Dennis Yates - Red Mountain

Robert was suspicious from the beginning. He knew his father hated fishing, and he couldn’t buy the idea he’d be willing to do it even for his brother’s sake. In the weeks before they took off, Robert had seen them spending a lot of time in the office in back of the garage—his uncle on the phone and his father pacing the concrete floor, lighting one doctor-forbidden cigarette after another. They were acting unusually nervous, not at all like two men about to go somewhere to relax and fish in the sun.

Across the border in Tijuana, the brothers met some members of a lucrative car- theft ring. Barney had done some prison time with the leader and they’d become friends after Barney had saved the man’s life from a shiv-wielding neo Nazi. There was a reunion celebration of sorts, with plenty of food and drinking, until a ruthless rival gang swarmed down on the hacienda and shot Frank and Barney’s new business partners through the head. Failing to escape from the attackers, Robert’s father and uncle were tied and beaten, blind folded and kept in a cramped room behind a shop selling purses and belts to American tourists.

It was of course a case of mistaken identity. Their kidnappers believed they’d captured two worthy prizes—not some auto body repair man and his burglar brother, but a couple of wealthy drug smugglers who’d come down to visit the home office.

Robert was working at the shop when his father called. He could barely recognize his father’s voice as he pleaded to his son for help. Frank’s voice had sounded broken and repentant, so unlike the man who’d managed to undermine Robert’s dreams.

Robert could see his destiny was jumping tracks once again and there was nothing he could do about it. The rage inside him pushed up to the surface like an angry weed. Had his father not been so reckless then maybe the violence would not have been allowed to germinate. But this was his father, and aside from the fact he deeply resented him at times, Robert would do anything to protect him.

There was still the matter of finding the money, and then getting it to the right people before it was too late. His friend Will had driven to Mexico with him, had helped get Robert’s father back alive. Uncle Barney hadn’t been so lucky…

****

A soft hand reached down and slowly pried the shot glass from Robert’s tight fingers. He looked up and saw a woman leaning toward him. Her mouth formed a garish frown of heavy lipstick.

“You’re going to break it if you aren’t careful,” she said.

Robert’s mind was still deep in Mexico, and it took a few moments for him to stroke sluggishly back into the present, where a strange woman holding an empty shot glass was searching his eyes for something she could cling to.

What the hell does she want?

He stared coldly back, unable to speak, but the woman pretended she hadn’t noticed. Not bothering to ask for an invitation, she slid into the seat across from him and set the glass on the table between them. Her eyes were a deep brown, and they seemed to soak up what little light there was.

For a brief moment Robert wondered if she was working for Walker Marsh. He waited for another one of Marsh’s messages to issue forth from her mouth, but she only looked at him hopefully, hungrily.

“Why are you staring at me that way?”

“I don’t know you,” Robert said, pulling up his sleeve and eyeing his watch, surprised that a half hour had vaporized since he’d knocked back the tequila. He took out his wallet and pulled free a twenty to pay his tab with. When he glanced up he saw that the woman was playing nervously with her crispy tri-colored hair.

“Do you have some place you gotta be honey?” she asked.

This time he heard the slur in her speech, noticed the broken blood capillaries webbing her face like fine lace when she lit a cigarette. He grabbed his jacket off the seat and stood up tall, purposely giving all the rubbernecks sitting in the bar one final look.

“Yes, I do have some place I have to be.”

“My lousy luck.”

“Lady, you don’t know the meaning of bad luck.”

“Then why don’t you go to hell,” the woman said, blowing a cloud of nicotine venom as he turned to walk away.

He didn’t bother telling her that he was already there…

CHAPTER 13

The rain was coming down harder than ever. Because Mt. Tabor was closed to motor vehicles at night, Robert found a quiet side street at the base of the park to leave his truck. He pulled his cap down and began hiking up toward the reservoir. Other than the sparse sodium lights illuminating the single road circling to the top, the park became very dark at night, especially where he took short cuts through groves of trees and thick undergrowth.

He saw no sign of anyone around. There was only the hum of cars off in the distance below him, moving along roads somewhere beyond the dense fog that ringed the park off from the rest of the city.

When he saw the reservoir his heart started pounding. He leaned against a tree and inhaled deep breaths to slow the throbbing in his temples, pressed his palms against his eyes.

“And the third rule?”

“You must fight to the death.”

He was up against a wall. If he refused to fight and ran, he’d never see his family again. It was as good as being dead. There’d be nothing left but a cowardly shell of a man carrying around a dead heart, until the day he finally put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger...

You’ve got to stay focused…

He pushed away from the tree and hiked down an ivy-covered hill to the concrete walk next to the reservoir. Mist hid the lapping water on the other side of the wrought iron fence.

On clear windless nights the reservoir would reflect the night sky and city lights like a giant ebony mirror. Robert had taken Peggy and Connor to see a full moon in it more times than he could remember. Once in the middle of freezing winter they’d witnessed a comet.

He quickened his pace toward the southern end. Voices echoed from somewhere nearby. When he rounded the corner he saw figures gathered next to the stone pump house. They stopped talking and turned to watch him as he advanced. Their faces were obscured by hoods. As he drew closer, one of the figures stepped in front of the rest and pointed a gun at Robert.

“Stop. Turn around, put your hands on the fence and spread your legs,” ordered the gunman.

Robert did as he was told. The iron was cold and bit his hands. He held his breath and listened to the thud of boots. A hand slammed down between his shoulder blades, causing his face to strike the fence.

“Don’t fucking move,” said another voice. His body was patted down thoroughly. Robert tasted blood where he’d split open his lip.

“He’s clean.”

The gunman leaned next to Robert’s ear.

“Do you need to be reminded of the rules again, Mr. Crain?”

Robert shook his head.

“Good. You will stay where you are and not attempt to follow us. Wait until you’ve heard our signal, then you will be free to look for your opponent and kill him.”

“What if I think he’s dead and he turns out not to be?”

The man behind him laughed coldly. “If you’re in doubt, then I suggest you do anything you can to make certain. Otherwise you forfeit. Good luck, Mr. Crain.”

Robert gripped the bars tighter, flexing his arms. It seemed like an eternity before a single gunshot pierced the night.

He assumed it must be the signal.

Stepping back from the fence, he quickly scanned both directions for anyone coming. He saw no one. He began walking, keeping watch for any shadows possibly lying flat on the ivy hill waiting to spring on him.

When he cleared the pump house he began to wonder if the whole event was some kind of cruel joke. He imagined the kidnappers sitting somewhere on the hill above, snickering as they watched the show.