and put them on. He wore white deck shoes and a pair of tropical combatfatigues. The box of explosive shells went into one of the thigh pockets on the fatigues. He kept the gun in his right hand, the parka bundled under his left arm. “Head for the long building,” Conroy said, over the engine. “They’re expecting you.”
He jumped down into the furnace glow of desert noon as Conroy revved the Fokker again and edged it back to the highway. He watched as it sped east, its receding image distorted through wrinkles of rising heat.
When it was gone, there was no sound at all, no movement. He turned, facing the ruin. Something small and stone-gray darted between two rocks.
Perhaps eighty meters from the highway the jagged walls began. The expanse between had once been a parking lot.
Five steps forward and he stopped. He heard the sea, surf pounding, soft explosions as breakers fell. The gun was in his hand, too large, too real, its metal warming in the sun.
No sea, no sea, he told himself, can’t hear it. He walked on, the deck shoes slipping in drifts of ancient window glass seasoned with brown and green shards of bottle. There were rusted discs that had been bottle caps, flattened rectangles that had been aluminum cans. Insects whirred up from low clumps of dry brush.
Over. Done with. This place. No time.
He stopped again, straining forward, as though he sought something that would help him name the thing that was rising in him. Something hollow . . .
The mall was doubly dead. The beach hotel in Mexico had lived once, at least for a season . . .
Beyond the parking lot, the sunlit cinderblock, cheap and soulless, waiting.
He found them crouched in the narrow strip of shade provided by a length of gray wall. Three of them; he smelled the coffee before he saw them, the fire-blackened enamel pot balanced precariously on the tiny Primus cooker. He was meant to smell it, of course; they were expecting him. Otherwise, he’d have found the ruin empty, and then, somehow, very quietly and almost naturally, he would have died.
Two men, a woman; cracked, dusty boots out of Texas, denim so shiny with grease that it would probably be waterproof. The men were bearded, their uncut hair bound up in sun-bleached topknots with lengths of rawhide, the woman’shair center-parted and pulled back tight from a seamed, wind-burnt face. An ancient BMW motorcycle was propped against the wall, flecked chrome and battered paintwork daubed with airbrush blobs of tan and gray desert camo.
He released the Smith & Wesson’s grip, letting it pivot around his index finger, so that the barrel pointed up and back.
“Turner,” one of the men said, rising, cheap metal flashing from his teeth. “Sutcliffe.” Trace of an accent, probably Australian.
“Point team?” He looked at the other two.
“Point,” Sutcliffe said, and probed his mouth with a tanned thumb and forefinger, coming away with a yellowed, steel-capped prostho. His own teeth were white and perfectly even. “You took Chauvet from IBM for Mitsu,” he said, “and they say you took Semenov out of Tomsk.”
“Is that a question?”
“I was security for IBM Marrakech when you blew the hotel.”
Turner met the man’s eyes. They were blue, calm, very bright. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No fear,” Sutcliffe said. “Just to say I’ve seen you work.” He snapped the prostho back in place. “Lynch”—nodding toward the other man—“and Webber”—toward the woman.
“Run it down to me,” Turner said, and lowered himself into the scrap of shade. He squatted on his haunches, still holding the gun.
“We came in three days ago,” Webber said, “on two bikes. We arranged for one of them to snap its crankshaft, in case we had to make an excuse for camping here. There’s a sparse transient population, gypsy bikers and cultists. Lynch walked an optics spool six kilos east and tapped into a phone . . .”
“Private?”
“Pay,” Lynch
He jumped down into the furnace glow of desert noon as Conroy revved the Fokker again and edged it back to the highway. He watched as it sped east, its receding image distorted through wrinkles of rising heat.
When it was gone, there was no sound at all, no movement. He turned, facing the ruin. Something small and stone-gray darted between two rocks.
Perhaps eighty meters from the highway the jagged walls began. The expanse between had once been a parking lot.
Five steps forward and he stopped. He heard the sea, surf pounding, soft explosions as breakers fell. The gun was in his hand, too large, too real, its metal warming in the sun.
No sea, no sea, he told himself, can’t hear it. He walked on, the deck shoes slipping in drifts of ancient window glass seasoned with brown and green shards of bottle. There were rusted discs that had been bottle caps, flattened rectangles that had been aluminum cans. Insects whirred up from low clumps of dry brush.
Over. Done with. This place. No time.
He stopped again, straining forward, as though he sought something that would help him name the thing that was rising in him. Something hollow . . .
The mall was doubly dead. The beach hotel in Mexico had lived once, at least for a season . . .
Beyond the parking lot, the sunlit cinderblock, cheap and soulless, waiting.
He found them crouched in the narrow strip of shade provided by a length of gray wall. Three of them; he smelled the coffee before he saw them, the fire-blackened enamel pot balanced precariously on the tiny Primus cooker. He was meant to smell it, of course; they were expecting him. Otherwise, he’d have found the ruin empty, and then, somehow, very quietly and almost naturally, he would have died.
Two men, a woman; cracked, dusty boots out of Texas, denim so shiny with grease that it would probably be waterproof. The men were bearded, their uncut hair bound up in sun-bleached topknots with lengths of rawhide, the woman’shair center-parted and pulled back tight from a seamed, wind-burnt face. An ancient BMW motorcycle was propped against the wall, flecked chrome and battered paintwork daubed with airbrush blobs of tan and gray desert camo.
He released the Smith & Wesson’s grip, letting it pivot around his index finger, so that the barrel pointed up and back.
“Turner,” one of the men said, rising, cheap metal flashing from his teeth. “Sutcliffe.” Trace of an accent, probably Australian.
“Point team?” He looked at the other two.
“Point,” Sutcliffe said, and probed his mouth with a tanned thumb and forefinger, coming away with a yellowed, steel-capped prostho. His own teeth were white and perfectly even. “You took Chauvet from IBM for Mitsu,” he said, “and they say you took Semenov out of Tomsk.”
“Is that a question?”
“I was security for IBM Marrakech when you blew the hotel.”
Turner met the man’s eyes. They were blue, calm, very bright. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No fear,” Sutcliffe said. “Just to say I’ve seen you work.” He snapped the prostho back in place. “Lynch”—nodding toward the other man—“and Webber”—toward the woman.
“Run it down to me,” Turner said, and lowered himself into the scrap of shade. He squatted on his haunches, still holding the gun.
“We came in three days ago,” Webber said, “on two bikes. We arranged for one of them to snap its crankshaft, in case we had to make an excuse for camping here. There’s a sparse transient population, gypsy bikers and cultists. Lynch walked an optics spool six kilos east and tapped into a phone . . .”
“Private?”
“Pay,” Lynch
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