Reverb
Seven: Intransitive
- x -
I hate to admit that Murdoc and I had anything in common, 'cause we didn't. But sometimes, it was like I had him figured out – I knew how he thought. Then his brain would duck into a new twist of that sick inner maze, some direction I didn't wanna go, and he'd lose me.
By the time dawn blossomed over the sierras, MacGyver and Murdoc were miles away from Hacienda Sandoval. Mac had headed north and east, away from the Mantaro and towards the uplands, and the terrain was slowly showing signs of increased rainfall, the tree cover growing thicker and more lush. But they weren't out of the woods by any means; since the whole idea was to draw off pursuit, Mac had made sure that their first few hours of flight had left a trail as clear as the Nazca Lines.
Pilar would be safe by now. It was time to think more strategically about shaking off pursuit themselves, before full daylight gave their foes a chance to come after them in greater numbers and with more of an advantage. Mac hoped they wouldn't be chased by helicopters, but you never knew.
In that first ferocious dash at full gallop, Mac hadn't had time to worry too much about Murdoc falling off the mare. They'd already argued about whether to actually tie Murdoc into the saddle, or at least rope his feet – well, foot and boot – to the stirrups; Murdoc had wanted the added security and then changed his mind. Instead, Mac had cannibalised another saddle for more leather straps, and rigged a neck strap for the mare, with an extra loop for a handhold. The mare had come along willingly on a leading rein, and even when they'd jumped the barrier, she'd stuck close to the gelding as if both horses had been trained for it.
When they'd paused for their first breather, Mac had swung off the bay, with the stuffed dummy he'd used to simulate a third rider still secured to his back. The gelding nosed at the dummy as he unstrapped it, trying to steal a mouthful of the hay. Mac rubbed the horse's neck affectionately; he'd assembled the dummy in the bay's stall, giving the animal every chance he could to get familiar with the weird floppy bundle it would have to carry. But most horses would have been spooked anyway.
Mac laid the dummy over the mare's withers for now. Later, after they'd broken away from the clear trail, he'd scatter the hay – or feed it to the horses – and bury or burn the rags of Pilar's and Murdoc's prison garb. The stable-master's extra clothing had been ridiculously large on Pilar, although Murdoc was closer to the right size. MacGyver didn't let Murdoc alight – there was nothing here to use as a mounting block, and it had been hard enough to get him up into the saddle in the first place.
It was time to disappear. Horses can go where vehicles can't. Mac turned due north into the higher country. They wouldn't cover as much distance on the rougher ground, but they'd be harder to follow. With some careful trickery and a bit of luck, they might be able to vanish. Depends on how good their trackers are . . . but Mac felt fairly confident there. This part of Peru didn't have much of a hunting tradition; the local campesinos were herders and farmers, not trackers. And the original Spanish nobility hadn't had the hunting addiction of British colonials – MacGyver remembered an exhausting, nerve-wracking day and a half in Sierra Leone, when he'd almost failed to escape from a vindictive arms dealer who'd taken excessive pride in his ancient English lineage.
He kept the pace steady but easy. The Peruvian horses had been an incredible stroke of luck – their natural paso llano gait ate up distance like anything without subjecting the unaccustomed rider to the agonies of a trot. Mac doubted that Murdoc could have endured that. He hadn't spoken since the dash for the gate, and sat on the mare like a sack of lumpy potato peelings, his one hand still clenching the leather loop with a white-knuckled grip that showed no signs of relaxing. His teeth were set and his gaze didn't seem to be focused on anything at all.
The mare clearly wasn't happy with the unresponsive rider who smelled so sharply of fear, although at least his scarecrow thinness made him a light burden. She remained patient and followed Mac's lead contentedly, as they alternated between a walk and that lovely smooth ambling canter that was one of the joys of riding in Peru. The pace had to slow as the way grew steeper; Mac took the horses through thickening swathes of forest, where their trail couldn't be seen by overhead searchers, and urged them up rocky slopes, where dislodged stones under their feet rattled away and left longer and longer echoes as they climbed higher.
At the top of one long steep ascent, MacGyver stopped to breathe the horses, dismounting to examine their legs and hooves. A lame horse at this point would be disastrous, and not just for the horse – Mac had pushed his perpetually overstrained luck way too hard when they'd jumped the barrier.
MacGyver looked thoughtfully up at Murdoc, frowning. He must have been in agony from the unfamiliar strain of riding, but it didn't show in his face. Murdoc raised an eyebrow, the first real sign of life for some time. "What?"
