Jason Frost - The Warlord

But it passed quickly. "Maybe, Cruz. But you'll have to kill Eric first. You see, whether he wants to or not, he's going to protect me from you; and you're going to protect me from him."

"With our hands tied?"

"Back up to each other and pull the free cord. They'll come undone."

They walked backwards toward each other, shuffling carefully along the narrow board, fingers groping at their ropes. The noose around their necks stretched tautly, choking each while he worked. Eric's fingers were the more nimble, unfastening Cruz's rope first. But Cruz's rough yank untied the rope around Eric's hands, though not without a couple rope burns on his wrist.

"What's to stop me from killing him now?" Cruz said.

"The same thing that's stopping you from removing your nooses. This gun." He patted the P-38 in its holster. "Now, when I knock this scaffold down, you'll both be dangling by your necks. Of course, with your free hands, you can hoist yourself up and not strangle. But that brings you a couple problems. There's only a few feet between you. Arm's length. Not being the best of friends, that could be a complication. Also, being tied to the same rope, it will be difficult to get much leverage to climb too high."

"What else?" Eric said.

"Pardon?"

"I know you, Fallows. What's the twist here? You know that once one of us kills the other, he'll come after you. You're not about to take that chance."

Fallows laughed heartily, his pale blue eyes almost as white as his hair. "You know me too well, Eric." He reached behind the seats of the front row and lifted two five-gallon cans of gasoline. "I know that Salvadore won't miss these too much. And it should be some indication to you both how dangerous I consider you to be willing to waste such a valuable commodity just to kill you. But what the hell, what price art? Right?"

He opened the cans, sloshed the gasoline over the carpeted altar, soaking the floor, the ladders, the seats. He felt the plastic upholstery of the seat. "I wonder if this is the kind that gives off that poison gas when it burns?" He shrugged, slit the upholstery, poured gasoline over the stuffing. "Don't worry about the kid, Eric. He goes with me. Unfortunately we won't be able to enjoy this to the end. But fires tend to be a bit stifling. And I don't want to be around in case the flames bring the usual scavengers. Remember how they used to come in Nam, Eric. Picking through the bones of a burnt-out village like surgeons probing for tumors."

"Look for me, Fallows," Cruz pointed. "After Ravensmith, you."

Fallows' face clenched as he threw the gas cans to the floor and snapped almost to attention. Standing there now, his mouth twisted to a scowl, his glacial eyes glaring, he looked perfect. The ultimate soldier, strong, tough, smart. Ruthless. He sneered at Cruz. "You overgrown asshole. Did you really ever think I'd let you get away with insubordination? We may not be regular army, but we are still soldiers. And you are still my subordinate, Sergeant. Now it just so happens we're an army without a country, which makes me the only law. So when you're disrespectful to me, you commit treason. Understand?"

"Just keep looking over your shoulder, Fallows," Cruz said.

Fallows shook his head impatiently. "You can see what I was up against, Eric. He had potential. I mean the man kills the way rain falls. Indiscriminantly. Without interest. Like breathing. But he has no loyalty. Like you.

Eric said nothing.

"Well, there are so many appropriate phrases from Shakespeare, I don't know which to use." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box of wooden matches, and struck one on the side of the box. He held the flaming match in one hand, slipping the box back into his pocket. "Let's see. How about one for your son, Eric? Because in a few minutes he's going to be an orphan. But don't worry, I've decided to adopt him and raise him as my own. Much in the same way you did when his father died." He looked over his shoulder at Timmy. "This one's from Romeo and Juliet, but it'll play here. 'Deny thy father, and refuse thy name.' " He laughed and tossed the match into the air.

The flame brightened with the rush of oxygen, burning like a comet as it splashed into the gasoline-soaked floor. A whoosh of fire sprang up from the ground like a mutant plant. Fire sprouted everywhere, from chairs, carpeting, the wooden railing around the altar. Even the ladder and scaffolding crackled with flames. Smoke swirled around their feet. With a clatter of popping explosions, the ladders collapsed in flames, dropping the board out from under their feet. But each man had already gotten a hold of his own noose with both hands, pulling up on their arms to support their weight. Their legs dangled in the air.

Eric saw Fallows running up the aisle, grabbing Timmy out of his seat, and dragging him toward the door. Timmy struggled, feet kicking, but Fallows lifted him easily under one arm. Fallows turned at the door, looked back at the flames. His eyes met Eric's and for a moment, the time it takes a hummingbird in flight to change course, something like regret flashed in those cold eyes. And vanished. Back was the real Dirk Fallows, the man who'd ordered Jennifer's and Annie's deaths. Then he was gone. With Timmy.

But hanging next to Eric on the other end of the rope was the man who'd actually done the killing. Who'd slit the throat that once harmonized with waiters to sing "Happy Birthday" to strangers in restaurants without embarrassment. Who'd snapped the neck that refused to wear anything but cheap costume jewelry until the children were in college or she became president, whichever came first.

This man must die.

Eric felt Cruz's tremendous weight shifting on the other end of the rope as he pulled himself up the rope far enough to loosen the rope around his neck. Being lighter and more agile, Eric managed to do it first, loosening the knot and slipping the noose over his head. For a moment he thought about letting go, dropping to the ground and making a run for Fallows. But the flames below were thick and blistering, covering too wide an area. Chances are he would burn before getting away. Also, if he let go of the rope, they'd both fall and he'd be fighting flames and this maniac at the same time. He didn't want to risk Timmy's life that way.

With both men free of the noose, but still dangling six feet above rising flames, there was nothing left to do but fight each other. But with one man holding on to both ends of the rope, there was a chance-a splinter of a chance-of survival.

Cruz was the first to act. His legs wrapped around the rope, holding on with one arm, he rocked toward Eric, his free hand grasping like a grappling hook. Eric knocked the hand away, but it kept coming back. The momentum of their movements caused the ropes to swing more dramatically toward each other, until they were passing within inches.

They both were fighting with their one free hand, jabbing at the throat, eyes. Trying to disable the other, but careful not to knock him off the rope, killing both of them. The heavy smoke stung their eyes, burned their nostrils. Eric was coughing, but Cruz breathed the smoke as naturally as if it were air.

They swung toward each other again, Cruz hammering Eric on the top of the head with such force that Eric's grip slipped. He dropped a few inches, the rope chewing the skin on his palms like sandpaper. But he caught the end of the rope, just as Cruz's weight started to pull it out of his hands. Eric's feet dipped into the flames below, singing his feet and legs. His pants were smoking as he quickly shinnied up the rope.

Again, Cruz swung toward him.

Neither man spoke. What was there to say? A waste of energy to threaten, posture, curse. This was business. And each man went about it silently, professionally. Like bankers.