Nick Carter - The Aztec Avenger

I paced down the long dirt strip for almost two hundred yards. Then I turned and walked back in a wide arc so that, without his being aware of it, I managed to get the big Aztec between us and the Learjet.

By now, the sun was almost directly overhead and the heat of the day sent shimmering waves reflecting upward from the bare ground. I stopped behind the plane and took out my handkerchief, mopping the sweat from my forehead. As I started to move on again, the gunman called out to me. “Hey! You dropped your wallet.”

I stopped and turned around. My wallet was lying on the ground where I’d deliberately dropped it when I took out my handkerchief.

“So I did,” I said, pretending surprise. “Thanks.” Casually, I walked back and picked it up. The gunman didn’t move. He was standing by the wingtip of the Aztec, out of sight of anyone in the Learjet, and now I was only ten feet away from him. He was either too cocky or too careless to move back.

Still facing him, I put my wallet back into the other hip pocket and closed my fingers around the handle of Luis Aparicio’s switchblade knife. I took my hand out of my pocket, my body hiding my hand from the gunman. Pressing the little button in the handle, I felt the six-inch blade leap out of the haft and lock into place. I turned the knife in my hand, grasping the blade in a throwing position. I started to turn away from the gunman and then, suddenly, I whirled back. My hand went up and my arm shot forward. The knife whipped from my hand before he knew what was happening.

The blade took him in the throat just above the point where the collarbones join. He let out a gasp. Both hands went up to his throat. I made a running dive at him, tackling him at the knees and brought him crashing to the ground. Reaching up, I grabbed at the handle of the knife, but his hands were already there, so I wrapped my own fist around his hands and pulled hard in a sawing motion.

Blood gouted from the ripped flesh and cartilage of his heavy neck. His pocked face was only inches from mine, his eyes glaring at me with mute, desperate hatred. Then his hands fell away and his whole body went slack.

I squatted back on my heels, blood on my hands like a sticky, crimson lotion. Carefully, I wiped my hands on the cloth of his jacket. I got a handful of sand and scrubbed away what was left.

Finally, I reached inside his jacket for the gun he’d so foolishly carried under his armpit instead of in his fist ready to fire.

I pulled out the weapon, a huge Smith & Wesson .44-caliber Magnum revolver. It’s an enormous handgun, made especially for accuracy and for shocking power, even at a distance. It’s really too much gun to carry around. Only a show-off would pack one.

Holding the gun behind my back in one hand, I rose and walked quickly around the Aztec to the Learjet. I went up the steps into the cabin.

Gregorius was the first to see me.

“Ah, Nick,” he said, with a cold smile on his face. “You’ve made up your mind.”

“Yes,” I said. I brought the heavy Magnum from behind my back and pointed it at him. “Yes, I have.”

The smile slid off Gregorius’ face. “You’re making a mistake, Nick. You can’t get away with this. Not here.”

“Perhaps.” I looked at Susan Dietrich. “Outside,” I ordered.

Doris lifted her gun and held it to Susan’s head. “You just sit still, honey,” she said, in her small, sharp voice. My hand moved a fraction and my finger pulled the trigger. The heavy .44 Magnum slug slammed Doris back against the bulkhead, tearing half her head away in an explosion of white bone, gray brain matter, and red, spouting blood.

Susan put her hands to her mouth. Her eyes reflected the sickness she felt.

“Outside!” I said to her, sharply.

She got to her feet. “What about my father?”

I looked over at where Dietrich was lying stretched out in one of the large leather armchairs that had been placed in its full reclining position. The old man was unconscious.

“I want you out first” Susan moved carefully around Gregorius. I stepped to one side so that she could cross behind me. She went out the door.

“How are you going to get him out?” asked Gregorius, gesturing at Dietrich. “Do you expect us to help you move him?”

I made no answer. I stood for a moment, looking first at Gregorius and then at Carlos and finally at the old man. Without saying a word, I backed out the door and went down the steps.

There was a sudden flurry of activity inside the Learjet. The steps swung up, the door closed, slamming shut Susan came running over to me, catching me by the arm.

“You left my father in there!” she cried out.

I put my arm around her and backed away from the aircraft Through the small cockpit window, I could see the pilot slip into his seat. His hands reached up, rapidly flicking switches. In a moment, I heard the engines begin to whine as the rotor blades spun.

Susan pulled away from my arm. “Didn’t you hear me? My father’s still inside! Get him out! Please get him out!” She was screaming at me now over the blasting roar of the jet engines. Desperation was written all over her face. “Please! Do something!”

I ignored her. I stood there with the heavy revolver hanging down in my right hand and watched as the Learjet, both engines now fired up, turned in a clumsy waddle and began to trundle away from us.

Susan clutched at my left arm, shaking it, crying out hysterically, “Don’t let them get away!”

It was as if I were standing apart from both of us locked into a lonely world of my own. I knew what I had to do. There was no other way. I felt cold in spite of the heat of the New Mexican sunlight. The coldness reached deep inside me, chilling me to the very marrow of my soul.

Susan reached up and slapped me across the face. I felt nothing. It was as if she hadn’t touched me at all.

She screamed at me. “Help him, for god’s sake!”

I watched the jet move to the far end of the runway.

Now it was several hundred yards away from us, its engines blasting a whirlwind of dust behind it. It turned onto the strip and began its takeoff roll. The twin jets were now at full scream, a high-pitched hurricane of noise that battered deafeningly at our eardrums, and then the plane picked up speed and was racing down the dirt strip toward us.

I pulled my left arm away from Susan’s grip. I lifted the .44 Magnum and grasped my right wrist with my left hand, bringing the gun up to eye level, lining up the bar of the front sight in the vee notch of the rear sight.

As the plane came abreast of us, it was almost at maximum takeoff speed, and in that minute before the nosewheel began to lift, I squeezed off a shot. The left tire exploded, blown apart by the heavy slug. The left wing dropped. Its tip caught the ground, cartwheeling the plane around in a great, tortured scream of metal breaking apart. The wingtip tanks split open, spewing fuel into the air in a black, greasy spray. Almost in slow motion, the tail of the plane lifted higher and higher and then, as the wing broke off at the root, the plane went up and over onto its back, twisting down the runway in a cloud of black fuel spray and brown dust, broken bits of metal wildly flinging themselves out in bright fragments.

I fired again at the aircraft, and then a third time and a fourth. There was a quick flash of flame; a ball of orange-red fire expanded outward from the broken, crippled metal of the fuselage. The plane came to rest, flames shooting out from it as a thick, oily black smoke poured out of the holocaust of leaping fire.

Still without the faintest sign of emotion showing on my face, I watched the aircraft destroy itself and its occupants. I lowered the gun and stood there on the floor of the valley, tired; lonely. Susan slipped to her knees beside me, her face against my leg. I heard a whimpering sound of despair creep from her throat, and I reached down gently with my left hand and touched her softly on the top of her golden hair, unable to speak to her or to comfort her in any way at all.