"The beard."
Murdoc smirked, and any shred of sympathy Mac might have had blew away in the morning breeze. "You don't like it? Maybe you think a dashing little goatee would suit my rakish personality better?"
"No, it's not just the beard – it's the face."
Murdoc smirked again. "The best that money could buy."
MacGyver scowled. "Would you cut it out? Yeah, you turned up one day without all the scarring and said you'd gotten a new face – like that's even possible! C'mon, Murdoc. If those scars had ever been real, you wouldn't have a beard right now. It couldn't have grown like that through the scar tissue. Even the best plastic surgeons in the world can't do that much reconstruction. Be nice if they could. There's plenty of burn victims who didn't get their scars from tryin' to kill people."
"You know, it's a funny thing about really bad scarring." Murdoc answered almost nonchalantly, as if they'd been discussing philosophy or literature at some sidewalk café. "People don't like to look at it. They'll glance quickly – almost furtively – and look away. And afterwards, all they remember is the scars. You can walk down the street in a clown suit and nobody will even notice, since they're oh-so-carefully not looking at you." He released his vise-like grip on the handhold for the first time, flexed his fingers, shrugged. "It kept you and Thornton from looking too deeply, after all. Speaking of that, how is dear Peter? Is his eyesight any better?"
"Don't change the subject. So the burns – the scars were fake all along. Why? Why all the faking?"
"Oh, MacGyver, you are such a Philistine. I suppose you've never even seen 'The Phantom of the Opera', have you? You really should have spent more time studying the classics! Alexandre Dumas, Mark Twain, Charles Dickens . . . Shakespeare." Murdoc waved his hand airily. "Disguise becomes a habit. And I've always loved it for its own sake – playing sleight of hand with one's own face . . . and the best was for dear Penny. A mask within a mask. How is she, by the way? Still trying to become a star, the dear, silly goose?"
Mac scowled at him. "You're not doin' too great at answering questions," he snapped. "Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that you can't keep a promise – but I could still leave you for the Sandoval troops to catch again."
Murdoc gave him a considering look. "Could you? Could you really?"
"You wanna try me?"
"Oh, I thought I already was." Murdoc grinned mirthlessly.
- x -
MacGyver reluctantly accepted what he'd suspected for some time: the showy bay gelding, although it had a heart as wide as the broad alpine sky above, was bred for shorter, faster runs, not for hours of steady work on rough terrain. The roan mare was more sure-footed, with the kind of iron stamina that always filled Mac with awe.
Murdoc hadn't said much for the last few hours; Mac assumed that he was saving his strength. The horse wasn't the only thing around with an iron stamina, although he didn't know how much of Murdoc's was rooted in stubborn vengefulness, and how much was a blind refusal to be destroyed. There were still a lot of unanswered questions.
They would do better on the single horse, even on the rough terrain; the mare would probably appreciate a better rider, and Mac could alternate walking and riding if he had to. If he released the bay, the handsome gelding would undoubtedly return home in search of fodder and familiar surroundings, if it wasn't found and appropriated by a passing opportunist; and with any luck, the trail would be badly confused.
But it was hard to say good-bye to any friend. He wished he had an apple to share with the bay, but at least he could give both horses a proper break before parting company. The riders, too, although there wasn't much he could do for Murdoc, not until they got to a settlement.
They had reached an upland clearing, where a foaming alpine rivulet ran down sparkling in the sun before cascading off a rocky overhang. The forest ahead of them was growing thicker, but the ground fell steeply away to one side, and the long vista was breathtaking. A stone outcropping offered a makeshift mounting block; MacGyver doubted he'd be able to get Murdoc back onto the mare without some kind of help, and he didn't feel up to contriving a winch.
Murdoc gritted his teeth before he attempted the dismount and slid to the ground in a boneless heap. Mac heard him swearing under his breath, mostly in a Spanish too colloquial for him to follow, which suited him fine. He handed Murdoc the crutch and turned his attention to pulling the tack off the horses.
Murdoc pulled himself upright and peered out over the waves of rising country. "Oh, look. It's a nice high precipice. How positively nostalgic. Perhaps I should save us both a lot of time and bother, and hurl myself off it right now, shouting your name. Then you could spend a few months – or years – wondering just when and where I'll turn up again."
