figure out just who’d done who in the middle of this fucking abattoir. The joint was a chamber of horrors. Mickey Spillane couldn’t sort this one out.
Yeah, it was open season.
Tony checked the Magnum. It was packed. Six cartridges.
He headed for the front door.
She had that gimpy walk, but she wouldn’t slow down.
“Angel,” Jack said. “Wait a minute-”
It was like she didn’t hear him.
Her hand was on the knob.
She opened the door.
And something grabbed Angel just that fast. It was a bloody fucking mess, big as Frankenstein, and it twisted the.45 from her hand and let the gun drop as it spun her around-
Angel stared at Jack, eyes wide as the monster’s left hand squeezed her throat. The flashlight beam scorched the thing’s head with white light. . a black head covered with silver stitches. . some kind of mask. . and Angel’s mouth was open but she couldn’t say a word. .
And neither could Jack. There wasn’t enough time. .
The thing had a.357 Magnum. The barrel arced toward Angel’s head. .
From twin black leather pits, a pair of crazy eyes stared at Jack. He didn’t recognize them. But he recognized the smiling lips beneath the eyes. .
That baddest man on the planet smile, nestled in black leather. .
The.357 Magnum neared Angel’s temple. .
The Colt Python bucked in Jack’s hand before he had time to think.
Black leather, flesh, and bone exploded in the night.
Tony Katt’s corpse crumpled against the open door.
Jack didn’t say a word.
Neither did Angel.
They didn’t have to.
She ran to him and they embraced.
She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers.
And then her hands drifted away from his shoulders, and his fingers slipped away from her hips. And in a moment he wasn’t touching her, and she wasn’t touching him.
But they stood side by side for a long time, the bright moon hanging above, the warm breeze rushing down from the mountains, the indigo night holding strong.
FIVE
Jack unscrewed the Celica’s license plates and tossed them in the back of the Chevy Apache.
Angel sat behind the wheel of the truck. “Sure your car will be okay?”
Jack nodded. They had pushed the Celica off the main road. Tomorrow he would borrow a tow truck from his mechanic buddy, Pablo Morales, and retrieve the Toy. If anyone showed up at Hell’s Half Acre in the meantime. Jack didn’t want them connecting him to the bloodbath at the Lynch family compound through a broken-down Celica. That’s why he was taking the license plates.
Hidden among the yucca trees, the Toy would be safe. From above, the root beer foam paint job blended with the light Mojave earth. And hell, those rust spots on the hood made good camouflage. A couple more excuses like that and Jack would
Jack climbed into the Chevy and Angel gunned the engine. “How much further?”
“A mile. Maybe two.”
They bumped along in silence. The sun was rising outside Angel’s window. Jack studied her profile as she drove, her features haloed by the glow of the coming day.
Sunny and hot. That’s what daylight would bring to the Mojave Desert. Pushing a hundred degrees and pushing it hard.
Just another day in hell.
They shadowed an arroyo for a quarter of a mile. On the other side of the dry creek bed, a coyote padded along with a jackrabbit clenched in its muzzle. Angel pulled to a stop and watched the predator.
The coyote glanced at them but didn’t hurry its pace.
“Want me to keep driving?” she asked.
“No,” Jack said. “This should do it.”
Jack grabbed a shovel from the truck bed. He started to dig. And he started to sweat, too. The morning heat was baking him good.
He peeled off his T-shirt and kept at it. Angel sat on the hood of the Apache and watched him, picking at a hole in her jeans.
“You think anyone will ever find him?”
Jack almost laughed. “It’s a big desert, Angel. You don’t even want to know how many guys your granddad buried out here in the old days.”
Angel was quiet for a minute. “I guess it’s really no different than that coyote. Not really. Everything dies sooner or later. Today that jackrabbit took it hard. But one of these days, it’ll be the coyote’s turn.” She smiled the same peculiar smile Jack had seen before, the one devoid of pleasure. “And one of these days it’ll be our turn,
