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PROLOGUE |
| saw the phone lying next to a syringe wedged in a wall crease. The needle was rusted and bent. Weird, Howard thought, the things a man notices when he’s about to die... Howard swayed, slumped against the seawall. Struggled to remain conscious. The tattooed man stepped back. He signaled another man, who grabbed a fistful of Howard’s gray-white hair and yanked him upright. He too carried a stiletto, as did the two men fronting Howard’s traveling companion, James Rogers. One of those two men wore a guide uniform. He too was dark, and he wore his hair close-cropped. He was thinner than the tattooed man, but his shirt bulged with well-cut shoulder, arm and chest muscles. The other man on Rogers resembled the one holding Howard by the hair. Both had thin faces, Roman noses, black leather jackets, jeans, and long greasy hair. The tattooed man leaned in to Howard. “Ver de peetures, señor?” The voice was frightening, the man’s breath foul. “Don’t know... anything,” Howard gasped, his hand clamped to his face. “There’s some mistake.” The tattooed man nodded to his partner, who let loose Howard’s hair only to grab his arm at the wrist. Howard struggled, but steel-like fingers gripped him like claws. A flash of the knife, a razor of pain, as the blade traced a thin line through Howard’s sport shirt and skin from shoulder to wrist. The line spread, flowering. The dark wetness of the seeping wound glistened in the weak light. Howard’s Leather Jacket said to the other one, “Conosce qualche cosa circa il ferro di cavallo verde oliva?” and the man nodded. He grabbed Rogers by his graying hair and faced him toward Howard. Now the muscular guide stepped forward and placed the tip of his stiletto under Rogers’ right eye. “Vat you know, le Olive Horseshoe?” Rogers was having trouble getting his breath. His eyes were wide and pleading. “We don’t know... anything about any ‘Olive Horseshoe.’ We’ve... never heard of it. You’re... making a mistake!” The guide slowly lowered the knife, bending Rogers’ head to track it. Then he made a long, deep slash through Rogers’ shorts and down his left thigh. As Rogers screamed, the man grabbed Rogers’ chin and squeezed. “De Olive Horseshoe?” Not waiting for an answer, he sank his blade into Rogers’ left cheek, then yanked the knife downward and out. Rogers howled and sank to the base of the seawall. He rolled over, sobbing, coughing on blood. “Rogers!” Howard called. He lunged toward his friend, but a powerful blow to the solar plexus dropped him to the concrete. Rogers lay a few feet away, still sobbing and coughing. In the dark pool under Rogers’ head, Howard saw specks of what looked like ivory. Teeth. Howard reached out, but the muscular guide pulled Rogers up and shoved him against the seawall. A moment later, the Leather Jacket assisting the tattooed man dragged Howard up, too. The guide with the bulging muscles touched his blade to the lower edge of Rogers’ right eye. Rogers appeared too weak to resist. The man looked at Howard. “De Olive Horseshoe?” The blade sank in. Rogers whimpered and slumped to the concrete. Howard struggled against the Leather Jacket who held him. But there was no give in the man’s grip. “Please!” Howard pleaded. Pain covered him like a cocoon. His thoughts were muddled, his strength departing drop by drop. ”We know... nothing. Never heard... ‘Olive Horseshoe.’” The tattooed man moved, and somewhere a bottle skittered across broken concrete. He leaned in, and Howard turned from his breath. “Ver peetures?” A blade ran down the other side of Howard’s face. More liquid fire. Howard screamed and saw the tattooed man step back. Howard whipped his head, and dark droplets sprayed out. The tattooed man slipped on blood and almost fell. He cursed in Spanish. “Feenish zem,” he said. The muscular guide lifted James Rogers’ chin and slashed him across the throat, jumping backward to avoid the spray. As he did so, he saw Rogers’ open cell phone on the concrete. He picked up the phone. The Leather Jacket who had been holding Howard Wright grabbed Howard’s hair and yanked it backward. White heat blazed across Howard’s neck. He gurgled. |
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