Texas Showdown

houserobe closed, following them to the entry of the mansion.

'I need to talk to you,' she whispered to Furst.

'Of course, Mrs. Monroe. Allow me to take Senor Lopez to his plane. I'll return immediately.'

'No! You hear me now!'

Furst opened the front door for Lopez. 'Pardon me, senor.Mrs. Monroe must have something urgent to tell me.'

'Of course. Good evening, Senora.' Lopez pulled the front door closed behind him.

Availa opened her houserobe, threw her arms around Furst to enfold him in satin. She writhed her naked body against his uniform.

Furst shoved her away. 'We're in the middle of an emergency.'

'Then come back later. And bring other men.'

'I'll send some men. But I won't be with them.'

Without dropping her smile, she took her arms from him and closed her robe. 'Bueno!'

Rushing outside, Furst saw Lopez waiting in the Mercedes. A sentry paced the driveway, rifle in hands. Furst took the soldier's hand-radio: 'This is Commander Furst. Captain Pardee is inside the house. As soon as my car clears the gate, switch on all the lights. Mobilize all the men at the base who did not participate in the Mexico raid. I want the mountain encircled while the security men search the house and grounds with dogs. Captain Pardee will direct the search until I return. Over.'

Furst forced himself to walk calmly to the car. He grinned to Lopez as he entered the Mercedes and keyed the ignition. Furst idled the vehicle down the driveway to the gate. 'It seems the guards are keeping Mrs. Monroe awake,' he said. 'They forget this is the home of their — how would you say it in Spanish? Their patron?'

The guards at the gate saluted as their commander passed. Furst steered through the first curve of the descending road, then glanced in the rearview mirror.

For an instant, he thought it was the rising sun.

Sheets of flame lit the sky.

13

His ear to the smoking uniform of the soldier, Dr. Nathan heard the sucking and wheezing of fire-seared lungs. He peered at the man's face. Gasping, coughing, the man struggled to breathe, his mouth wide. The fire had charred his skin. It had blistered his eyes closed.

'Two syrettes of morphine,' Dr. Nathan told the soldier who helped him with the burned man.

'No chance of an overdose?' the soldier asked as he opened the foil packets that contained the narcotic with disposable syringe.

'Doesn't matter.'

Dr. Nathan crossed the asphalt to the other writhing soldier. Two sentries struggled with a fire hose, one man directing the stream of water into the garage, his helper straightening the kinks. Other sentries axed open the garage's electric doors, aimed another stream of water at the fire.

The second burned soldier thrashed and screamed under the hands of the bullnecked Captain Pardee, who held down the man's shoulders while another sentry held his feet. Dr. Nathan knelt down and pressed his ear to the man's chest. His lungs sounded good.

'How's that man over there?' Pardee asked Dr. Nathan.

'I don't think he'll make it to the hospital. His lungs are gone.'

'What about this one?'

Examining the soldier, Dr. Nathan saw second-degree burns. The doctor slipped out his folding knife and cut away the man's shirt. He saw only red splotches.

'He'll live. Give him a shot of morphine, get him to a hospital with a burn ward.'

'Thanks, doctor. Now why don't you go check on Mr. Monroe? All this excitement can't be good for him.'

'How did this happen? What exploded?'

'Looks like someone was playing with gasoline.'

'Playing with gasoline? You can't be serious.'

'Into the house, doctor, please.'

Two soldiers with German shepherds approached. Pardee talked quietly with them and pointed to the areas of the estate grounds unlit by any floodlights.

Dr. Nathan gave the burned man a last glance, then returned to the mansion.

In the arched entry that opened to the flower garden, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe watched the fire and the soldiers. Availa Monroe stood behind her husband's wheelchair, absently stroking the old man's thin hair.

'Pretty fire,' Availa cooed, her eyes heavy-lidded.

'Were you out there, Mrs. Monroe?' Dr. Nathan asked.

She shook her head. The motion made her stagger sideways. She gripped the wheelchair, steadied herself. Monroe turned to look up at his wife. He smiled to her.

'Un momento, chiquita,' Monroe joked in terrible Spanish. He looked to his doctor. 'Everything under control out there?'

'Yes, sir. This has been an abrasive day for you. How are you feeling?'

'Don't concern yourself!' Monroe snapped. He smiled again. 'You're right. Shouting doesn't do my heart any good. I should save my strength for important matters.' The aged invalid glanced to his wife, then winked to the doctor. 'What do you have to make an old man young for an hour or so?'

Availa jerked back as if she had been slapped. Her face twisted with disgust. She left the wheelchair to sit in an iron patio chair. Staring at her feet, she knotted her fingers in her hair.

'Stimulants could injure your heart, sir.'

'What about stimulation?' The old man leered from his wheelchair. 'Availa, my dear. We go.'

She struggled to her feet, lurched to the wheelchair, tried to turn it. She began to fall, only her hold on the grips keeping her upright until the doctor grabbed her hands and assisted her. They went into the house, Dr. Nathan simultaneously guiding the wheelchair and supporting the young woman.

'And for me,' Availa whispered to the young doctor next to her. 'What do you have that will make me...make me...'

'What? Sleep? Is that why you're taking so much...medication?

Availa smiled at him, her drug stupor gone for an instant. 'It makes me far away. And that is so good. Far, faraway.'

* * *

Cramped in the footwell of the Mercedes, Lyons felt the doors slam closed as both Furst and the Mexican got out. He counted fifty before raising his head. Peeking out from under the blanket, he saw only darkness. He raised his head higher, saw the silhouettes of planes and helicopters against the lights of the airfield hangars. Furst and the Mexican stood near a Lear jet, the light from the cockpit and cabin windows giving Lyons a good look at the Mexican's face.

But he was no one Lyons recognized. The man's photo had not been in Stony Man's file of Latin American exiles associated with Monroe. Judging by his elegant tailoring, he was not a soldier. Lyons did not have the time to speculate.

Silently pushing open the door, he slid to the asphalt, still grasping the dead sentry's rifle and flashlight. He slung the rifle over his back and jammed the flashlight under his belt, then pulled the blanket over himself as he shimmied forward on his belly unseen. But he could not crawl and hold the blanket also, so he paused to tie the blanket's corners under his chin. Then he continued.