The Viking Funeral

Chapter 45

THE DOOR OPENED an hour later, and two of the hardened mercenaries entered the room. Shane and Tremaine were pressed flat against the wall. Each swung a three-foot-long two-by-four at his man. The two Colombians doubled over and went down. Shane and Tremaine sprung out and searched them for weapons but found none. Suddenly a volley of machine-gun fire exploded through the door from four backups positioned outside. The bullets whined and ricocheted around inside the small enclosure, sparking off walls like manic fireflies.

Shane felt hot pain sear in his thigh, then another slug hit him in the side of his neck.

A moment later he was pounced on by three men and went down in a pile. Their blows rained down on him; he was clubbed with a gun butt until his vision blurred. Consciousness hovered against a black mist that finally descended and swallowed him.

When he awoke, everything ached. He was alone in the room; Tremaine was gone. He pulled himself into a sitting position and took a quick, fuzzy-headed inventory of his bruised, bleeding body. He had a nasty-looking through-and-through on his upper thigh that was still leaking blood and had completely numbed his left leg. The slug was close to his abductor canal. Karmic payback.

The second bullet had grazed his neck, and he had a furrow an eighth of an inch deep running across the right side of his throat. The blood had crusted, but that wound had stopped bleeding. His lip was split and two front teeth were loose; his head ached, and everything else felt horrible.

He slumped onto the floor, and for the next hour felt the temperature slowly drop as the desert night cooled the tiny tin-roofed room until he was freezing. Then he sat with his arms wrapped around him, his teeth chattering. He didn't know how long he waited. He dozed off once but awoke with a start when the door flew open.

Four men rushed in, grabbed him, stood him up, and laced his hands behind his back with wire. Using pliers, they twisted the wire tight until it cut painfully through his skin. Then they pushed him brutally through the door.

He was stumbling ahead of them, one leg almost numb, lurching across the lit compound. Every time he slowed, somebody would give him a hard push, knocking him forward. They herded him past the parade ground toward a small wood-frame building.

The house was painted white with green shutters; it had a peaked roof and slanting porch. A bright redbrick chimney completed an out-of-place Iowa farmhouse look.

He was dragged and pushed up the steps, then shoved through the front door.

The living room was American Gothic with a turn-of-the-century rocker and quilted chairs. Framed fox-hunting paintings of jumping hounds and horses dressed the walls. The mercenaries shoved him through an oak and glass door into a small, cozy den and pushed him down onto the floor.

"Abajo solamente, no muevesthe guard ordered.

Shane nodded and waited for what would come next.

A few minutes later the tall Hispanic man walked into the room. He had removed the tan suit jacket; in its place was a blue three-quarter-length silk smoking jacket, belted at the waist. He wore sharply pleated tan pants and a white shirt. His bullshit red silk ascot was still peeking out from underneath. "This is not what I wanted. Please, will somebody remove those restraints?" he said in perfect American English, but now Shane could also hear something else in his speech. Flat Boston vowels tinged his accent.

The guards either knew what he was saying or had been through this so many times before that they knew what was required of them, because they rushed to Shane, pulled him up, and began clipping the wires.

"Gently, gently," Santander said. "We're civilized men; let's try to behave that way." He smiled at Shane as wire cutters snipped the restraints on his wrists.

"Perhaps the armchair," the white-haired man instructed.

The guards led Shane to the chair and motioned for him to sit, then backed off a short distance, their eyes like those of starving men staring at a steaming meal.

"What happened to Jody and Tremaine?" Shane said. The Hispanic man's smile widened, but he didn't answer. A grandfather clock tick-tocked from the corner of the room, its brass pendulum rhythmically slicing up the minutes.

"They are doing just fine," the white-haired man finally responded. "As will you. But first we must get to know one another… Chat for a spell. I look forward to my all-too-infrequent civilized visitors."

"I'd like to believe that, Colonel."

