It was a sweet and simple solution, in Nick's eyes. Take the job to deliver three hundred M60s to a half-assed group of wanna-be guerrillas hiding out in Mexico, make a few delicate adjustments to render the guns useless, make the drop, and alert the authorities at both ends. Neatly putting away both the buyers and the sellers, and the CIA's reward would more than cover their expenses and the fee.
It had all gone off without a hitch. The guns had gone down, four neat crates each with their own tiny white parachute, straight into the arms of the Mexican authorities. They'd had word via Lieutenant Parisi that the dealer in L.A. was singing like a bird, and the way Murray and Cody were talking, it sounded like the bust might be bigger than they'd ever dreamed of.
Nick hoped the reward might inflate to match. He liked the detective business, even loved it some days, but he couldn't deny it had an element of danger. It wasn't that he minded for himself so much, but every time he saw Cody or Murray hurt, his mind started turning to retirement plans.
Still, the way this job had gone, maybe it could be the retirement plan. There were always Central and South American revolutionaries looking to start a war with someone, and if the conspiracy theorists were anything to go by, the CIA and the FBI and everyone from the Pentagon down had an oar in. If every job went as smoothly and paid as well, Nick figured they'd all be on a beach in the Bahamas way sooner than anyone'd imagine.
"Hey Cody," he said into the headphones. "You think the Bahamas, man? Or we could go to Hawaii, maybe."
Cody appeared just below him, grinning up from the hold. "What for, Nick? You wanna stage a revolution there next time?"
Nick laughed. "No, I was just thinkin' -"
A high pitched whine from Mimi's dash drove all thoughts of retirement from Nick's mind. Frantically he slapped the overhead switches, unable to believe what every gauge - and the uneven, jerky sound of the Mimi's engine - told him.
"Nick, what is it?" Murray's voice came high and shrill over the earphones. "Are we gonna crash?"
Nick looked down into Cody's eyes. Cody was looking back at him, worried but unafraid. Cody's eyes said he knew that Nick would pull them through.
Nick gulped and clung to the stick, fighting to keep the chopper level as she lost power and started to pitch. "Get down," he barked. "Get strapped in and get low. We're gonna hit, and we're gonna hit hard."
For a second, he was fully occupied with the controls, and when he glanced back down Cody had gone. Nick felt bereft, absurdly alone in the cockpit, cut off from his partners. "You guys okay?" he said, just so they'd answer.
But whatever they might have said was lost in a sharp explosion just in front of the co-pilot's seat. Smoke and fumes poured from the dash into the ruins of the seat - Cody's seat, Nick thought in horror, staring. Cody's seat. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Cody... he had to find Cody. Nick let go of the stick, reaching out for empty air.
"Cody!" he cried out, and then everything went black.
Nick was drifting. He was aware of sounds and silences, pressing in on the gray fog that cradled him. It was like flying in a cloud, weightless, directionless, and Nick hunkered down deeper. Away from the sounds and the occasional stabbing lights that tried to force their way in.
He had to find Cody. Until he did, he would stay safe inside the cloud.
"Nick! Nick! Murray!" Cody fought the medic's attentions with everything he had, trying to get free, straining around to see the wreck of the Screaming Mimi. Listing on her side in the lagoon, she was half-filled with water, and Cody had no idea if his partners were safe.
He'd been thrown clear but trapped by falling metal, his legs pinned by a section of pink tail-casing that he hadn't been able to shift. Now, his legs numb, strapped to a stretcher, with a medic jabbering at him in Spanish, his only idea was to find Nick and Murray as soon as possible.
"Please, you have to understand, please!" he shouted at the Mexican who was fitting a blood-pressure cuff on his arm. "My partners are in there!"
The medic said something else in Spanish in what he probably judged to be a soothing tone, but Cody wasn't having any soothing right then. He kept fighting, struggling to get away from the straps, struggling to make his useless legs obey him until a second medic ran over and between them, the two men held him down.
Sobbing desperately, Cody stared from one to the other. "Please... I have to find my friends," he begged them. "Amigos?"
"Si," the new medic answered. "Amigos."
Cody looked at him for a moment, hope flaring, and then yelped as a needle bit into his arm. "No, please, Nick -"
The medics started talking again, more words that meant nothing to Cody, and he felt the blackness coming down. He fought it back - he had to find them, he had to find Nick - but it was too strong, too heavy. It pressed on his chest, harder and harder until he couldn't breathe, and he knew at last that he was beaten. He had failed them.
I'm sorry, Nick.
"Mr. Ryder! Mr. Ryder, can you hear me?"
Nick struggled weakly away from the voice that had somehow insinuated itself into his cloud. He couldn't come out, not without Cody. But the voice insisted, and it brought lights, stabbing lights that hurt his eyes, and then, worst of all, a touch on his arm. A touch that wasn't Cody.
"Come, Mr. Ryder. Wake up, now. Come on."
"No," said Nick weakly, but despite himself his eyes opened. Everything was a blur, but two things were clear. He wasn't in his cloud, and Cody wasn't there.
"You're doing very well." It was a woman, Nick realized, speaking to him soothingly as though he was a child. She patted his arm.
Nick shrank away from the touch. "Cody. Where's Cody?"
"You're to rest, Mr. Ryder. Everything's all right now."
Nick blinked, focusing more easily. He was in a room with steel-gray doors and cream-yellow walls, and the unmistakable smell of a hospital. The woman bending over him was young, very young, and Mexican. She was dressed in the crisp white uniform of a nurse. But she was wrong. Nothing was right. He'd lost Cody.
"Please," he whispered hoarsely, turning his eyes pleadingly to her face. "Please get Cody. Please."
Her eyes filled with sympathy and she patted his arm again. "I can't do that, Mr. Ryder." She straightened up.
"Why?" Nick reached out for her, but she had already gone. His eyes filled with tears as he watched the gray doors swing shut on her retreating back. "Please, why?"
Nick was too weak to get up. He knew it, because he'd tried after the Mexican nurse had left, determined to find Cody himself. Cody wouldn't be far away, and Murray either - they were probably in the lobby, kept away by the hospital's stupid family-only policy. Like Nick had any family worth the name that weren't Cody and Murray. But despite his best efforts, Nick barely managed to get his shoulders off the pillow before falling back, utterly exhausted.
He lay still, shaking, gathering his strength for another try.
"Mr. Ryder! You've returned to us, I am delighted!" A Mexican doctor swept into the room, white coat flying out behind him. He wore a neat mustache and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
Nick stared at the man. He was in his late thirties, and Nick was sure he'd never seen him before in his life. "Returned?" he asked.
"Why yes." The doctor came to Nick's bedside, reached down and held one of his eyelids open. Nick flinched, then winced as the doctor whipped a penlight from a pocket and light stabbed painfully into his skull. "Very good, very good. I'm Doctor Perez."
Nick stared at him blankly. "Where's Cody?"
"Your friends? Yes, your friends, Allen and Bozinsky. One of them was this Cody, yes?" He stared at Nick a moment, then shook his head. "A very bad business, this."
Nick felt something cold and vile settle just below his heart. "What do you mean?" he said, terror making his voice shake. "Where are Cody and Murray? Why aren't they here?"
"Do you remember anything?" The doctor was looking from Nick's charts to the monitor beside his bed. "No, I don't suppose you do."
"The Mimi..." Nick croaked.
