Микки Спиллейн - The Delta Factor

“Sabin’s people?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “No.”

The anger in her put a bite in her voice. “Who, Morgan?”

“It’s just beginning to figure out,” I said. “That shot came from a peculiar place. Joey’s back almost obscured Whitey’s and even a wild shot had more of a chance of hitting him than Whitey.”

“What are you getting to?”

“That shot was a perfect, direct hit. It was meant for Whitey. The next two would have picked you off the same way if I hadn’t blasted a couple into his position.”

“Morgan…”

“When I’m sure, you’ll know about it.”

I wrenched the car around another turn, the tires screeching a wild protest. The tail end slued around in the gravel before taking hold, then I gassed it down the dirt road in front of me. In the mirror I could see the reflection of other headlights against the low-hanging scud; then they passed, missing the turnoff I had chosen. There was only a half mile to go and I knew they’d be doubling back looking for my exit route when they missed me.

I saw the turn coming up, braked, downshifted, and threw the wheel over. I heard Kim’s half-scream as she saw it the same time I did and I had just enough control left to avoid it. Somebody had abandoned a two-wheeled wagon almost in the middle of the road and it had damned near creamed us.

At the least it could do the job right if anybody was on our tail. I jammed my foot on the brake, backed up and hopped out. It took only a few seconds to grab the wagon by its tongue and pull it another four feet out into the road before I was back at the wheel, with the airport directly ahead.

They had the time; I didn’t. I dropped them at the south end of the runway, and getting back to the other end would be up to them. When they got out Kim turned and leaned in the window, her lovely hair in disarray over her face, but eyes vitally alive and a mouth, lusher than ever, framing a statement.

“Morgan,” she said, “be careful. I really do care.”

I kissed her then, just once and quickly, let out a short laugh of pleasure and threw the car into gear.

This time I knew where I was. Ten minutes later I intersected the highway, followed the signs to the coquina road leading to the Rose Castle and turned down it. Up ahead was the end of the mission.

At the gate, the guard admitted me without question. Another pair on patrol around the grounds merely nodded when I parked the car, then went off on their assigned route. I reached under the seat, found the two containers Angelo had left there for me, picked them out and stuck them in the bushes under one of the stained-glass windows.

Now I was ready.

So were they. The metal grating was already up, the guards awaiting me. One said, “You will follow me, please, señor,” and I nodded. But I was watching the other one to see where he located the switch that activated the grate. It was in a small metal receptacle attached to a supporting column and when he touched it I heard the grinding of gears as the thing slid down into place.

The three of them were waiting for me, Fucilla and his two superiors. Their wineglasses were full, the huge decanter on the desk half empty, and I could tell by their expressions that they had taken on a damn good load while they waited for me. My delay and the thought of having Russo Sabin walk in at any moment had them on edge and the smiles they forced were more of malice than relief.

Pomp and ceremony were demanded for the occasion and all of them were resplendent in their military uniforms heavy with braid and medals. Here rank was evident by the weight of their ornaments, the captain a real fruit-salad type, the lieutenant a little less decorated, and Fucilla, as head guard, sporting only a few awards. Each wore a Sam Browne belt with a polished holster at his hip, the gun butts protruding from one end.

The captain waved the guard away after he admitted me and leaned back in his chair. “Ah, Señor Winters.” His voice was too smooth.

I answered the question before he asked it. “They evacuated the place where I kept the stuff. I had a hell of a time getting in.”

“But you do have it? ”His eyes scanned me closely, noting that it wasn’t on my person.”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then?”

“All I want to see is the color of your money, Captain.”

They let out a little chuckle all around. This attitude they could understand. In fact, the captain must have anticipated it because he rose from his chair, bowed curtly and went to the wall, pushed back a picture and spun the dial of the wall safe behind it. He found what he wanted and laid it on the desk where I could see it.

“There, señor. Twenty thousand dollars in United States currency.”

I counted it slowly. It was all there. I put it back on the desk. “I left the stuff in the bushes outside the window. Look in front of the Volvo.”

The captain gave me another small smile, but his eyes flocked to the other two and he said, “Lieutenant, if you please…?”

“With pleasure, sir.” The lieutenant put his glass down carefully on the polished desk top, smiled at me and walked to the heavy door behind us.

And that eliminated one. The odds weren’t so bad now, but it had to be fast.

I reached for the twenty grand and stuck it in my coat pocket. I was getting to be a walking bank.

The captain shook his head. “Perhaps we should wait for the lieutenant’s return first, señor.”

“Why?” I gave him a grin and knew what he was seeing because I could feel it on my face. “You have a thing about taking money off a dead body?”

Maybe they were stupid enough to think that they were going to get away with it. Maybe they thought they had the odds on their side. They were so set to have their cake and eat it too that they never considered a cross and when it hit them they went for the guns at their sides and suddenly realized just how far the odds were against them. They never should have kept them holstered.

My first shot took the captain in the bridge of his nose, and I spun, took two quick steps to the right as Fucilla was clearing the leather and planted one square in the middle of his chest, the impact of the.45 driving him back to crash into the ornate sideboard and bring a shower of glassware down around his head. The echo of the shots still reverberated in the room like the thunder of kettledrums, the stink of cordite sharp in my nose. I had to hope the thickness of the walls and doors was enough to muffle the blast, but if it hadn’t I was ready to cover both entrances and shoot my way through anybody who came in.

Those ancient Spaniards had built the Rose Castle well. A full minute passed and the only company I had was the death-glazed eyes of the captain and of Juan Fucilla. Until the lieutenant arrived and let himself in.

At first he didn’t see the two on the floor. Then the smell reached him and his eyes centered on the.45 in my fist before they swept the area and realized what had happened. He didn’t want to make their mistake and his expression was one of sickly pleading when he looked back at me again.

“You can drop that stuff,” I told him. “It’s only sugar.”

He let the containers fall from his hands.

“Over here and turn around.”

Eyes full of fear bulged over a slack jaw as he did as he was told. He thought he was going to be shot on the spot and his body twitched spasmodically. All he could get out was “Please, señor…”

“Shut up,” I said. I yanked his gun out of the holster, dumped the shells out of the clip and made sure the chamber was empty before sticking it back in the holster again. He couldn’t figure out what I was doing until I asked, “Who holds the keys to Victor Sable’s cell?”