"You should." He smiled. "You see, living out here in the desert, I don't have much opportunity to talk to men who have opinions formed by Western culture or world literature. These men are uneducated." He motioned to the four armed celadores. "They can endlessly discuss sex or the Old Testament, but as a steady diet, even those worthwhile subjects can become pretty stale."

"So you are a colonel, then." Shane's words seemed to surprise him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I called you Colonel, you didn't correct me."

He smiled slowly. "And what do you think that proves?"

"You're the White Angel?"

He began slowly turning a diamond ring on his index finger. "Since I'm a man who has, on occasion, targeted my enemies with extreme forms of death, I have been given many names: the 'White Angel,' the 'Crow,' and earlier, before my promotion to colonel, 'Captain Death.' Childishly colorful, but quite useful nonetheless, because these names strike fear into my enemies. Fear is a useful currency." He seemed to choose each word with great care, delighting in each syllable, like a man tasting a perfectly seasoned dish.

"You take yourself pretty seriously."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do-and for good reason. What I do affects the politics of nations. If you are a wise man worthy of my interest, you will take what I say seriously as well."

"So what is this little talk really about?"

"Weakness," Santa Cortez said softly, his voice now almost a whisper.

"Yours or mine?" Shane asked.

"It will be a shared experience." An evil shine came into his eyes, a penetrating madness that Shane didn't like at all.

"How so?"

"This is hard for a man such as myself to admit… But my weakness has defined me since adolescence. At first it frightened me, even sickened me, because I couldn't control or understand it. Later, I saw it for what it really was and began to take a measure of strength from it."

Shane was beginning to dread what he was about to hear.

"It started when I was a child. I would, on occasion, catch and set fire to a neighborhood pet-a cat or a small dog. I had an uncontrollable urge to administer pain… To watch an animal die painfully… To put my hands on it as it passed over the threshold, to feel it convulse… Take its final breath. It was as close to a feeling of love as I have ever been able to experience.

"My father eventually caught me. He was an admiral in the Argentine navy, a man of strict discipline and rules. He took me to a doctor, who said I had a disassociative, psychotic disorder. So I was sent to Boston, to a clinic, where I lived until college. In America I learned about democratic principles. I learned to love freedom and a constitutional government. After I returned to Argentina, I chose to fight for democracy in my own country- to drive the Marxist dictators out of power. As an American, I'm sure you share my hatred of left-wing governments. I fought Marxist thieves in my country, but since my conviction for political murder, I have had to fight them from my neighbor state, Colombia. So you see, I am a freedom fighter much like your own Founding Fathers. I have deep-seated political beliefs, but underneath, I still have my deadly cravings. Pain and death seem to nourish me, so I have made this childhood weakness a political strength."

"You kill people-torture them."

"My violence is labeled madness. Fear is my Trojan horse. My enemies ingest it, absorbing it inside them, where it then spreads and weakens them."

"Why are we sitting in Aunt Bea's den, discussing this? I can't absolve you, and you can't change."

"I find my excitement is magnified when I take the time to interact with my targets."

"So, we're talking about my torture?"

"We are."

"Maybe you and I can make a deal," Shane said as fear suddenly swept through him.

The White Angel smiled, gently touching the longish hair at his temples, brushing it carefully behind his ear with his fingers. "You were saying?"

"I have a million dollars in a bank in Aruba. I'd be willing to arrange a wire transfer. You need funds to fight your war. I can help you."

"Ahh, I see. So you have money to negotiate for your safety?"

"A million U. S. dollars, in cash, to turn me and Tremaine loose."

"And how would this transaction be accomplished?"

"Because of the escrow instructions, it has to be done in person. You, and one or two of your celadores, come back to Aruba with me. We contact Sandy Mantoor, his bank releases the funds, then I turn them over to you. Once you take delivery, you can wire the money to any bank in the world."