"There was no woman." The doctor shook his head. "No, Mr. Ryder, just under a year ago, you and your friends Allen and Bozinsky were flying in a helicopter over Los Mochis. I believe that you were the pilot of the helicopter on that occasion. You lost control of the aircraft -"
Nick's eyes closed. The high pitched whine from the dash, Cody's trusting eyes on him. The instruments spinning madly, telling him everything was gone, the Mimi fighting his hands.
" - and crashed into the lagoon twelve miles from town. You were badly injured in the crash, Mr. Ryder."
Nick waited for the doctor to go on. When he didn't, Nick opened his eyes. The cold thing had expanded around his heart, filling his chest until he had no room left to breathe. "Cody," he said, because it was the only word he knew.
"You have been in an induced coma ever since so that your injuries could heal. But I am afraid that Mr. Allen and Mr. Bozinsky were not so lucky. Mr. Bozinsky was dead when the emergency services arrived. Mr. Allen was thrown clear of the crash, and we thought initially that we would be able to save him. But unfortunately he did not survive the surgery."
The doctor kept talking, but Nick had no idea what he was saying. But unfortunately he did not survive the surgery. Nick's mind was filled with Cody, laughing, angry, fighting, playing. Living. Cody was life, was the only reason Nick's heart kept beating. And all of that, torn away in one careless sentence. But unfortunately he did not survive the surgery.
"Then why?" Nick demanded, cutting off the doctor in mid-stride. "Why?"
"I don't understand you, Mr. Ryder. Why what?"
"Murray died. Cody died. I nearly died. It's obvious, isn't it? We were all meant to die together. Why?" Nick forced a shoulder off the bed, half-raising himself, shaking with emotion and the strain of holding the position. What he wanted to do was grab the doctor by the throat and choke him, choke his life away and make his words a lie. But his traitor body wouldn't obey him.
"Why?" Nick shouted at Perez. "Why did you make me live?"
They'd sedated him, Nick realized. He knew it, because he'd slept, dreamless in the quiet dark, and that wasn't possible, not after the doctor's words. Cody had gone without him, and that alone broke Nick's heart.
"And how are we feeling now, Mr. Ryder?" Dr. Perez's solicitous voice intruded.
Nick winced and opened his eyes. "I wanna see them. Now."
"I beg your pardon?" This time, the doctor was seated beside the bed. There was a newspaper in his hand, which he folded and put aside.
"Cody. And Murray. I wanna see them."
"You're not listening to me, Mr. Ryder. It's -"
"No, you're not listening. They're in the morgue or whatever you got in this place, right? So put me in a wheelchair, take me down there. Right now. I gotta see them." Tears were pricking the corners of Nick's eyes, but he fought them back. He had to see Cody again, had to touch him. And he realized his one chance at that was staying calm so the moron doctor stopped pumping drugs in his arm. After that - well, after that, Dr. Perez could drug him all he liked. After that, Nick only planned on living long enough to put flowers on his mother's grave one last time.
"Mr. Ryder. Please try to understand." Perez leaned forward, reaching out as though to touch Nick. But he must have seen something in Nick's eyes that stopped him, because he drew his hand back before it made contact. "The accident occurred nearly a year ago. The bodies of your friends have been claimed by their families. In fact, Mr. Allen's mother left a letter for you, to be given to you if - when you recovered."
"A year ago." Nick stared at him stupidly.
Wordlessly, Perez picked up his newspaper and held it out to Nick. The publication was in Spanish, but the date was clear enough: 15 February 1988. Nick gulped and read it again, then looked helplessly at the doctor. "I have to see him," he said again, unable to fight the tears as he realized how impossible it was. They overflowed, burning his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Perez said more gently, and picked up a white envelope off the cupboard beside the bed. He placed it in Nick's hand. "Here. Rest now, and a little later the nurse will bring you some soup. We must see about getting your strength back!"
With a cheerful smile, he left the room.
Nick stared at the closed door. Cody was gone. Murray was gone. It was impossible. He looked down at the white envelope in his hand, and saw his name inscribed in flowing script.
Nick had no idea why Cody's mom would write to him. He knew she disliked him - blamed him for Cody's choices, for his lifestyle. Blamed him because Cody wasn't the son she'd planned him out to be.
His hands shook, but he managed to lift the flap and remove the single sheet of notepaper. It was the heavy quality stuff he'd seen Cody with a hundred times, and it had the Connecticut address embossed in gold script in the top corner. As he unfolded it, a slip of paper like a baggage claim ticket fell to the bed.
22 February 1987
Dear Nick
I know Cody was your friend, and I assume that you will want to know where he is buried.
The Allen plot is in Connecticut's New London County Cemetery, and he is there with his father. I tell you this so that you know, but I ask you not to visit there. It would give me too much pain to see you.
Cody's boat has been sold and your personal items packed. I enclose the storage ticket.
Please respect my wishes, and please do not contact me for any reason.
Elizabeth Allen
Nick stared at the words, tearless now. She'd come and taken Cody - his Cody - and put him in a box, and buried him in the hard, frozen ground of Connecticut. Golden Cody who belonged to the sun and the ocean, who'd said a thousand times that he wanted his ashes scattered at sea, just like his grandfather's had been.
He folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope, absently stuffing the claim ticket in with it.
"Don't worry, Cody," he said out loud, crushing the envelope in his hand. "I'm gonna get you out of there if I gotta dig you up myself."
Murray Bozinsky sat beside Cody's hospital bed, trying to read a magazine. He'd been properly strapped in when the Sikorsky crashed, and the worst injury he'd sustained was a nasty cut to the head requiring five stitches. He had a few bumps and bruises to go with them, but he well knew he'd got off lightly.
Cody hadn't had time to sit down, let alone get strapped in, before Mimi had started rolling uncontrollably. He'd been thrown out before the chopper hit the ground and for a heartbreaking second Murray had thought the helicopter would land on him. But Cody had fallen to the beach and the Mimi, with one more drunken lurch, had rolled into the lagoon.
Murray would never forget the sound of tearing, shrieking metal, the thunderous crash as the big machine hit the ground. But almost the worst thing had been the complete silence from either of his partners.
Cody was going to be all right. The doctors said so, and Murray had examined the x-rays himself to be sure. There was no bone or circulatory damage in his back or legs, and the nerve damage was minor. Cody would have the use of his legs again in a matter of days, and the ribs he'd broken in the fall, while painful, would also heal completely.
But Murray hadn't been allowed to see Nick yet. Murray and Cody had been taken away in an ambulance before the emergency services had gotten Nick out, and on arrival Nick had been rushed straight in to surgery.
The only doctor who'd spoken to Murray so far, a smarmy individual called Perez that Murray couldn't bring himself to like, had been very grave, shaking his head and talking about brain damage. Murray couldn't deny that he was frightened.
"Nick?" Cody spoke thickly from the bed and Murray went to him quickly.
"Cody? Cody, it's me, Murray." He took his friend's hand.
Cody blinked a little then focused. "Hey, Murray. You okay?"
"Sure, Cody." Murray smiled. "And so are you."
Cody grimaced. "Don't feel okay. Where's Nick?"
"He's still in surgery." Murray swallowed hard. He didn't want to frighten Cody, but he didn't want to raise false hope either. "I think they're pretty worried about him."