Mac didn't answer. He checked the temperature of the water in the stream – the sun had been on it for long enough that it wasn't icy, so he let both horses drink briefly, then led them away. Murdoc had turned away from the overhang and pulled himself to the side of the stream to drink. He drank from his cupped left hand, propping himself up on the right elbow. In the full light of day, MacGyver could see that both forearms were heavily calloused, the thickened skin dark with ground-in dirt.
When Mac approached with the horses, Murdoc eyed them uneasily and drew back from the stream, pulling himself along crablike on knees and forearms, as he had in the cellar, until he reached the rock heap where he'd left the crutch. Mac wondered if he didn't trust the crutch to hold up under much use – it was pretty flimsy – or if he'd simply gotten used to crawling. The motion was familiar and practiced; Mac wondered again at the kind of relentless persistence it must have taken to adapt to the injuries while trapped in the oubliette. Murdoc settled himself comfortably, his back against the rocks, looking out across the tumbled horizon.
"MacGyver, do I dare ask if you actually know where we are?"
"We're headed for the Ene River," Mac answered shortly. "Why? Did you think we were wanderin' around in circles?"
"Just wondering," Murdoc said lightly. "Are we actually going someplace in particular, or are you making this up as you go along?"
"I've got a contact who'll hide us for the night." Mac had always intended to flee the hacienda in a different direction and draw off pursuit. Magdalena had sent word to one of her cousins, who farmed near Quiteni along a tributary of the Ene; by now, the man would probably know that there were two fugitives rather than one. But he didn't feel comfortable sharing the details with Murdoc.
"Friends in high-altitude places?" Murdoc was smirking again, as if he could follow every turn of MacGyver's thoughts. He probably wasn't too far off.
Mac pulled the dummy apart and let the horses at the hay. He'd stolen some grain from the Sandoval stables, but he wanted to save that for later; the mare would need it by the end of the day. He ran a hand along the gelding's flank, thanking it silently for its hard work.
Murdoc eyed the horses and cleared his throat. "Pity we can't eat hay ourselves. I don't suppose there's anything else available for lunch?"
"Not up here," Mac replied.
Murdoc cleared his throat again. "Well, if you're not planning on dropping me off a cliff, I suppose you're going to want some of those questions answered."
I'd rather just listen to the silence. It's honest. Pilar had mentioned Murdoc talking to himself in his cell. I wonder if he tells lies even when he's alone?
"Fine, MacGyver. I admit it. I haven't had a lot of practice at telling the truth. But I did promise. Ask away."
Mac remained silent. Several long moments ticked past as Murdoc fiddled with his makeshift crutch. Mac began to rub the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.
Murdoc cleared his throat again. "Anyone would think you didn't want any answers."
"Anyone would think I didn't figure I'd get actually them. Murdoc, you think I can't tell by now when you're lying?"
Murdoc looked at him inquiringly.
"It's real easy. Your mouth moves."
Murdoc sniffed and looked wounded. "You won't learn anything at all if you don't ask." He cocked his head to one side. "I suppose we could make it all yes-and-no questions – that way I wouldn't have to say anything, just nod or shake my head. Would that work better?"
"Probably not." Mac eyed Murdoc. "Okay. For a start, what did the Sandovals have against you? Who did you kill?"
"Carlos Sandoval," Murdoc replied after a long moment. "Felix' father."
"Oh."
"Yes, you can see why they'd feel a trifle put out. By rights, La Roja really should have thanked me for making her a widow, but she chose to take a sentimental attitude about the whole thing. And I didn't even make a dime from it. Dreadful mistake, but I'd do it again."
Mac threw up his hands, and the gelding whickered and stepped nervously. "Why?"
He didn't expect a real answer – flippant irony was the most likely, or another brazen change of topic. Instead, Murdoc hugged his knees and looked away over the wild landscape. Eventually, he answered softly. "Ashton's death."
"Your sister? But that was an accident!"
"Was it?"
"Yes. We investigated that too. Like you told me, she was skiing in Switzerland and got caught in an avalanche. It's tragic that you lost your sister, but it wasn't murder. If she was your sister."
"Oh, she was." A bleak, wintry look washed briefly over Murdoc's face. "We had the same father – although – my mother wasn't married to our father. Ashton's mother was."
For once, the words had the ring of truth – when Phoenix had interviewed Ashton Cooke's mother, she'd been evasive on the subject of the missing husband, but insistent – even defensive – that she'd never had a son. Mac's head ached with wondering which part of which story was true. "Murdoc, your file said your parents were dead. You said your parents were dead. Which makes me think they're both alive."