"I see." He put a hand up to his delicate mouth. "I'm disappointed you didn't start with your best offer," he said softly. "I know you have much more than that. But you see, Sergeant, it really doesn't matter, because I have already made an acceptable arrangement with Mr. Dean."

"With Jody!"

"You thought he was dead, and he would have been-just like you and the Negro. But Mr. Dean had ten million in kidnap insurance. We concluded a transaction with his insurance company an hour ago. The funds were transferred when I turned him loose. You'll have to admit, it's much cleaner than trying to go to Aruba and deal with that criminal Mantoor family, take a chance on being captured on foreign soil, sold to my Marxist enemies for cash. I put nothing past the Mantoors. So… Thank you, but I must decline your offer."

"Jody paid you?"

"Worse. He also contracted me to kill you and Mr. Lane." He smiled at Shane. "So, like the cat who has cornered his mouse, I can play with both of you for hours, bat you around, watch you try and get away, maybe put a paw on your tail, chew your head and ears, listen to you squeak. Then slowly you will become tired; shock will numb your nervous system. You will have no fight left, and like the cat, I will become angry with you for not playing. In retaliation, I will make your end… Well… Interesting." He smiled again, and Shane couldn't help noticing that this time the smile was warm, almost as if the White Angel had developed true affection for him.

Then Santander Cortez moved to the window and looked out at the lit compound. "The Negro didn't hold up as well as I would have thought. Sometimes men surprise me… Strength of will is a unique and rare quality."

"Where is he?"

"I'll show you…" He turned to the celadores. "Afuera al Negro, andele."

The guards quickly moved to Shane, yanked him to his feet, and led him out the back door of the house and across the compound.

They went through a locked gate and were soon off the base, moving across the desert. The cold night air lessened the stench of the surrounding town, but it was still there, lingering stubbornly.

Shane didn't know where they were heading or what horrors were in store for him.

Then he saw Tremaine, lit by the light of a portable generator.

He was tied to a chain-link fence, bleeding from a hundred cuts, his head down on his chest, vomit puddling at his feet. Enormous strips of his skin had been removed.

"You son of a bitch," Shane said softly, the spectacle taking his breath away.

"Not a pretty sight, I admit, but fun while it lasted." Santander paused to let the moment sink in. "And there are hidden benefits: these guards will tell the story-how I skinned the pobre Negro, cutting him in slices while he screamed, finding ecstasy in his agony. The story will grow with each telling. The Trojan horse of my legend of terror will be dragged into the depths of my Marxist enemies and fester in their imaginations: win-win."

Shane moved on rubbery legs toward Tremaine. He could barely believe the human wreckage in front of him. Then the destroyed man coughed, and blood ran out of Tremaine's mouth.

"Shit! He's still alive," Shane murmured.

"Go ahead. Get a good look," Cortez whispered. "Ask him how he liked it."

As Shane moved closer to Tremaine, he heard a gasp or a rattle, or maybe it was a whisper. He was close enough to see that Tremaine's right eye was wide open, staring at him, disembodied. Then he heard the rattling sound again, followed by a cough and a sigh. He thought Tremaine was trying to tell him something.

"What?" Shane asked, his own voice a croak. "What is it?"

Shane's left thigh throbbed, so he used his right knee to kneel. He got as close as he could until his ear was next to Tremaine's shattered mouth.

Then he heard the noise again… A weak stirring of sounds against a rush of exhaled air. "Werrrr… Riigghh…" Tremaine breathed softly into his ear.

Shane watched as Tremaine's lips trembled.

"Sheee…" the black man said, and coughed up more blood.

"What?" Shane whispered. "She?" "Ifffff…"

"If?" Shane asked.

Tremaine Lane let out what air was left inside him like a long pensive sigh of exasperation. Then his head dropped, and Shane knew he was gone.

Suddenly Shane knew what he had been trying to say.

She… If… Sheriff.

Tremaine Lane was working undercover.