Judge And Jury Part 29

A boy and his girlfriend were just turning into the park. He was wearing sandals and a Linkin Park T-s.h.i.+rt, and had a guitar slung around his back. I heard something zing past my shoulder. Right in front of my face the kid wheeled around and hit the pavement, his shoulder exploding in red. His girlfriend put her hands up to her face and screamed.

"Get down! Get down!" people were shouting.

I stared in disbelief.

An innocent person was down. This was way, way out of control now. I knew I should've stopped and ended it there. Taken him down, waited for the cops, something logical and sane. There were screams and bedlam everywhere. I took a look back for the blond-haired killer. I had lost him! I had lost him! Policemen were running up to the scene from Ben Gurion. I didn't know what to do. I made a quick judgment that the kid would be all right. Policemen were running up to the scene from Ben Gurion. I didn't know what to do. I made a quick judgment that the kid would be all right.

I took off toward the square.

Concealing myself in the crowd, I tried to put as much distance as I could between me and my a.s.sailant. I was praying the police would corral him, but then I spotted him-his blond hair and darting eyes-racing along the perimeter wall, following my path. I pushed deeper into the crowd.

I hurried without a clear destination through the crowded streets, searching frantically for a cab. I could still get out of this. All I had to do was get back to the hotel. They had no idea who we were.

I found myself racing down a narrow street of bazaar merchants, angling away from the park. Hundreds of tiny stalls-leather jackets, embroidered s.h.i.+rts, baskets, spices-crowded with hawkers and tourists.

I zigzagged through the side-by-side stalls, switching sides of the street as I strained to see if he was still behind me. And he was was-knocking over racks, pus.h.i.+ng people out of his way, gaining. Sirens were coming from the entrance to the park.

This madman wouldn't stop. I was on a crowded street with no cabs. You don't know where you're going, Nick! You don't know where you're going, Nick! At some point I was going to have to stop and confront him. I should have shot him when I had the chance. At some point I was going to have to stop and confront him. I should have shot him when I had the chance.

Two more rounds zinged by my head, slamming into a stall in front of me that was filled with colorful fabrics, toppling it over.

I ducked, picking up my pace. The end of the street was fast approaching. The problem was, I was going to get there quicker than I had a plan for where to go next. It opened to a terraced cul-de-sac, maybe twenty feet above a busy street below. I was trapped. Cold reality set in-Nick, you're going to have to fight this b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I turned at the corner and just stood there, staring at my options: leaping into the crowded street below or facing him. I gripped my gun. I thought of Andie, the image she had lived with for the past year, the blond man hurrying away from the juror bus.

This was the man who had killed her son.

I stopped behind a stall at the end of the street. Maybe it wasn't Cavello, but this was the man who blew up the jury. I had no real plan. I wasn't a cop or a fugitive. Just someone whose adrenaline was racing. Someone who was about to make a stand.

The blond-haired killer finally staggered into the cul-de-sac.

"Put it down," I said, pointing my gun at him.

"Put it down?" He smirked, coming to a stop. He stared at me. "I don't know who you were, but you're a dead man now, friend."

Chapter 106.

HE STARTED TO RAISE his arm, and I jerked off two shots. Both hit home, tearing into his chest. He grabbed the top of a nearby stall, fabric falling all over him as it crashed down. He tried to get up. I saw him elevate his gun hand, frantically tearing garments off himself.

"You blew up that bus!" I screamed.

The blond killer hesitated. It took him by surprise. Then a smile creased his lips, as if he found all of this amusing. "I did." He winked, trying to free his gun hand. "Boom!" "Boom!"

I hurled myself at him, smas.h.i.+ng my fist into his face. He staggered backward into the railing. I held him by the s.h.i.+rt collar, out of control. I hit him again with everything I had in me. Teeth cracked, and blood spurted from his mouth. But he didn't go down.

"Well, here's a message." I flung him with all my might toward the railing. "Boom your f.u.c.king self!"

The killer smashed against the edge, still trying to right his gun toward me, and toppled over, jerking a shot wildly into the air.

Like a dead weight, he landed on top of a parked car below.

I went over to the railing. People were screaming, running out of the way. I was exhausted, out of breath, gasping for air. For a second, I didn't care who saw me. I didn't care if I heard a police siren or if the cops found me.

Then I came to my senses. I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing.

The crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d opened his eyes. He looked up at me. He wouldn't die. Blood was matted in his hair and on his s.h.i.+rt. He rolled off the car and, with legs like jelly, staggered backward toward the street, somehow still in possession of his gun, arcing his arm upward.

Toward me!

I didn't move. I just stood there staring at him. "Die, you sonovab.i.t.c.h," "Die, you sonovab.i.t.c.h," I said. I said. "Die!" "Die!"

He crouched between two cars. I could see he was having trouble breathing. Then he quickly stepped out and aimed to shoot at me. There was a smirk on his face.

I heard the beep. And the chilling screech of brakes. It was sharp and penetrating, bone-rattling loud.

The killer spun. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The look on his face was one of disbelief.

The bus careered into him, throwing him fifty feet into the street. His gun flew out of his hand and hit the pavement with a crack that sounded like a shot.

I heard screaming. I took a last look. He was just a crumpled, b.l.o.o.d.y mound.

This time I wasn't waiting around for another encore. When the crowd looked up, the balcony was empty.