For a long moment Cody stared at him. Then he looked away, and Murray saw his adam's apple bob as his throat worked. "So'm I, Boz," he said softly. "So am I."
Murray tightened his grip on Cody's hand and said nothing.
The door to the room opened with a click and Perez walked in without waiting for an invitation. Murray regarded him with dislike as the door swung closed.
"Can either of you tell me Mr. Ryder's next of kin?" Perez said, pursing his mouth primly.
"Nick doesn't have any family," Murray began doubtfully.
Cody pulled his hand from Murray's grasp and levered himself up in the bed. "Why?" he barked, staring at Perez. "What's happened? Where's Nick?"
"I need the next of kin," Perez said regretfully.
"I'm his goddamn next of kin. He's my second cousin," Cody said wildly. "Now tell me!" His voice rose.
Perez stared for a moment, then shrugged. "It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that the surgery on Mr. Ryder was not successful," he said.
Murray's heart pounded. "Not successful? Is he bleeding into his brain and you can't stop it? What do you mean?" he blurted.
The doctor looked surprised. "Ah," he said apologetically. "I fear my English is not as good as I had hoped. I am sorry to give you false hope, Mr. Bozinsky." He paused, looking from Murray to Cody. "Mr. Ryder did not survive the surgery. He was pronounced dead at 3:16 p.m. this afternoon." He bowed his head slightly. "I am very sorry for your loss." Before either Murray or Cody had recovered their wits, he was gone.
Murray felt like his world was standing on end. Nick, so alive, so important to them, their heart, their courage - Nick couldn't be dead. He stared blankly at the door, waiting for the doctor to return and say he'd made a mistake. Waiting for Nick to walk in, swearing and grumbling about the hospital. Waiting for the world to start again.
"Murray! Murray!" Cody's plaintive cry from the bed returned him to himself. "What'd he mean, Murray? He didn't - he can't have -" Cody stared at Murray, his eyes begging him to say it was a lie. To anchor his world again, when Murray couldn't even anchor his own.
Murray stared into Cody's terrified blue eyes and burst into tears.
"I'll find him. Don't worry, Boz, it's gonna be okay -" In an instant, Cody's fear was gone. He fought himself to a sitting position, eyes turned grim and hard, and somehow levered his legs off the bed. "Check my clothes. See if we still got our guns."
It was an order, not a request, and Murray had started to move when reality set in. "Cody," he said hopelessly, grabbing his friend's arms. "Cody, it wont do any good. Lie down. You're hurt and Nick's -" Murray stopped.
Cody didn't seem to have heard him. There was a pale light in his eyes and steel in his voice. "I will find him."
Murray stared at him. For the second time in his life, he was seeing the Cody Allen who'd fought in Vietnam. The Cody Allen who would stop at nothing to do what he had to do. Last time, Murray had gone with him, and they'd faced down evil and gotten Nick out. Or Nick had gotten them out.
But this time, Nick had gone beyond their ability to reach him. Murray knew that, even if Cody didn't - or couldn't.
Feeling like a traitor, Murray let go of Cody's arms. As Cody wrenched his IV out then, steadying himself on his hands, forced his body into a standing position, Murray held the bell down.
If a man put his mind to it, there were probably a lot of ways to kill yourself in a hospital. Nick pushed away the wheeled trolley with his half-eaten bowl of soup. The simplest was probably the pharmacy, but without Murray to tell you what all those Latin names meant there was a good chance you'd overdose on laxatives by mistake. The thought nearly made Nick smile.
Boz, you better be taking good care of Cody up there, he thought. You know how he gets. They got an ocean up there for him, huh? Maybe a boat like the Contessa, only with wings instead of bikinis?
Nick fought back the tears. It'd hurt less to go now, but it felt like quitting to him. He had to tell his mama, try to make her understand he wasn't sinning, that to go on living without his soul was a greater sin by far. But before that, he had to undo what Cody's bitch mother had done.
You tell him it's gonna be okay, Murray. You tell him I'm coming. Take him down to whatever they got for a bar up there, an' you have a drink on me, all right?
Nick closed his eyes, trying to blot out the picture of his partner looking up at him from Mimi's hold. Trusting him. Knowing he'd get them through it. But he hadn't, he'd let them down, Cody and Murray both.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, tears overflowing. "I'm so sorry."
There was the guttural sound of someone clearing their throat, and Nick's eyes flew open. Standing a few feet from the bed was Lieutenant Carlos Guerrera of the Mexican police, their contact in the take-down at this end.
Nick stared at him uncomprehendingly. Guerrera belonged to the time before. For an instant, hope flared in Nick's heart.
But then Guerrera spoke, quelling it before it could take hold. "I am glad to see you have recovered, seňor. I was devastated to hear of this tragic accident, and I have prayed every week for you. And of course, for your friends."
Nick rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Uh, thanks."
Guerrera shifted uncomfortably. "This visit is not merely social, seňor. I have a favor to ask you."
"Whatever." Nick regarded the lieutenant with disfavor. "Not much I can do for you like this." He gestured at himself.
"The members of the guerrilla army that we hoped to capture with your weapons unfortunately turned out to have powerful friends." Guerrera raised his hands eloquently. "Because you were in a coma and your friends were dead, the evidence could not be proven. What could we do? In the end, we had to drop the charges."
Nick regarded him angrily. "Oh yeah? So whaddaya want from me?"
"I want your co-operation in bringing these people down. There is a businessman in the town who we believe is financing these people, providing protection. Our net is closing in on him." Guerrera smiled, exposing white teeth topped with gleaming gold fillings. "What I need from you is the American side of the deal. We need to track the money and if you can tell us where to look..." he spread his hands. "You see?"
"All our records are back on the Riptide -" Nick closed his mouth with a snap, his heart clenching. The Riptide was gone and possibly their records along with her. "I can't help," he said finally. "Sorry."
Guerrera watched him for a moment, then nodded, an understanding smile spreading across his face. The smile made Nick want to punch his gold fillings down his throat. "I understand this is a difficult time for you," he said. "I shall return tomorrow or perhaps the next day."
Nick watched him leave with dislike. "Don't bother," he said to the closing door.
Murray carefully finished placing his own belongings in the motel unit's closet, then turned his attention to Cody's bag. Battered and a little stained from the crash, Murray expected the contents to be in a bad way, but opening it brought a pleasant surprise. The seawater had barely soaked through, and only one pair of jeans and Cody's diamond patterned sweater seemed affected. Laying those items aside for the laundry, Murray quickly assembled a change of clothes and toiletries to take to the hospital for Cody.
He hesitated over Nick's duffel, and then placed it carefully on the far side of the room. It didn't have to be unpacked yet, and perhaps going through it would help Cody.
Murray smiled at himself wryly, honest enough to admit that the idea of going through Nick's bag would make it all too real. Too final. He was still coming to terms with the idea that they'd lost Nick, and he couldn't stop himself looking for him wherever he went.
Even supervising the baggage being taken off the Mimi where she lay in the shallows didn't make it real. He'd watched the police tender, constantly expecting Nick to stroll up beside him and point at the damage, talk about how hard it was going to be to get parts. He'd even found himself thinking they could use the royalties from his latest game, Bandito Bozzito, to finance the repair - when it suddenly came home to him that this time, there'd be no repair.
Los Mochis was the Screaming Mimi's deathbed, too.
After that, he'd sobbed all the way to town in the back of the cab.