"They're not."
"That was quick."
Murdoc shrugged.
"And I'm bettin' none of 'em was actually named Cooke."
"No. Ashton's mother – well, she went into hiding. From our father. When Ashton was a baby . . . it took me years to find them. By the time I did, I'd already – well, let's say I'd gone into business for myself by then. I made sure she was comfortable, but I kept my distance."
"I'll bet. Had you already been recruited by HIT by then?"
" 'Recruited'? What are you talking about?" Murdoc's eyes narrowed with a return of his usual sardonic edge. "Recruitment be damned. Nicholas and Sonja and I founded HIT. Really, it was my idea in the first place, although you could never get Nicholas to admit that."
"Your idea." MacGyver ran a hand along the gelding's neck, wishing he was alone with the horses. "Why am I not surprised."
The clearing was silent for a few minutes as Mac finished grooming the gelding and turned to the mare.
"After all that, I rather miss Nicholas," Murdoc mused at last. "He had such a fine turn for the dramatic."
"Is that where you got it? Or did he get it from you?"
"Really, MacGyver. You make it sound like a disease."
"Maybe it is a disease. You ever think about that?" MacGyver's hands had slowed down nearly to a stop in his grooming as his vision clouded. Underneath the seething disgust that lurched in his gut lay an molten vein of pure anger that hadn't diminished in the slightest in all the unplagued years of Murdoc's absence. Sensing his change of mood, the mare turned her head and nosed him, whickering her concern. Mac checked to make sure she was tethered securely and stepped away from her, looming over Murdoc where he sat, idly twisting a stalk of grass in the fingers of his one hand. "The sick games. The fancy traps. Why?"
He wasn't sure if he expected an answer or not. Murdoc wasn't looking at him any more; he was studying the grass stem in his hand. His fingers twisted and bent the stem, tying it one-handed into a slipknot. "It was too easy. Life is such a very thin thread, you know. Too easy to break." He pulled the knot apart and tossed the grass stem aside. "I had my pick of all the really interesting contracts – the truly difficult cases. The targets who think they're untouchable. Men of power and influence. Masters of the universe, lords of all they survey. They all want to live forever, did you know that? As soon as they make a little money and a few enemies, they get twitchy and wall themselves up. Alarm systems, armed guards, dogs, electronic surveillance and protection – all the immortality money can buy."
Murdoc picked up a pebble and tossed it over the precipice, hearing the faint rattle as it bounced off the rocks on its way down the mountainside. "None of it's worth a damn, you know. Every safety net has holes in it." He finally looked up as if only just remembering that MacGyver was there. "It doesn't take a particularly large hole. Even a pinprick – " he raised his hand and pinched his fingers together – "will do."
Mac turned away from Murdoc, trying not to let the revulsion break through his control, although he felt as if his skin was trying to peel itself away and crawl off into the forest, anything to get away. He stroked the mare's long, graceful neck, breathing deeply, and resumed the rubdown with a fresh handful of grass. She shifted from one side to another before she settled down, growing calmer along with him.
After a few minutes, Mac was pretty sure he could speak again without shouting. "Okay. So you say you founded HIT – "
"With Nicholas. And don't blame me for the ridiculous name and the idiotic acronym. It wasn't my idea."
"Sure. Right." Mac smiled faintly in spite of himself, but it felt like a grimace.
Murdoc rambled on, as if he was talking about trivialities instead of terror and death. "We did make quite a team. Sonja was the one who really made it work – brilliant woman. She handled the assignments and the payments, drummed up business, kept everything ticking along like clockwork."
"Y'know, you didn't seem to be that much of a big wheel when we crashed their party. You weren't one of the directors or anything – and you told me you just 'worked for them'. And you were willing to turn them all in."
Murdoc snorted in contempt. "Oh, it all started to go wrong after the first few years. Nicholas succumbed to grandiosity. He wanted a piece of every pie – arms smuggling, drugs, money laundering – he blew the whole thing completely out of proportion. We really should have stuck to contract killing. We were good at it. But he got terribly testy when I told him we were overreaching. Started throwing my 'failure' in my face. When I figured I'd tidy up a bit – mop up you and Dalton along with Pete – well, that really didn't turn out to be a good idea. After that, Nicholas wouldn't listen to a word I said." He sniggered. "At least I had the last word."
MacGyver looked over his shoulder at where Murdoc sat, and spoke softly. "For God's sake, Murdoc . . . couldn't you have done something else with your life?"