Chapter 107.

MINUTES LATER, I was knocking on the door of our hotel room. "Andie, let me in!"

The door opened, and I almost fell through, collapsing into Andie's arms. "G.o.d, Nick, I didn't know what to think," she said, throwing her arms around me. She stared at my bloodstained s.h.i.+rt, the black-and-blue marks on my neck.

"Nick!"

"I'm all right," I said. "But we have to get out of here now! now!"

I changed quickly. We dragged our bags downstairs and paid. In minutes we were weaving back through the streets, Andie driving, to the coastal highway, headed back toward Tel Aviv. We had a ten-o'clock flight out of there. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back on the headrest, and blew out an exhausted breath.

"You weren't supposed to stay." I turned my head and opened my eyes.

"What?"

"I said an hour. I was thirty minutes late. I told you to get out of there. You weren't supposed to stay."

Andie stared at me as if she'd misheard. Then a smile creased her lips. "Braveheart was on the movie channel . . . I got caught up." was on the movie channel . . . I got caught up."

Andie took one hand off the wheel and briefly patted my arm. "I told you I wasn't leaving you, Nick."

We drove a little longer, the lights of Haifa fading into the darkness. I felt as empty and exhausted as ever before in my life.

"Did we get it?" she finally asked.

I hesitated a little. "Yeah, we got it." I smiled.

"So are we headed to Paris?"

"Stopover." I nodded.

"Then where?"

"Still love me?" I asked.

"You scared the h.e.l.l out of me, Nick. I don't know what I'm feeling."

"You should have been in my shoes." I paused. "No. Not really."

A smile edged across my lips. A wide one-triumphant. I couldn't believe we had pulled it off.

Then Andie was smiling, too. "Yeah, I still love you," she said. "So where? where?"

The end of the earth. Cavello had taunted me. Cavello had taunted me. Come and get me, Nicky Smiles. Come and get me, Nicky Smiles.

That's what had made me laugh. Why I knew Remlikov had told me the truth-the name of Cavello's ranch: El Fin del Mundo. The End of the World. The End of the World.

"Patagonia," I told her.

"Patagonia?" Andie looked at me. "I'm not even sure I know where that is." Andie looked at me. "I'm not even sure I know where that is."

"Don't worry. I do."

Part Five

EL FIN DEL MUNDO.

Chapter 108.

THE YOUNG GIRL'S pathetic wails echoed through the large stone house. Her name was Mariella, and she was still curled up on the bed, blood on the pillow from the cut he'd opened on her face.

"Shut the h.e.l.l up," Dominic Cavello finally barked at her, wrapping his robe around himself and stepping over to the window. He threw open the shutters, letting in the afternoon light. "Better me than some ignorant farm boy, don't you think? Or maybe your father, drunk on beer. Or is your father your lover?"

A brown haze had settled over the vast valley outside the bedroom window. Soon it would be winter. Everything would change. The pastures would be blanketed in snow, and a howling wind would lash them for months-frigid and unending. Cavello's skin turned cold just thinking of it.

Still, it was worth it-all that he had given up to be free. He had the largest ranch in the region. The extradition treaty with the U.S. was weak and rarely, if ever, tested. He had anyone who mattered in the local government on his payroll. He was safe.

And there were no delicacies like young Mariella back at Marion prison.

A couple of bodyguards, armed with machine guns, were lounging on the fence next to one of his Range Rovers, sipping coffee. At the girl's sobs they looked up and met Cavello's eyes. Hard to tell what they thought, and he didn't care.

"I told you to stop whining." He came back at the cowering girl. "You sound like a hen. Is that what you want-to sleep in the barn with the other hens? Or maybe"-he undid his robe, feeling himself come alive once more-"you want to screw Daddy again."

She reared up and cursed at him in Spanish. Cavello rushed forward and slapped her across the face again, slicing open her lip. He slipped off his robe and pushed her back on the sheets. He grasped her by the wrists as she struggled, staring at her perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s, at her young p.u.s.s.y. "Yes, I think that's what you need."

Suddenly, he heard shouting downstairs, and then a loud knock at the bedroom door.

"Who is it?" Cavello snapped.

"It is Lucha, Don Cavello."

"What do you want? You know I'm busy."

"I'm afraid we have a little problem, Senor," Lucha called through the door.

Lucha ran security for him here at the ranch. He oversaw the men downstairs and the dogs that patrolled at night. All the local law enforcement people in Ushuaia were on Lucha's payroll. He was an ex-policeman from Buenos Aires.

Cavello pulled himself off the girl and belted his robe. He cracked open the door. "You're p.i.s.sing me off. Not a good idea, Lucha. What kind of problem?"

"The girl's father. He is in the house right now. He is demanding to see her, Don Cavello."

"Pay him off." Cavello shrugged. "Get Esteban to give him a day or two off. I'm busy now."

"Senor Cavello, this one is different," the security man said. "The girl is fifteen."

"Pig! Filth!" The father's angry shouts rang down the hall.

Mariella threw herself off the bed. "Papa!" she screamed. Cavello grabbed her. She tried to break free and run for the door.

"This is not so easily disposed of, Don Cavello," Lucha continued. "If word gets out, it will draw attention."

The farmhand's loud voice could be heard calling him a pig-and his daughter a wh.o.r.e.