Fortunately, he hadn't brought a lot of computer equipment with him. The Roboz was at home in King Harbor, and Murray's comm-link with him was safely in his pocket. The one terminal he'd brought was damaged, the monitor irreparably so. But Murray was pretty sure the computer itself would work perfectly with a couple of minor repairs.
With that in mind, he stopped at a hardware store on the way back to the hospital. He purchased an electrician's toolkit, two spools of wire and just as he was on his way to the checkout, spied the exact mini-transistor he'd been trying to get King Harbor Hardware to order for him - without success - for months.
Ten minutes later, flushed with success, Murray arrived at the hospital. He'd been away several hours, but when he'd left Cody at ten a.m., Cody had been subdued and listless. Murray hoped Cody had spent the day sleeping and recuperating and not thinking about Nick.
Nick. With a jolt, Murray realized that he hadn't thought of Nick himself since the moment he'd entered the hardware store. Sobered, he walked slowly toward the lifts. He supposed grief was like that - you couldn't go about overwhelmed with it all the time because life got in the way - but he understood for the first time that he was facing a future in which Nick played no part. The pain would ease, gradually, until eventually Nick was someone he'd only think of at Christmas and maybe when the Cubs came from behind and scored.
Murray had to spend ten minutes in the bathroom after that before he was composed enough to face Cody.
But he entered the room to find he needn't have bothered. Cody was far too upset to notice Murray's state of mind. The obsequious Dr. Perez was standing beside the bed, almost wringing his hands, and Cody was shouting at him, so red in the face that Murray wondered if people still died of apoplexy.
"Cody! What's wrong?" Murray rushed in, glaring at Perez.
"Thank God you're here, Murray! He wont let me see Nick!"
Murray gulped, looking from Cody to Perez. "Uh, Cody -"
Perez interrupted. "Mr. Bozinsky. You see how it is for me? I can only release the body to the next of kin. Now despite what Mr. Allen told me yesterday -" he gave a small smile, and Murray's fingers tightened around his thumb as he clenched his fist "- he is not Mr. Ryder's next of kin. And neither are you."
Murray closed his mouth with a snap.
"We have made inquiries, and Mr. Ryder's next of kin is a cousin named Anthony Bimini. We have not yet obtained an address or phone number, but rest assured that when we do, the proper channels will be followed. Mr. Ryder's body will be released to his family. And you may address your concerns to them." With a sharp nod, Perez stalked out of the room.
Cody fell back against his pillow. "Murray, we have to do something. They - they can't just keep Nick from us. Can they?"
Murray bit his lip. "I'm very much afraid that they can, Cody. Do you have Tony's address? Can we get him to name us his agents or something?"
"I don't know." Cody moved his head restlessly. "He's in Chicago, but I have no idea if he'd help us, even if we could get in touch with him. He's a pretty devout Catholic - he's probably got some strong ideas about what should be done." Cody raised a hand and covered his eyes. "I have to see him," he said in a low voice.
Murray took Cody's other hand, feeling desperately inadequate. His own pain at losing Nick was enormous, but even thinking about how Cody must feel dwarfed it.
Nick and Cody had been so close for so many years. They'd fought, worked, lived and played together since they were in their early twenties, and for Cody to lose Nick, the one person who had always been his rock - well, Murray was afraid that it might destroy Cody too.
Cody lowered his hand from his eyes and looked at Murray. "Sorry, Boz," he said, and sighed. "I just - I guess I can't believe he's - he's gone."
Murray fought back tears again. "Me either," he said quietly and sat down in the chair beside Cody's bed.
"I have my computer back," Murray said at last, into Cody's silence. "It's not working, but I bought some tools and I think I can fix it."
"That's good," Cody said, sounding completely uninterested, and Murray smiled despite himself.
"I'll at least have a go at finding Tony, anyhow. Bimini, did he say?"
"Yeah. Like bikini." Cody's lips twitched - not exactly a smile, but nearly, Murray thought. Then he sighed. "So you've gotten the stuff off the Mimi then, huh?"
"That's right. We have to find someone who can get her out of the sea, too. The authorities apparently don't do that for us down here."
"We'd better do that soon, or she'll rust away to nothing." Cody smiled slightly, a real smile this time. He turned his head away so that he was looking out the window. "And then Nick will never forgive us."
Murray froze, but Cody said nothing more. And Murray Bozinsky lowered his head and wept for himself and for his partners, each lost in their own way.
Nick awoke with a jolt. The room was dark except for the pale green light above his call-bell, and judging by the silence - rare in a hospital - it was very late.
He wasn't sleeping well. He never did without Cody, never had, not since they'd come home from Vietnam in tune with each other's breathing. If Cody wasn't in the room, Nick knew it, and it put him on alert.
But this time, of course, Cody wasn't in the head, wasn't visiting his stuck-up cow of a mother, wasn't taking a leak outside a tent in-country, ten yards from a VC sniper. Cody was -
Nick shut his subconscious down. Cody and Murray were away, that was all, and Murray was taking good care of Cody. The little guy always did and at least where they were now, there wasn't gonna be anyone taking shots at them.
Cautiously, Nick rolled over. His strength was returning, and though they hadn't let him stand yet, he could sit up unsupported and move his legs where he wanted.
He closed his eyes again, thinking of the Riptide. Trying to put himself on her deck, the three of them out fishing with Murray's damned mechanical bait. Trying with all his heart to make the crying gulls and Cody's laughter, the scent of sea and fish, more real than the hard cotton hospital sheet.
Cody's eyes were the same blue as the sky, and they were looking up at him from Mimi's hold. There was no blame in them and Nick wished there was, wished Cody would punish him some other way than this. If only he'd be angry, shout at him, hit him, do anything except leave him -
The high-pitched whine from Mimi's dash dragged Nick's eyes back to her instruments, all of them failing, falling, before his eyes. He struggled with the stick, fighting it, and then the dash exploded into the co-pilot's seat.
Nick came awake suddenly, sitting bolt upright. There'd been a bomb. Probably more than one. It explained the multitude of failures, the main rotor quitting when it had, the way the ship had refused to respond. The bomb in the dash was meant for him, he was sure: choppers were always flown from the left hand seat. The exception was the big cargo birds: you had to be positioned where you could see the cargo door. But a small-time crook fitting a bomb probably didn't know that. Or fitting three of them.
It put a whole different complexion on things. Nick rubbed his eyes with his hands. No wonder the take-down had seemed to go so smoothly: the crooks had a follow-up all planned. Obviously there'd been a leak somewhere.
Nick narrowed his eyes. A leak that had cost Cody and Murray their lives. Well, Guerrera wanted help: Nick would give it. And while he was giving it, he'd figure out where the leak had come from and then he'd go ahead and plug it.
Once that was done, he'd get Cody out of Connecticut and take a run to Chicago and see his own mama.
Nick lay back down slowly. He was gonna need guns, and he was gonna need money. Guerrera had better come through.
"No! We're taking her home!" Cody's anguished shout echoed over the cries of the gulls and the roar of the winch dragging the wreck of the Screaming Mimi closer and closer to shore.
"But seňor!" Lieutenant Guerrera lifted his hands. "It is only useless junk! And forgive me, but your pilot -"
Murray interrupted hurriedly. Judging by the look on Cody's face, he was two seconds from punching Guerrera into the lagoon, and about the only thing that hadn't gone wrong so far was them getting arrested. Also, if Cody let go of his crutches long enough to hit someone, he'd certainly fall and probably hurt himself more seriously. "Let's just get it out of the water without doing any more damage, all right?" he said placatingly.