The insouciant mask was back. "Oh, any number of things," he drawled. "But none of them would have been nearly as much fun."
"Fun?"
Mac studied his own hand as he continued to tend the mare, focusing – focusing hard – on the simple, familiar rhythm of the task. His knuckles itched at the thought of flattening Murdoc – anything to make him shut up – except that he didn't want to cut off the flow of information. Too many questions. Too many things never made sense. Even though everything Murdoc said was suspect, there might be some traces of truth in it. A lot of it did feel true – which made Mac wonder if he could trust that instinct at all.
Murdoc smirked as if he could follow Mac's train of thought, and began to speak again with a hint of deliberate malice in his drawling voice. "By the time I'd been – working – for a few years, I had more business than I could really handle properly on my own. And Nicholas – well, he was a fine strategist and a superb planner, but he was getting a bit long in the tooth for the really strenuous activities. With so much demand for our – let's call them 'specialised services', shall we? – Nicholas thought we'd all do much better if we farmed out the simpler jobs to – lesser talents. That way, I could stay a solo act, as it were. I've really never liked working with anyone else."
"Wait a minute. That first time, when you ambushed Pete and me, you had two goons doin' your dirty work for you."
"And doing it about as well as 'goons' ever do. Of course,they failed. Terribly annoying." Murdoc heaved a melodramatic sigh. "I really did want to get Peter off my tail, and in the end I had to settle for a faked death – that whole running-into-an-exploding-building routine, you know? Nicholas and I had agreed that we needed the DXS to declare me dead, but I had intended to take Thornton with me. He'd stopped being interesting and was simply a pest and a nuisance. And then you had to show up and ruin it all."
"Sorry."
"Oh, no, you're not."
"Okay. I'm not." Mac had finished rubbing down the horses; he turned away from the mare again, his hands falling to his sides as he stared at Murdoc. "Murdoc, are you lyin' on purpose? Or is it a reflex? Like breathing? Or is the truth just plain too messy to remember straight? You dragged me into it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I didn't just 'show up'. You got me involved. Especially when you stole Pete's car, and he had no choice except to chase you in the taxi I was drivin'."
"True, true." Murdoc didn't seem alarmed at MacGyver's scowl. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I'd meant you to be a simple witness, in case I couldn't get Thornton to pose nicely for the camera. But I couldn't resist a bit of – well, improvisation. You can understand that, can't you? Our dear Pete has always deeply loathed collateral damage. I knew it would make him squirm so much more if he died knowing someone innocent had died with him. And then it all went wrong," Murdoc said crossly. "How was I to know I'd picked a busybody cab driver who was half Boy Scout and half Mr. Wizard? Any normal person would have stayed out of trouble – watched from the sidelines, run off at the first sound of shooting and given a confused story to the police and all that. Easy pickings."
He scowled petulantly. "And you – you got out of my beautiful trap. And you saved Thornton, too. I thought it was a fluke, until you did it again! And again. What was I supposed to do? You ruined me."
Mac stared at him for a long moment before turning back to the mare. "I hope you aren't holdin' your breath waitin' for me to apologise."
He hardly dared touch the horse. He was caught up in fighting himself, repressing the urge to throttle Murdoc. He'd had no way of knowing, at the time, just how important Pete would be in his life. Now he thought of the kindly, shrewd, extraordinary man who'd given him the clear road to a life truly filled with purpose, and a red rage nearly blinded him at the thought of both those lives being snuffed out.
Murdoc grinned at Mac's expression. "Are you reconsidering your decision about tossing me off that cliff?"
Instead of pounding Murdoc, Mac led both horses back to the stream, so they could drink their fill now that they'd cooled down. The bay was restive, tossing his head, sensing MacGyver's distress. The mare lifted her nose from the stream and nuzzled Mac, nipping at the flyaway ends of his hair. He rested his forehead against her for a long moment, eyes closed, until the worst of the sick feeling eased.
Mac tethered the mare where she could graze comfortably and turned to the bay gelding. He began to lead it back down the trail they'd climbed to reach the clearing. A couple of dozen yards or so, and he unbuckled the bridle and slipped it off, rubbing the gelding behind the ears affectionately. A fresh, clean breeze ruffled Mac's hair and the bay's mane as the morning wore on.
