Immortal

“Here we are,” she said, as we rolled to a stop.

“You do fine work,” I said, unbuckling myself.

“I know. Hey, tell me something, before you go.”

“If I can.”

“How much trouble are you in?”

I smiled. “I don’t really know yet.”

“Whatever this is about, I hope it goes well for you.”

We shook hands. “Believe it or not,” I said, “it’s about a girl.”

“That figures,” she rolled her eyes. “Be careful.”

I slammed the door to the plane and watched until she successfully reached altitude. Then I pointed myself in the right direction and started walking.

Chapter 24

It was a shock to go from a snowy day in the middle of New Jersey, to a hot salt flat in the heart of Arizona, in just under two days. And I was wearing equal-opportunity clothing, in the sense that it wasn’t appropriate for either climate. Especially my shoes, which might have made sense in a mall or an office building. A desert? Not so much.

But I didn’t have far to go. There was some risk I’d start walking in the wrong direction—a fairly common occurrence in deserts, if memory served—but I was aided greatly by the occasional reflection I saw on the horizon. Somebody out there was watching me through a pair of binoculars. I headed toward them.

I’m not a huge fan of deserts. They’re hell for my memory, for one thing, because I’m just old enough to remember when a couple of the smaller ones were bodies of water. And there’s nothing more upsetting than to think you’re about to come up on a nice cool lake, only to discover that the beach has taken over the place. Historically, I tended to stick to the more fertile regions—coastlines and the like—with Egypt being a notable exception. There are lots of ways to end up dead while living near the sea, but at least then it takes an exceptional event (volcanoes, floods, severe storms) to do it. In a desert, surviving the day is the exceptional event.

The ground was reasonably hard—good for walking—but entirely flat, so it never felt like I was making any progress at all, right up until I was close enough to see who was waiting for me. Two men standing next to a Humvee. At first, I thought the clothes they wore were army-issue gear, which introduced a whole slew of problems. I knew Grindel had private financial backers, but if one of those backers was the United States Government, I was in serious trouble. Because no matter how powerful a person or company in the private sector might be, they’re still limited—theoretically—by laws. Governments don’t have that kind of problem. But they weren’t army-issue at all, as I realized when I got closer. No insignias of any kind. It was more like hunting gear, or an outfit you’d find for sale in the back of Soldier of Fortune.

Both were armed and made no effort to disguise this. The guns weren’t army-issue either.

“Hello, boys,” I said, once in earshot. The first one—a squat, deeply tanned man with an entire can of chewing tobacco in his cheek and a set of binoculars around his neck—had the business end of what looked to be a fully automatic Uzi pointed at my chest. I added, “I know I don’t really keep up with all the gun laws, but aren’t those things illegal?”

The other guy was a tall, rail-thin black man who appeared to be much more relaxed in demeanor than his counterpart. I got the idea that he was in charge. He was holding a handgun at rest at his side. In his other hand he had a radio. “State your name,” the tall one barked.

“Adam,” I said. “Mr. Grindel is expecting me.”

He nodded. “Delivery confirmed,” he said into the radio.

“Why’d you walk?” the short one asked.

“Seemed like a nice day for one,” I said. “Got any water?”

He glanced at the guy with the radio—definitely confirming for me who was in charge—and, gaining assent, pulled a bottle of Poland Springs from his back pocket. He tossed it to me. I drank the whole thing in a few seconds. Never ever take clean water for granted. Just trust me on this.

I tossed the empty back to him, which he swatted away to the ground. Litterer. “Please tell me that thing behind you has air conditioning.”

He spat some black spittle on the ground and stepped aside, pulling open the back door. “Get in,” he said, a trail of spit still on his lip, which was moderately disgusting.

The tall one hooked the radio to his belt. “Come on, we’re on a schedule.”

I stepped to the open door and prepared to climb in.

“Bag,” the one with the Uzi and the spittle said.

“What?”

“Hand over the bag.”

I did. He tossed it over his shoulder to the second man, who zipped it open.

“Wow,” he said. “You got a lot of cash in here, pal.”

“I’m not big on credit.”

Tall black guy fished the gun from the bag. He fixed me with an arch look and then tossed the gun as far away from the Humvee as he could. He did the same with the tape recorder and the cell phone—I had mailed Grindel’s no-longer-utile phone, along with dead John’s unused one, to Tchekhy from the motel the night before— and then shoved the bag into the front seat through the open window. “You won’t need the money where you’re going,” he said, “so we’ll be hanging onto it for you.”

“Can I get a receipt?”

Shorty shoved the barrel of his gun into my ribs. “Shut up and get in.”

I was going to do just that, largely because I wanted to get out of the sun. But then another option occurred to me.

“Hey,” I said, “you know what I just realized?” I slammed the door. “You guys can’t shoot me.”

With my right hand I pushed the barrel of the Uzi into the side of the Humvee, spun around and swung my left elbow into tobacco boy’s ear. He got two impacts for one when the other side of his head hit the roof of the truck. He sagged to the ground. His partner, rather than fire on me, did just about what I was expecting him to do. He tried to club me with the gun. If he was smart about it, he would have tried to wound me with a shot to the leg or something, but no doubt his orders specifically forbade such an act. I ducked his swing, and he hit the car instead. So far the Humvee was getting the worst end of this deal.

I jabbed my fingers into his solar plexus—his midsection was exposed—which effectively reduced the amount of oxygen he had to work with to zero. Then it was just a matter of pinching the right spot on his wrist to get him to release the handgun. I spun him around, wrapped my arm around his neck, and shoved the barrel of the gun into his ear.

“The radio,” I said. “Toss it to the ground.”

Still gasping unpleasantly for air to the extent he was having trouble standing up straight, he fumbled about until the radio was freed. It landed a few feet from the front tire. I fired a bullet into it. He flinched just a bit with the report, as he should have.

“Does he have one?” I asked, meaning the unconscious guy at his feet.

He nodded.

“Get it.”

I released him so he could pat down his partner and unearth the second radio. He held it up.

“Put it on the ground and stomp on it,” I suggested.

“They’re expecting us to radio in on the way,” he said, having reclaimed most of his wind.

“No, they aren’t,” I said. “You already told them you were en route, and we can’t be that far. Now destroy it. I don’t want your buddy to wake up and tip off anybody.”

He complied, reluctantly. “Now what?” he asked. “You gonna drive there yourself?”

“No,” I said. “You’re driving. But first, why don’t you bend down and get that Uzi for me?”