"As you wish." Guerrera shrugged and went back to watching.
Murray steered Cody toward the front of the truck. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "It's going to cost a fortune to take her home, and I don't know if the damage is repairable -"
Cody shook his head vehemently. "I don't care," he said, pain raw in his voice. "I don't care if I work every day the rest of my life to pay it off. He died in her, Murray. He died in her. How can I leave her here alone, after that?"
Murray forbore to mention that Nick had actually died on an operating table in Los Mochis hospital. Something told him details such as that wouldn't be helpful right now. Especially since the hospital was still refusing to release Nick's body. If getting Mimi home would help Cody even a little, Murray was in complete agreement.
Another hour, a second winch and a small crane saw the huge pink chopper finally installed on a flatbed truck. Considering the violence of the crash, the Screaming Mimi looked strangely undamaged. The main rotors were crushed, the paneling on one side of the tail section was gone, and the dash was a wreck, but other than that she appeared intact.
Cody stood beside the truck, staring hopelessly up at the chopper. Murray knew Cody wanted to get into the cockpit, and he also knew there was no chance his slowly-healing legs were up to the climb. Cody seemed to realize that, and turned away dispiritedly.
"Come on," Murray said gently, putting an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Why don't you wait in the car? You must be getting tired, huh?"
"I guess." Cody shrugged and made his awkward way toward the police cruiser. Guerrera was over by the truck, conversing with the crane driver, but the car was unlocked and Murray helped Cody inside.
"I'll go and make sure the driver knows what he's doing," Murray said, bestowing a reassuring pat on Cody's leg.
Cody nodded, and Murray thought how tired and drawn - how old - he looked. "We gotta take her home, Boz," he said, sounding exhausted. "That's what Nick'll want."
Murray nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. More often than not, Cody still used the present tense when he talked about Nick, and Murray didn't have the heart to correct him. Anyway, Murray told himself, heading back toward the truck, who's to say Nick's not watching right now? He glanced up unconsciously, but saw nothing except the wide blue sky.
"Don't worry, Nick," Murray muttered under his breath. "If you're listening, that is. I - I'm doing my best, okay? We're taking Mimi home for you, and Cody's doing okay." He looked up again, but nothing had changed.
"You are sure about this, seňor? All the way to California?" The truck driver was leaning against his cab, scribbling on a clipboard, and there was no sign of Guerrera.
"I'm sure," Murray said firmly, giving himself a shake. "Where do I sign? And do you have the address for the bill?"
Murray filled out the paperwork under the driver's amused eye - he obviously thought gringos who would pay to ship junk metal eight hundred miles across two countries were crazy - and handed the clipboard back. He was just turning to go back to the car when he saw Guerrera scrambling down off the rungs leading to Mimi's cockpit.
Murray opened his mouth to shout, then shut it again with a snap. Something told him Guerrera was up to no good. He turned as though he had seen nothing, and walked casually back to the car where Cody waited. Tonight he'd fire up the computer and run a full check on Carlos Guerrera and see what he could see.
And, he thought, narrowing his eyes, maybe on Dr. Perez too. The man had a suspicious-looking mustache.
"I assure you, doctor, I will take excellent care of him." Lieutenant Guerrera waved his hands placatingly.
"The man has barely recovered from a head injury! He took his first steps in a year yesterday! In a year! And now the police come and want to drag him around town like a marathon runner! No! I won't have it!"
Perez was putting on a good performance, Nick thought dispassionately. From his point of view, he didn't care who came out on top - it made no difference to him whether he did Guerrera's work today or tomorrow. All that mattered was that he found out who needed to pay.
He watched the two men argue back and forth, occasionally sipping water and wishing it was a beer. Or maybe something stronger. Perez was weakening, he realized, and wasn't in the least surprised when Guerrera's suggestion of taking Nick to his own house instead of Police Headquarters swayed the doctor so that he gave in.
"In fact," Guerrera said slowly, "why doesn't Mr. Ryder spend the night with me? That way we may continue tomorrow without driving him about the town again?"
"Well," said Perez, "this I can allow only on the condition that I come and examine him this evening! And if there is a problem, back he comes!"
"Bien," Guerrera said, smiling widely. "I shall expect you then at seven?"
Perez smiled, and withdrew.
Nick let Guerrera take him down to the car in a wheelchair, not because he didn't think he could have walked - he was sure he could, earlier in the day, he'd locked himself in the bathroom and done a few star jumps and a couple of press-ups, and felt like anything short of a five mile run would be fine - but because his native caution had kicked in. Guerrera could be on the level, or he could be one of the leaks, and either way, it wouldn't hurt the guy to think Nick was a lot sicker than he really was.
As soon as they arrived at Guerrera's home, Nick's suspicions intensified. Guerrera's house was palatial, more, Nick was sure, than a police lieutenant even in corrupt Mexico could afford. Nick remembered the big businessman Guerrera had said he was trying to nail, and said nothing.
Nick took one look at the stairs and declared them beyond him. He thought they'd keep him downstairs, but Guerrera made a phone call and a few minutes later a huge man with a face like a professional wrestler appeared. "Sancho will carry you," Guerrera said and smiled, showing all his gold fillings.
Nick measured the wrestler with his eyes. He couldn't take the guy down like this. But he could take Guerrera and get his gun -
Nick stopped himself and managed a pleasant smile. "Thank you," he croaked. Against the wrestler laying hands on him was the advantage of being on the second floor with everyone in the house believing him incapable of descending the stairs.
At last he was installed in a pale blue bedroom at the end of the upstairs corridor. It had a bathroom attached "so you must only walk a few steps. I trust Dr. Perez will be satisfied!"
Nick had no idea if Perez would be satisfied or not, but the bedroom worked for him. It opened onto the big front balcony, which had outside stairs leading to the ground. That gave him two exits plus the bathroom window in a pinch. Nick wondered just how many armaments Guerrera kept in the house, and whether he could hope to get the names he needed tonight. If the house yielded a couple of guns, a grenade or two if fortune was kind and a wad of cash, he could steal a car from any of the flash homes in this neighborhood and hopefully have cleaned up this end before sundown tomorrow.
His ruminations were cut off by Guerrera returning with a notebook and a beefy sergeant. Painstakingly, Nick told what he could remember and embellished what he could not, carefully forgetting names he remembered perfectly well and mixing up addresses. The two names he did give, clearly - he even spelled them - were those of the CIA agents who had gotten them into this mess. Let them take their chances. They, at least, were getting paid for this shit.
At last Guerrera seemed to think they'd done enough for one day. He went away and his sergeant with him, but Nick watched from the window and the sergeant did not leave. Twenty minutes later the man who'd called himself Sergeant Cuellar was seated on the front lawn in street clothes disposing of a six-pack of beer with the wrestler.
Nick supposed they might be Guerrera's friends, but they looked a lot more like bodyguards to him.
Nick stripped to his shorts and put on the robe hanging on the end of his bed. He folded back the sheets and disarranged the bedding so that it looked as though he had been in bed, the tired invalid, in case he was surprised. He was beginning to think that in Guerrera he had stumbled onto the heart of the matter.