Mac looked out and away, down the rippling fall of the mountainside. The little stream was hurrying to meet the Ene, which ran north to the Ucayali, which would snake and wriggle across the landscape, finding its leisurely way to the upper reaches of the Amazon. They were barely two hundred miles from the Pacific, but they'd already crossed the watershed that divided the continent. Ahead of him stretched literally millions of square miles of wilderness; there were river valleys in Peru which plummeted from an alpine forest at the top to a tropical jungle at the bottom.
Somebody called it the heart of darkness, didn't they? Why'd they think darkness has a heart? The real darkness was sitting behind him in the clearing.
Mac gave the gelding a hearty slap to its flank and urged it away from him, down the trail. "Hey, pal. There's way better grass down there. Why don't you go get yourself some? You've earned it." The horse tossed its freed head, briefly puzzled, then whinnied and ambled away, its long legs eating up the distance with their smooth stride. The hoofbeats faded into murmuring echoes.
MacGyver walked back up to the clearing and found Murdoc watching for him with alarm. He had hauled himself to a standing position and was leaning on the crutch, his face pale under the dirt and the beard. He looked from MacGyver to the mare where she was peacefully grazing.
"I dare say you'll get along a good deal faster without me." His voice was hoarse but controlled.
"That's your style," Mac said shortly. "Calm down. The mare can carry us both."
He stood by the horse, running a thoughtful hand along its flank, watching the clouds ripple across the sky.
Murdoc cleared his throat nervously and began to talk again, almost at random. "Sonja was quite the horsewoman, too, you know. Dear, dear Sonja. It seems like a lifetime since I've seen her. How is she these days?"
"In prison. Thanks to you."
"Oh, that's right. I really should pay her a visit, you know. And Nicholas is dead, of course."
"Well, yeah – you killed him! With a little help from Sonja. So much for team spirit, huh, Murdoc?"
The reply was very soft and even. "He shouldn't have touched Ashton."
The clearing was silent for some minutes, except for the crisp sounds of the mare cropping grass, and the plashing of the stream. Murdoc lowered himself to the ground at the edge of the rivulet, carefully rinsed out Pilar's ragged shirt in the clear water, and began to rub at the crusted dirt on his face and arms, scooping water over his wild hair with his cupped palm. It was somehow reminiscent of a starved, mangy alleycat patiently grooming itself.
Mac had begun to gather up the other rags from the dummy. "So Ashton's mom left your dad. And your parents died. Who raised you?"
"Are you wondering if I simply crawled up out of a sewer? I lived with our father. Till I met Nicholas and got my – professional start."
Mac gave him a sour look, but Murdoc was dabbing at the scarred stump of his right arm with the wet rag, and didn't look up.
"Just how young did you start?"
"Oh, I was terribly precocious. Daddy Dearest was killed when I was only fourteen. But I was already on my own by then."
" 'Killed?'"
"Well, died. And no, I didn't kill him." Murdoc squeezed filthy water from the rag one-handed and rinsed it again. "Although I could have . . . God knows he had it coming. Pity no-one offered to pay me for it."
"Okaay . . . " Mac swallowed and tried to think of a question that would keep Murdoc talking. "So what was your father's name?"
"Harold, of course. Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name. Of course, he's certainly not in heaven. Far from it. Nor was his name actually Harold."
"Murdoc . . . "
"Oh, relax, MacGyver. I'll get there. Just be patient. You have to admit, I haven't done too badly so far."
"I'm not admittin' anything just now . . . "
MacGyver's voice trailed off. They had both heard, or felt, the same thing at the same time: the conviction of not being alone, the certainty of being observed. Mac should have felt angry when a gun materialised in Murdoc's hand – it must have been the guard's pistol, stolen all the way back in the hacienda's cellars – but he really couldn't spare any thought for that just now. He was too busy peering out at the surrounding bush, looking for the first signs of movement.
Half a dozen figures solidified out of the gloom of the forest: ragged camo and khaki clothing, dark hair and unmistakable mestizo features, with a few pure Indian faces. They were all armed, and the leader was pointing a machine gundirectly at Mac's chest. Behind them, the shadows of more armed men: it looked like an entire column on the move.
A few barked orders in Quechua, and a shift into Spanish. It took a moment for Mac's ear to make the adjustment, after talking and thinking in English again for the last several hours.
"You will surrender yourselves to the jurisdiction of the Communist Party of Peru. Do not attempt to escape." The steady muzzle of the gun emphasised the order.
Sendero Luminoso . . . Shining Path.
We're dead.
- x -
