Peter O'Donnell - Cobra Trap

Seconds later shock sent her pulserate leaping as a flat, unemphatic voice from somewhere behind and above her said, "Freeze, lady. Twitch and you're dead."

Brightstar. She stood very still, using all her mental techniques to subdue the selfcontempt that welled within her and to waste no energy wondering how he had located her. The unasked question was answered as the voice murmured, "I'm Choctaw. Picked up your smell at twenty yards. Where's Garvin? Just breathe it, lady."

"He's around." She spoke barely above a whisper.

There was a tinge of satisfaction in the flat voice as Brightstar said, "That gives me head money on the two of you." A brief pause. "Okay, we don't want any noise, so keep hold of the butt and just lower the barrel. Easy now. Right down till it's touching the ground. Don't let that rifle fall."

She obeyed, holding the weapon at an angle with her hand on the butt, the barrel resting on the ground. There came a faint sound behind her and she knew that Brightstar had dropped down from the gully wall. By moving the angle of the rifle fractionally she was able to pick up his reflection in the polished steel buttplate. He was halfadozen paces away, his carbine aimed from the hip. In a low voice she said, "I'll double Bellman's price. Ten thousand."

He was edging slowly forward. "For you and Garvin I get that anyway."

Watching the reflection she said, "You haven't got him yet, and I'm offering ten thousand each."

"Cash? Now?" A hint of mockery.

"You'll get it. I keep a promise." He was within two paces now, changing his grip on the carbine, lifting it horizontally to smash the butt against her head.

He said, "I'm a redskin, lady. We had too many promises."

"I know. I saw the movie-" She ducked as he took the final step and swung the carbine in a crushing hook to her head. The butt skimmed her hair as she let the rifle fall and stepped back, twisting to drive an elbow into Brightstar's stomach. He gasped, losing his grip on the carbine, and she thrust backwards into him as he doubled forward, reaching over her shoulder to hook a hand round his neck, then jackknifing forward to bring him over her shoulder with a head mare.

His speed of recovery was astonishing, for he twisted like a cat, landing on one foot, staggering, then snatching a knife from the sheath at the back of his belt. She had been lunging for the fallen carbine but glimpsed the move and flung herself sideways and down, the thrown knife passing above her neck to hit the rock wall behind her.

Brightstar dived at her as she started to come to her feet, his hands reaching for her throat. She fell back, feet lifted and crossed at the calves, catching him by the neck in the V between her ankles, twisting her feet to hold him, straightening her legs to thrust him back and in the same instant turning on her front with hands on the ground, pushing down to lift her body, then using her arms like legs to run forward in the way that children used to play wheelbarrow racing, pulling Brightstar offbalance behind her, his neck locked between her ankles.

In a second she was close to the gully wall, ducking head and shoulders in a forward roll, heaving Brightstar over her doubledup body to ram the wall with the crown of his head. He fell limply on top of her and she pushed him aside, panting as she extricated herself and got slowly to her feet, lips compressed now as she allowed selfrecrimination to flare within her.

There came a polite cough from above and she whirled to see Willie Garvin looking down. Beside him was Van Rutte, handcuffs on his wrists, a steel helmet jammed down so low on his brow that he could barely open his eyes. Willie was holding the Uzi. Nodding towards the sprawled figure of Brightstar he said, "I just caught the end bit. You ruined a good scalp there, Princess."

She sniffed, looked at a badly grazed elbow, flexed the arm and winced. Moving to Brightstar she checked that he was breathing, then turned and picked up the carbine, limping a little. Willie said, "You all right?"

She looked up at him and grimaced. "A lot better than I deserve. He had me cold but he got greedy. Wanted to sign me off without shooting so he could nail you for your head money too."

Willie turned to speak to Van Rutte, emphasising his words with rhythmic raps of the Uzi on the steel helmet. "There. D'you 'ear that, Van Rutte? Let the wicked fall into their own nets. Psalm 'undred and fortyone, verse ten."

Modesty looked up at the sky. "Sundown in halfanhour. Let Bellman hear what he's waiting for."

Willie thought for a moment, then switched the Uzi to singleshot and fired once. He returned to automatic, counted to ten, and fired two short bursts in the air. Modesty was on one knee, tying Brightstar's hands with his headband. Looking down from above, Willie felt a touch of concern. From the set of her shoulders he could tell there was something amiss. Tentatively he said, "You really okay, Princess?"

She stood, turning her head to glower up at him. "No I'm bloody not!" She pointed to the unconscious redskin. "He said he could smell me at twenty yards!"

Willie suppressed a grin and gazed down at her with infinite affection, vastly entertained by her outraged femininity and knowing it would never have surfaced for a millisecond if the caper had still been running. "Why shouldn't he, Princess?" he said. "It's peaches and pomegranates warm in the sun, rose petals and the bouquet of Chateau d'Yquem, honey and exotic spices."

She laughed, all tension gone. "That's lovely, Willie. Who said it?"

Willie looked hurt. "I just did," he said.

On the deck of the Ambato Sandra had jumped at the sound of the shots. Beside her, Bellman tensed for a moment, uttering a wordless sound, then relaxed as if all energy were draining out of him.

She said, "Is it over? Both of them?"

He nodded slowly and it seemed an effort for him to speak. "Both. They wouldn't have split up, not those two. They must have been on Van Rutte's patch. The gun blew up in her hand, then he finished them off."

Two large canvas sacks, heavily weighted, now lay on the deck. Sandra looked at them and shivered. "Are you really going to have them put in those sacks?"

"I thought of coffins…" his voice was dreamy, faraway, "beautifully polished… brass handles, and plates with their names. Too good, though. Over the side in sacks. Much better. The sea shall have them…"

Captain Ricco Burrera came along the deck and saluted. "I heard the—ah—noise from the island, senor. When do you wish for me to send the launch for your friends?"

Bellman gazed absently through him, and it was Sandra who eventually answered. "In an hour. They'll need time to assemble and they have… things to carry."

The captain inclined his head in acknowledgement, and as he did so Bellman suddenly focused upon him and spoke briskly. "Ah, there you are, Salzedo. How did it go in London and Amsterdam?"

Bewildered, Burrera glanced at Sandra but she was looking anxiously at Bellman, a hand to her lips. Burrera cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, senor. I am not Salzedo and I have not been to London or Amsterdam. I am Captain Ricco Burrera—you know me well."

Bellman's head began to nod foolishly. "Good. Good," he said, slurring the words. "I'll see the supplies keep coming. Your job is to get them hooked, Salzedo. Get them hooked… what was I saying? Yes, always the young ones, the children, that's our basic training. Easy to get them on the needle… and they last longer as customers… as customers…" His voice faded and the nodding head became still as he sat gazing with empty eyes.

Burrera looked at Sandra, baffled. She was trembling. With an effort she took a grip on herself and said, "He's been under a big strain. Help me take him to his cabin."