An hour later, a large black limousine arrived. Nick nodded to himself as Cuellar jumped to attention and hurried to open the door. The man was no more a sergeant than the wrestler was a ballet dancer.
The man who got out of the limo moved too quickly for Nick to get a look at him. Nick considered leaving his room and attempting to listen, but wrestler-boy and Cuellar abandoned their beer and went inside so he decided to play safe. He was still wondering how to get a look at the visitor when footsteps sounded outside his room.
Quick as thought, Nick dived between the sheets, pulling them up to his waist. He dropped back on the pillows and closed his eyes just as the door opened.
"Well well! I am early, and you care for my patient as well as you said. Good, very good."
Nick's eyes flew open. The man who'd arrived in the limousine was Dr. Perez.
Cody was on the bed, resting again. He was getting stronger every day, but he tired quickly. The weakness infuriated him, but there was nothing he could do about it - except blow his top at Murray, which he'd done three times already. And that, naturally, only left him feeling worse.
He wished there was something he could do to make it up to the little guy. Murray had taken care of everything: found the people to salvage the Mimi, rented the motel, dealt with the police and the paperwork. Kept Cody from shooting anyone.
The only thing he hadn't been able to do was get to Nick.
That was tearing Cody apart. Nick hated hospitals worse than just about anything. Cody had no real firm ideas about the afterlife but he couldn't shake the idea that Nick was trapped in the hospital, alone, all this time.
Murray said something that Cody didn't catch, and he turned over slowly. Perched at the small table in their unit, Murray was typing frantically on his portable computer. Long wires snaked from the keyboard up to the television on the wall, and as Murray clicked the keys a procession of green characters marched down the screen.
"What'd you say, Boz?"
Murray pushed two more keys then turned, a look of grim triumph on his face. "I said, Guerrera's a crook." He shook his head. "Cody, I'm starting to think this is all my fault."
"What are you talking about?" Cody sat up, cautiously swinging his weakened legs over the edge of the bed.
"I didn't do these background checks before we started out. If I only had, maybe none of this would have happened."
"Hey, Murray, no. You did background checks, what're you talking about? We had pages and pages of info - remember Nick saying he'd have no fires to fight this year seeing as you'd used every tree in California for printer-paper?"
Murray gave a wan smile. "Yeah, on the crooks, Cody. On the crooks! What I didn't do was check up on the law enforcement."
"Well, even if he is a crook, so what?" Cody took a deep breath. "Boz, Mimi crashed. She'd've done that even if he was on the level."
"I'm telling myself that but -" Murray shook his head. "The day we pulled her out of the lagoon, he didn't have to be there. And I saw him come out of the cockpit. Maybe there was some evidence, something there."
"A bomb, maybe." Cody caught on, anger sparking in his heart. "That makes sense. Just before Nick shouted, there was that sound - I thought it was static, but now I'm not so sure."
"I heard it too," Murray agreed. "It could have been a bomb."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"So, what have you got?" Cody said eventually. "Can we put him away?"
"I doubt it." Murray looked despondent. "It's very clear from his bank accounts that he's on the take, but there's something more than that. You know we believed that there was some kind of big-time finance behind these revolutionaries, but the CIA dismissed the idea as far-fetched?"
"Yeah." Cody sat forward, eyes kindling. "And?"
"I think Guerrera's the one arranging the finance." Murray looked unhappy. "It'd be nearly impossible to nail him with that sort of money behind him."
"We have to shut him down. One way or the other." Cody looked at bedside table and Murray paled.
"Cody, we're not vigilantes," he said hastily.
Cody's smile was grim. "Maybe you're not," he said.
"Cody!"
"Listen, Boz. Listen to me, okay? Because of that scum, Nick's dead. He's dead. Now I'm all for bringing Guerrera down the right way, and if we do, I hope he gets to spend a good long time in a Mexican jail and dies of dysentery. But if we can't get him, or if he walks, I'm gonna take him down myself, if it takes me the rest of my life to do it." He stared at Murray, almost daring him to disagree.
Murray looked down. "I suppose I understand you feeling that way," he said in a low voice. "But it all seems so pointless... it can't bring him back, Cody."
"I know it can't, Boz." Cody sank back on the bed. "Believe me, I know."
Nick had submitted to being examined by the doctor although he'd palmed the medication he'd been given, eaten some sort of spicy stew for dinner and listened with interest to soft, regular footfalls pacing up and down the corridor outside his room. Sneaking over and putting his eye to the keyhole had shown Sancho the wrestler prowling up and down. It was obvious that he was on watch. There was no escape that way.
Perez hadn't left the house after examining Nick, and Nick assumed that he and Guerrera were in some sort of conference. Obviously whatever was going on they were in it together, and just as obviously, whatever the racket was it paid damned well. Nick ran through the possibilities in his mind. It all came down to war-mongering of some kind, and the most likely thing was weapons-smuggling.
Nick allowed himself a shark-like grin. He only hoped Guerrera and Perez kept samples of the merchandise at home.
He thought for a few moments, then decided to have a shower. It might lull the sentry outside his room into a false sense of security, and it would certainly kill time until darkness fell. After dark, he might be able to escape via the balcony.
The bathroom was small but luxurious, in a pale blue tile that matched the wallpaper in the bedroom. It was kitted out like an upmarket hotel with a basket of fragrant soap and tiny bottles of shampoo.
Nick luxuriated in the shower. He'd been submitting to sponge baths for four days - hell, a year and four days, apparently - and that was four days too long. The hot water felt great on his skin, and if the soap smelled like a hooker's boudoir, well, that was better than a hospital too. He opened one of the bottles of shampoo and lathered up his hair.
He was rinsing the shampoo on autopilot, trying to figure out how many rounds of ammo he was gonna need and estimating how much was likely to be on the premises, when something struck him. He stopped, rolling his hair between his fingers.
His hair wasn't oily.
Nick well knew that his hair turned greasy and lank if he didn't wash it regularly. So either the sponge-bath nurse did a great line in shampoo and sets on coma patients, or...
Nick finished rinsing his hair and climbed out of the shower, very thoughtful indeed.
In the drawers under the sink, he found a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, and made use of both. And as he rinsed his mouth and straightened up, he looked at himself in the mirror and saw a dark shadow on his left shoulder.
Nick looked more closely. Both shoulders showed bruising, the left worse than the right. When he probed the places they were only slightly sore, meaning the bruising was mainly in the skin. He supposed that it was possible there were hospital procedures that bruised like that, even though he had no idea what they were.
But the one thing Nick knew that bruised like that - exactly like that - was a helicopter pilot's harness. And Nick had never heard of bruising taking a year to disappear.
The wrestler was still pacing like he meant it outside Nick's room, so Nick turned his attention to the balcony. Clad in only his jeans, he slipped outside, ready with an excuse of feeling ill and needing fresh air.
The scent of cigarette smoke came up to him clearly and peering down, he saw Cuellar resting nonchalantly against the outdoor staircase. There was no escape that way. Nick slipped past the head of the stairs, wondering if there were any more sentries posted.
He'd gone about halfway along the balcony when he heard voices. Pressing himself against the wall, he inched closer and realized he had come to the room where Perez and Guerrera were in conference. They, perhaps, rather than he, were the reason for the guards.
Nick got as close to the open window as he dared, and settled down to listen.
