the laugh died. She closed her eyes, rubbed her cheek against the leather of the seat. "Only another month," she murmured.
"Mrs. Monroe," Dr. Nathan began.
"Please call me Availa. I tell you so often..."
"Mrs. Monroe. Your husband may not survive the year if he continues disregarding my instructions. I don't want to have..."
Availa Monroe came upright, her eyes suddenly hard, her lips curling in disdain. "You don't want! What does it matter what you want? If my husband..." she spat the word "...has another month of life, he will have his revenge. And that is all he wants. What you want, what I want, it is nothing. Want..."
Her anger gone, she lay back against the seat again, her eyes closing. She spoke without opening her eyes. "Tell me, doctor. What is my age?"
Dr. Nathan studied her face with concern. "Those pills are dangerous. They are habit-forming and have long-term toxic effects..."
"My age, doctor."
"Twenty-five and months."
She laughed. "Thank you for lying, doctor. But I know I am so very old. I have so much to forget. I must be old."
"Mrs. Monroe... Availa, please. I don't know your troubles, not all of them, but if you want help — counseling, medication, or just someone to talk to you — you're a very rich woman. You don't need to suffer in silence, you don't need to drug yourself so..."
Dr. Nathan reached out to her.
She jerked her hand away, hissing. "Don't touch me!"
They heard the throb of approaching helicopters. Dr. Nathan lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he smoked, and stepped into the hot desert wind.
* * *
In the red glow of sunset, Able Team jogged back to the base. Salt crusted in sweat patterns on their orange jumpsuits. Sergeant Cooke roared past them on his dirt bike, his wheels throwing dust and gravel into the air. Running blind through the dust, Gadgets tripped on a rock and fell.
Lyons helped him up. "That Cooke irritates me."
"Yeah." Gadgets wiped blood from his torn hands. "I think he's doing it deliberately."
"Lots of deliberate things can happen to him, too." Lyons ran alongside Gadgets. "But that has to wait."
"But how much longer?" Gadgets gasped. "This waiting is about to kill me. We must've done a hundred miles today."
Lyons laughed. "It's good for you."
"Ughhhhhhh," Gadgets groaned.
Ahead of them, where the trail met the asphalt road, they saw a jeep. The two previous evenings, after their forced marches through the desert and hills, it had been the closed van that had taken them into the base. Now they saw Blancanales swing into the jeep.
Lyons sprinted to the road. "All right! Did we finally get our clearance?"
"Sure did, pal," the driver told him. A crew-cut, muscled man with a black mustache, the driver extended a strong hand to Lyons. "I'm Perkins. Welcome to the Texas Irregulars."
* * *
Cold wind from the Andes banged signs, carried newspapers down the avenue. The wind penetrated the old weather-stripping of his Volkswagen's doors, chilled Bob Paxton's stump despite the heater. He massaged the ache where his right leg ended, not bothering to downshift until he came to El Negro's villa. Then he threw the shift into first, and chugged up to the iron gate.
Paxton kept his hands on the wheel as the guards approached. There was one man on each side, both with folding stock Galil assault rifles. Then a third man shone a flashlight in Paxton's face. He waved the light over the interior of the small car. He signaled the guard window. An electric motor opened the heavy gates.
Ex-Lieutenant Navarro approached as Paxton parked in front of the villa: "Senor Paxton, do you have everything?"
"Most everything." Carrying a folder of photos and papers, Paxton limped after the young man into the villa. Hardfaced men with Uzi's and sawed-off shotguns watched them from the shadows.
The warmth of the foyer washed over Paxton, relaxing him, easing the ache where his leg had been. They paused while a guard went over Paxton with a hand-held metal detector,
"Mrs. Monroe," Dr. Nathan began.
"Please call me Availa. I tell you so often..."
"Mrs. Monroe. Your husband may not survive the year if he continues disregarding my instructions. I don't want to have..."
Availa Monroe came upright, her eyes suddenly hard, her lips curling in disdain. "You don't want! What does it matter what you want? If my husband..." she spat the word "...has another month of life, he will have his revenge. And that is all he wants. What you want, what I want, it is nothing. Want..."
Her anger gone, she lay back against the seat again, her eyes closing. She spoke without opening her eyes. "Tell me, doctor. What is my age?"
Dr. Nathan studied her face with concern. "Those pills are dangerous. They are habit-forming and have long-term toxic effects..."
"My age, doctor."
"Twenty-five and months."
She laughed. "Thank you for lying, doctor. But I know I am so very old. I have so much to forget. I must be old."
"Mrs. Monroe... Availa, please. I don't know your troubles, not all of them, but if you want help — counseling, medication, or just someone to talk to you — you're a very rich woman. You don't need to suffer in silence, you don't need to drug yourself so..."
Dr. Nathan reached out to her.
She jerked her hand away, hissing. "Don't touch me!"
They heard the throb of approaching helicopters. Dr. Nathan lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he smoked, and stepped into the hot desert wind.
* * *
In the red glow of sunset, Able Team jogged back to the base. Salt crusted in sweat patterns on their orange jumpsuits. Sergeant Cooke roared past them on his dirt bike, his wheels throwing dust and gravel into the air. Running blind through the dust, Gadgets tripped on a rock and fell.
Lyons helped him up. "That Cooke irritates me."
"Yeah." Gadgets wiped blood from his torn hands. "I think he's doing it deliberately."
"Lots of deliberate things can happen to him, too." Lyons ran alongside Gadgets. "But that has to wait."
"But how much longer?" Gadgets gasped. "This waiting is about to kill me. We must've done a hundred miles today."
Lyons laughed. "It's good for you."
"Ughhhhhhh," Gadgets groaned.
Ahead of them, where the trail met the asphalt road, they saw a jeep. The two previous evenings, after their forced marches through the desert and hills, it had been the closed van that had taken them into the base. Now they saw Blancanales swing into the jeep.
Lyons sprinted to the road. "All right! Did we finally get our clearance?"
"Sure did, pal," the driver told him. A crew-cut, muscled man with a black mustache, the driver extended a strong hand to Lyons. "I'm Perkins. Welcome to the Texas Irregulars."
* * *
Cold wind from the Andes banged signs, carried newspapers down the avenue. The wind penetrated the old weather-stripping of his Volkswagen's doors, chilled Bob Paxton's stump despite the heater. He massaged the ache where his right leg ended, not bothering to downshift until he came to El Negro's villa. Then he threw the shift into first, and chugged up to the iron gate.
Paxton kept his hands on the wheel as the guards approached. There was one man on each side, both with folding stock Galil assault rifles. Then a third man shone a flashlight in Paxton's face. He waved the light over the interior of the small car. He signaled the guard window. An electric motor opened the heavy gates.
Ex-Lieutenant Navarro approached as Paxton parked in front of the villa: "Senor Paxton, do you have everything?"
"Most everything." Carrying a folder of photos and papers, Paxton limped after the young man into the villa. Hardfaced men with Uzi's and sawed-off shotguns watched them from the shadows.
The warmth of the foyer washed over Paxton, relaxing him, easing the ache where his leg had been. They paused while a guard went over Paxton with a hand-held metal detector,
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