“I know,” Hannibal said, slapping a hand on one of Sarge’s shoulders. “But he ain’t worth it, brother, and you’re not a killer.”
“Sure I am.” Sarge turned to Hannibal, pride and sorrow mixed in his eyes. “That’s what the Corps taught me.”
“This ain’t a war,” Hannibal said. “And believe me, you don’t want to turn that corner.”
“Listen to your friend.”
The new voice was a cold, harsh half-whisper. Hannibal looked up to find a man standing on the beach just past Rod. The newcomer seemed calm and relaxed, and his automatic was focused on Hannibal’s face.
25
The moon was almost gone now. Only the stars and the distant lights some businesses left on for safety offered any illumination. This made the newcomer difficult to see, except for the movement where the breeze coming in from the ocean flapped his black suit jacket. He was a white man of medium build and average height. His hair and eyes looked black, but in the moonlight either could have been brown or even red.
One thing disturbed Hannibal, something that was plain to see. The man’s face held no expression at all. It may as well have been a mask for all it revealed of the man’s emotions.
“Okay, want to tell us who you are?” Hannibal asked.
“Not really.”
“He’s one of the Colombians, come to save this asshole,” Sarge said.
Rod was regaining his breath. He looked at Hannibal and Sarge, and then raised a hand to the newcomer.
“Guess I owe ya thanks,” Rod said.
“Not really,” the newcomer said, answering both Rod and Sarge with a snap kick into Rod’s midsection. Rod collapsed back into the surf. Stealthy. Smooth. Unpredictable. Very professional. Something about the man’s movements tugged on a loose string in Hannibal’s mind. He started to stand, but the newcomer waved him back down with his gun barrel.
“We’ve met, haven’t we?”
“Not really,” the newcomer said, stepping into the surf beside Rod.
“Sure, remember? Down in Grayson County. You wore running clothes, and you started jogging when I saw you, but you weren’t sweating.”
“You are everything I was told you were,” the newcomer said, swinging his right foot in a snapping movement that bounced off Rod’s temple. Rod dropped onto his left side. Hannibal suspected steel-toed shoes.
“How long have you been following me?” Hannibal asked.
“Since you accepted this assignment,” the newcomer said. He stood straddling Rod, who struggled to rise until he was propped up on his elbows, still submerged except for his head and chest. He coughed hard, spitting up salt water and staring up at the man in the black suit.
“You’re damn good,” Hannibal said. “I felt I was being followed but still couldn’t shake you. But why tail me?”
“The formula.” He seemed to be speaking to Hannibal, Sarge and Rod at the same time. “I knew you would lead me to whoever had it. I was tasked to secure it.”
“You ain’t no gangster,” Sarge said. “So you the feds, right?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t have it,” Rod said. “Somehow, one of these niggers must have stole it from me. But what do the feds want with it? What happened to free enterprise?”
The man in the black suit looked down at Rod. Hannibal wondered if he suffered from some nerve damage that prevented expression from showing on his face. He decided the condition was more likely the result of training.
“We are at war, a war on drugs,” the newcomer said, very seriously. “We must stop this illegal trade in our country. We believe that this formula, if put to use, would cause a runaway increase in drug use. Without the threat of consequences, meaning the possibility of addiction, there would be no disincentive for our youth to indulge in illegal drugs. I was sent to make sure the formula is never used.”
“Well then let’s deal,” Rod said. “How do you know I didn’t make a copy? I might have the formula hidden anywhere. And I don’t give up.”
“Yes, I know.” With passive nonchalance the newcomer raised a foot and pressed it into Rod’s chest. The big man was screaming “No!” as he fell backward, his face pushed under no more than two inches of water. Sarge leaped to his feet but the pistol centered on his chest kept him in place.
“Now, you and I, Mr. Jones, must come to an agreement.”
“I don’t know what I have to offer you,” Hannibal said. He watched Rod’s big hands slap against the leg holding him with no apparent effect. Despite Rod’s struggling the man in black never looked down. He locked eyes with Hannibal.
“I’m standing on the last known holder of the formula. If the formula never surfaces again, my people will know that he never passed it on to anyone else. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” Hannibal said, watching an enemy struggle in the surf and feeling as if he should be doing something. “I think you understand that the formula we’re discussing doesn’t belong to me.”
Hannibal could not have explained why perspiration was bursting out all over his body. It happened when the cloud of bubbles burst to the surface just a couple of inches in front of the man with whom he was having a calm conversation.
“I’ve arranged for compensation for the owner,” the man said, not reacting to the sudden stillness below him. “For my arrangements to be successful, you need to get back to Mantooth’s house. The police have been delayed but it won’t be long before they turn up there. You need to return quickly and get the girl before she becomes involved in all this.”
“Girl?” Hannibal asked.
“Marquita,” Sarge said. “She was headed there after all. I just beat her to it.”
“You two had better get going,” the man standing in the ocean said. “I’ll clean up here.” He crouched and pushed his left hand into the water.
Hannibal stood for a moment, staring at Rod Mantooth’s hair waving in the surf. The hot breath of evening blew in from the horizon, and a random line drifted into his mind like flotsam on the ocean’s surface.
“The heat smells like Eternity,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” Sarge asked.
“Maybe I could get poetry after all.”
While he stood there the first sliver of sunlight peaked up over the end of the Atlantic. Its brilliance lanced into Hannibal’s eyes. With his back to the sun, the newcomer’s face was still hidden in shadow.
“Hang on. You’ll need these.” Hannibal turned as the man in black tossed something toward him. Hannibal caught it before he realized what he had. It was Rod’s key ring. After slipping the keys into his pocket, Hannibal took Sarge’s arm and pulled him toward the street.
Battling both physical and emotional exhaustion, Hannibal and Sarge covered the distance to Rod’s house with far less speed than they had used to reachthe beach. Each block seemed longer than the one before it. On their way they began to see people in motion and cars moving on the roads. At dawn on Monday, the world was beginning its day.
Sarge was dragging a little behind Hannibal but less than a block from Rod’s rental he surged forward, passing his friend.
“Markie!” Sarge swept her up in his arms, holding her so tightly she gasped for breath. Hannibal didn’t want to disturb the moment, but he had a sense that time mattered.
“Marquita what are you doing here? I know you started down here to find Rod, but I’m sure that after we left