At the end of an hour, he'd learned three things. Guerrera and Perez were up to their necks in arms dealing, there were definitely arms in the house somewhere, and the following night, an important buyer was expected from somewhere in South America. Nick headed back to his room very slowly.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered down. Cuellar was still there, sitting this time. For a moment Nick thought he was asleep, and then there was a rustle of paper, and Nick realized the man was reading a newspaper.
Holding his breath, Nick eased softly down the stairs. A carefully aimed karate chop silently dispensed with Cuellar, and Nick looked carefully at - but didn't touch - the newspaper in his hand.
The date read 18 February 1987.
Nick slipped back to his room, stripped off his jeans and silently put himself to bed, but not before he'd wedged one of the scented soaps under the balcony door, making it nearly impossible to open from the outside. It would do double duty in keeping him safe from intruders and diverting suspicion once the attack on Cuellar was discovered.
The bed was comfortable, but Nick didn't sleep. The commotion signaling the discovery came a half-hour after he went to bed, but apart from Sancho opening his door and shining a torch over his face, Nick was not disturbed. After that, he was alone with his thoughts.
Whichever way he looked at it, he could come to only one conclusion. He was still alive only so that Guerrera could pump him for information. Once he had told what he knew, he would be disposed of.
The coma story could have only one possible explanation. It was to keep him from Cody and Murray, and any other help he might seek. Without it, he would have demanded to see the bodies. He would have checked himself out of the hospital and escaped their control.
They'd doped him up to make him feel weak and ill, mocked up a newspaper. Mocked up the letter from Cody's mother.
Faked the deaths of Murray and Cody.
The idea was so impossibly perfect that Nick was afraid to believe it. But if Murray and Cody were dead, none of the elaborate deception made sense. If they were alive, everything fell into place.
Believing Nick dead, Cody and Murray would forget about arms dealing and Central America. They'd go back to King Harbor and forget Los Mochis and everything it contained, leaving Guerrera and Perez safe. Nick would spill his guts and be quietly disposed of, with everyone who cared one way or another thinking him already dead.
It had to be the setup. Nick felt ill. He wondered if Cody and Murray had already gone home, or if they were still in Los Mochis. He wondered what they'd been told about him.
He hoped and prayed Murray really was looking out for Cody, just the way he'd asked him to when he believed them both dead.
He wouldn't look at the cold link of fear that remained in his heart, reminding him of the crash. Reminding him that one or both of his partners might have been severely injured or worse.
Murray finally packed the computer away for the night. Cody was already asleep, his injuries catching up with him, but Murray hadn't stopped until he'd found Guerrera's address, which had involved unraveling three false names. Murray was justly proud of himself.
In the end, Cody had promised not to shoot Guerrera on sight, and Murray thought he believed him. They decided to check out his house the following night, stake it out and possibly try to plant a bug. Against them was the fact that Guerrera knew them both by sight, and Cody's injury; in their favor the likelihood that Guerrera believed himself safe.
A quick trip to the hardware store in the morning would supply everything Murray needed to whip up a microscopic transmitter, and the Roboz's communicator could do double duty as a receiver. The only thing left to do was call Lieutenant Parisi and have her set up a sting.
Next morning, Nick spent an hour with Guerrera, smiling through his teeth, then pleaded illness. It wasn't a difficult plea to back up: looking at the guy made Nick sick to his stomach. Guerrera was all solicitation, insisting Nick must go to bed and saying he did not mind at all waiting another day to finish the job.
Nick thanked him pathetically and went to his room. As he'd hoped, Guerrera went out shortly afterward. Nick pretended to be asleep when Cuellar brought him lunch, and refused the food weakly when he was awoken. He curled up in a ball while the man was still watching, and listened with satisfaction as the footsteps receded down the hall.
He gave it another half hour then crept out, using the hall door this time. No-one was around: he hoped against hope that everyone had gone for a siesta.
So it seemed. Nick met no-one as he crept over the large house. Snores from a ground floor room at the rear alerted him to Cuellar and Sancho's presence, and he avoided that one, but nearly an hour went past and he found no weapons.
He was nearly ready to give up when he found the cellar.
The first crate he came to held M60s, and a quick check was sufficient to show him that they were the unadulterated kind. Nick extracted two and closed the box up again. The ammunition took him longer, but he found it in the end, and had just returned to his room with his treasures when he heard a car on the drive.
He tucked the loaded weapons quickly beneath his mattress and jumped into bed.
Nick's prizes remained undiscovered all afternoon, although his pulse raced every time he heard footsteps approaching his door.
But no-one came in until Perez arrived, solicitous about Nick's supposed ill-health, fussing with thermometers and blood-pressure cuffs until Nick wanted to hit him. Nick pretended to swallow his tablets, then spat them into the toilet the moment Perez had left the room.
He paced the room like a tiger, wondering. Killing Guerrera was still on his list, but finding out where Murray and Cody were was a greater priority. But it seemed sloppy to leave Guerrera's home with him still alive, just in case he never got another chance. Nick was still weighing the alternatives when he heard the unmistakable beat of a chopper approaching.
Suddenly the significance of the broad, flat, treeless front lawn came to Nick and he nodded grimly. If Guerrera was catering to international customers, a private helipad - especially one that didn't look like a helipad - was almost an essential. Nick watched with appreciation as a sleek chopper dropped slowly out of the sky and set down, disgorging two passengers.
Nick looked closer and started to laugh. The passengers were unknown to him, but the helicopter itself was a Baxtercraft 1000. Some hotshot at Baxter Aviation must have disposed of the flawed fleet to South America. Nick wondered if Bax knew.
It was nearly dark. Nick looked at his watch and then at the chopper. As soon as it was dark enough to cover him he'd get out there, take the pilot down and steal the bird. From there, he figured to head north, get across the border, then set down somewhere with a phone and try to find out what had really happened to Cody and Murray.
Guerrera, he decided regretfully, would have to wait for another day.
But halfway across the lawn, Nick realized he'd have to rethink. Instead of just the pilot, Cuellar and Sancho were also in front of the chopper.
Nick made a slow sweep back to the house. Through full length lighted windows, he could see four men in a ground floor room, sitting around a coffee table. Two of the men were Guerrera and Perez, and the others had come in the chopper. Nick slipped close, hoping to overhear, but they were speaking Spanish.
He looked back at the chopper. What he needed was a diversion.
Suddenly a shout came from the direction of the bird followed by running footsteps pounding across the graveled drive. Coming to attention like a pointer, Nick slipped back the way that he had come.
He ghosted through the foliage until he could see the chopper. Only the pilot was in evidence, and Nick exhaled with relief. He shifted slightly to the side - and froze as something cold and hard was shoved against his neck.
"Drop those fucking guns and don't turn around, or I'll blow your brains all over this lawn." The whisper was harsh and the speaker meant every word. Nick knew it like he knew his own name and his eyes filled with tears.
"Cody," he said, voice breaking with relief. "Oh, Cody."
Nick didn't drop his guns. That was the only thing he was really sure of for the next few minutes. They weren't really safe, even here in the shrubbery, but he wouldn't let go of Cody long enough to try and move somewhere safer.
Cody had his arms round Nick's chest, holding on so tight Nick wasn't sure he could breathe. He'd started out to hold Cody the same way but a breathless squeak told him that was a bad idea. He figured Cody maybe had some broken ribs and contented himself with an arm across his back, the other hand buried in his thick gold hair.
Cody had his head on Nick's shoulder, and he was crying so hard Nick was starting to worry Cody wasn't going to be able to breathe much longer. "Easy. Easy," Nick whispered in his ear, rubbing his back. "Cody, baby, it's okay. I gotcha, big guy. I gotcha."
With a huge effort, Cody mastered himself, but his grip didn't slacken. "I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead." A tremor wracked his body. "Nick. Oh God, Nick."
"They told me you were dead," Nick said grimly, anger burning through him at the confirmation of his suspicions. "It was only last night I figured some stuff out, and it didn't add up."
"Guerrera," Cody said.
Nick nodded. "And Perez. But that... that's for later. Right now, we gotta find Murray and we gotta get out of here."
"Murray drew those two thugs off over there." Cody loosened one arm and pointed toward the other side of the house. "Hell, I'm supposed to plant this bug."
"Where? Inside? Because I'm not going back in there, Cody. Not now I've found you. We're getting the hell out before one of us eats it for real." Nick tightened his arms, drawing Cody closer again. "I can't do this without you," he said simply. "You know?"
Cody looked him in the eye. "Believe me, Nick. I know." He took a deep breath. "The bug can go outside. On the wall where those guys are talking was where Murray planned it."
"Right. Come on."
"Nick..."
"What?" Nick turned in surprise as Cody hung back, and for the first time saw the crutches lying on the ground beside him. "You're hurt," he said, suddenly frightened. "Cody, why didn't you say?"
"I'm all right, but I'm slow." Cody looked from the chopper to the house, then back at Nick. "I'm gonna slow you down -"
"Then I'm gonna go slow," Nick said with calm determination. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight for one second until these goddamn crazies are safely underground -"
Cody grabbed Nick's arm, grinning. "I used to hate when you got like this."
Nick gave a soft, short laugh. "And now you don't, huh?"
Cody's only answer was another grin. He pointed at the M60s slung over Nick's shoulders. "Can I have one of them?" He tucked his own gun back in the waistband of his pants.
"Pleasure." Nick unslung one and handed it to his partner. "Aim low," he advised. "Better to take out a kneecap than shoot over their heads."
They crept back to the house. Nick could tell Cody was tiring, and he left him hidden behind the last tree, sprinting the few yards to the house and planting the bug in the window frame. His heart pounded the whole time he did it, and when he got back and found Cody waiting for him, he had to fight back tears.
By the time they crept back across the expanse of shrubbery, Cuellar and the wrestler had returned to the chopper. Nick surveyed them in annoyance. "Where was Murray going after he created his diversion?"
Cody shrugged. "We were playing that by ear."
Just then, a shot cracked from the far side of the house. Cuellar and Sancho took off at a run, and Nick looked at Cody uneasily. "I don't want to leave you, but Boz might be in trouble," he said.
He hesitated a moment longer, and suddenly heard a penetrating whisper. "Cody! Where are you?"
Cody gave a low whistle, and the shrubbery rustled with a noise like a herd of young buffalo. Nick couldn't wipe the grin off his face as Murray climbed right through the middle of a bougainvillea and stopped in front of them. He was liberally sprinkled with petals. "Hey guys," he said, then did a double take. "Guys? Nick!"
Nick blinked back tears. He opened his arms and Murray flung himself into them. Cody joined them, and the three of them held each other tight.
It was Murray who pulled away first, wiping his eyes. "We have to escape," he said distractedly, looking at the chopper. "Nick, since you're - you're not dead, we can take that helicopter, right?"
"We sure can, Boz," Nick said. "And I think we oughtta hurry up and do just that, before Cuellar and Sancho come back."
"Friends of yours?" Cody said wryly.
"The best."
The chopper was in the center of the clear front lawn with no cover on the approach, but they did their best, sneaking around behind it and using the bulk of the helicopter to hide them. For once, everything went smoothly. Nick placed a gun to the pilot's head, Murray helped Cody in and scrambled in himself, and Nick hit the pilot over the head and as he crumpled, leaped in and started the chopper.
Cuellar and Sancho came running as the chopper's rotors started, but Cody leaned out the door, raking the lawn with machine-gun fire.
"No fancy flying, Nick!" Murray ordered as they left the ground.
"Don't worry, guys. This is a Baxtercraft 1000. The toughest thing I'm gonna ask it for is a straight line." Nick grinned, looking to his right. Cody was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, grinning back at him, and Nick's heart swelled. "I'm sure glad to be going home."
Cody reached out and rested a hand on Nick's thigh, squeezing gently. In the rear seat, Murray leaned forward between them, grinning like a fool. "If home is where the heart is, then we're already home," he blurted.
"We sure are, Murray," Cody agreed.
Nick nodded, blinking back tears. "We sure are." He turned the chopper's nose for the North Star, and flicked the radio switch experimentally. He was rewarded with a comforting hiss of static. At least the radio worked.
Flipping it off again, he glanced back at Murray. "I don't suppose you've got your Roboz-remote with you, man?"
"Well, sure, Nick." Murray pulled the orange keypad from a pocket, grinning. "The bug Cody planted is transmitting through it right now, straight back to Lieutenant Parisi in King Harbor."
Nick breathed a sigh of relief. "You got no idea how glad I am to hear that, Boz. Because this tin can we're flying hasn't got Mimi's range, and if we drop down uninvited and try to buy fuel, I think it's more'n likely the Mexican authorities are gonna hand us right back to Guerrera."
Cody went white. "Maybe we should ditch the chopper, Nick. Maybe -"
"Maybe nothing. My first plan was to steal a car, but there's even more ways that can go wrong, you know? At least up here, there's less chance of anyone pulling us over."
Murray giggled, fiddling with his keypad. "I have Joanna online," he declared. "Well, her computer, that is. What do you want me to tell her?"
Nick calculated in his head. "Hermosillo. See if she can have a welcome wagon waiting for us there to fuel up. You won't see your boat tonight, man," he glanced at Cody, "but we'll make it to the border and set 'er down in Tucson."
Cody reached out and laid a hand on Nick's leg, squeezing. "I thought you said something about the Bahamas," he said huskily. There were tears in his eyes.
Nick blinked back his own tears. "Nah," he managed. "Hawaii. I changed my mind."
Cody sat back, smiling, and wiped his eyes. "Tucson, King Harbor, Hawaii. I'm gonna hold you to that, pal."
"Hawaii?" Murray frowned, leaning forward. "Nick, I thought you said Hermosillo. That's where Joanna's setting up the helicopter fuel. Are we flying to Hawaii instead? But if we can make it that far, surely we can make it to King Harbor?"
Nick and Cody looked at him, then each other, and burst out laughing. "Hermosillo's perfect, Boz. Perfect," Nick gasped.
"Good. But... I don't understand why you're laughing." Murray still looked confused.
Cody grabbed his shoulder, grinning. "Because we're going home, Murray. All of us. We all made it, we're all going home, and everything's perfect."
Murray looked from Cody to Nick and started to laugh himself. "You're right, guys. You're right. Wherever we end up, it's gonna be perfect."
Nick pushed the cyclic forward, coaxing the Baxtercraft to its top cruising speed as below them, the lights of Los Mochis gave way to the darkness of countryside and coast. He looked at Cody and smiled. This once, the Boz had got it wrong.
Everything was already perfect.
Plot-device loosely based on the Hardy Boys episode of the same name