Hood of Death

Chapter VII

Nick sidestepped the rush with the graceful ease of a matador. Carrington hit the wall with a crash, adding noise to the clatter from the door. Nick used a savate kick and a hand chop, both placed with the precision of a surgeon's strokes, to put him gasping on the floor.

"Who are you?" Jeanyee almost screamed.

"Everybody is interested in little me," Nick said. "I'm Command Three, Four and Five."

He watched the door. Like everything else on the premises it was of top quality. They'd need a ram or a sturdy piece of furniture to break through.

"You're what?"

"I'm Baumann's son."

"Help!" she yelled. Then thought an instant. "You're who?"

"Baumann's son. He has three. It's a secret."

She slid to the floor and stood up. Nick's eyes flowed over the long, beautiful body and his memory of what it could do gave him an instant's tingle. Someone kicked the door. He felt proud of himself — I've still got that old nonchalance. "Get dressed," he barked. "Quick. I've got to get you out of here."

"You've got to get me out of here? Are you crazy…"

"Hans and Sammy plan to kill all you girls after this meeting. You want to die?"

"You're mad. Help!"

"All except Ruth. Akito fixed that. And Pong-Pong. Hans fixed that."

She grabbed her filmy bra from a chair, whipped it around her. What he had said had tricked the woman in her. Given a few minutes to think, she'd know he was lying. Something harder than a foot hit the door. He drew Wilhelmina with one practiced whip of his wrist and put a shot at twelve o'clock high through the exquisite paneling. The noise stopped.

Jeanyee slid on her high heels, stared at the Luger. Her expression was a mixture of fright and astonishment as she looked at the gun. "That is the kind — that we saw at Baumann's…"

"Of course," Nick snapped. "Get over beside the window."

But his senses leaped. The first clean-cut lead I This gang, the girls and definitely, somehow, Baumann! With a flick of a finger he turned on his tiny recorder.

As he opened the window and slid the aluminum screen from its spring clips he said, "Baumann sent me to get you out. We'll save the others later if we can. We've got a small army at the entrance to this place."

"It's a mess," Jeanyee wailed. "I don't understand…"

"Baumann will explain," Nick said loudly, and flicked off the recorder. Sometimes the tapes survived when you didn't.

He looked out into the night. This was the east side, It had had a guard at the door, but he had apparently been sucked in by the turmoil. They hadn't practiced tactics for an internal upstairs raid. They'd think of the window in a minute.

In the glow of the light from the lower floor windows, the smooth lawn was empty. He turned and held out his two hands to Jeanyee. "Grip." It was a long way to the ground.

"What?"

"Take hold. As you do for work on the bar. Remember?"

"Of course I remember, but…" She paused, looking at the plump, elderly, but so strangely athletic man who bent in front of the window offering her his hands, twisted for an aerialist's lock-and-hold. He had even pulled up his sleeves and cuffs. The tiny detail convinced her. She grasped the hands and gasped — they were leather-over-steel, as powerful as those of any professional. "Are you really…"

She forgot the question as she was pulled headfirst through the window, imagined herself hurtling to the ground to break her neck, and tried to curl for a rolling fall. She tucked slightly but it was unnecessary. Strong hands guided her in a tight forward somersault and then twisted her sideways as she swung back toward the building's side. Instead of crashing against the white-painted shiplap she thudded on it lightly with her hip, held by the strange, powerful man who now hung above her, gripping the sill with his knees.

"It's a short drop," he said, his face a weird blob, with features reversed, in the blackness above her. "Bend your knees. Ready — oopsy-daisy."

She landed half in, half out of a hydrangea, scratching her leg but bouncing on her strong legs without effort. Her high-heel shoes were far gone into the night, lost during her outward spin.

She looked around with the helpless, panicky air of a rabbit flushed from a brush patch into open ground where hounds were baying, and started to run.

Nick made a crab-like mount up the side of the building as soon as he released her, gripped the ledge and hung for a moment until the girl was away from the area underneath him, then twisted sideways to miss the hydrangea and landed as lightly as a skydiver with a thirty-four-foot chute. He tumbled to break the fall, and rolled right-side-up running after Jeanyee.

How that girl can go! He caught just a glimpse of her disappearing into the meadow beyond the range of the lights. He sprinted after her and ran straight out into the blackness, reasoning that in her panic she might not turn and cut sideways for at least a few dozen yards. Nick could cover any distance up to the half-mile in times which would be respectable at the average college track meet. He did not know that Jeanyee Ahling, in addition to family acrobatics, was once the fastest girl in Blaghoveshchenski. They ran distances, and she helped whip every team from Harbin to the Amur River.

Nick stopped short. He heard feet pounding far ahead. He ran on. She was going straight for the high wire fence. If she hit it at full speed she'd knock herself cold, if not worse. He mentally computed the distance to the edge of the valley, estimated his time and strides covered, guessed how far ahead of him she was. Then he counted twenty-eight strides, stopped, and cupping his hands to his mouth called, "Jeanyee! Stop, Danger. Stop. Look out."

He listened. The pound of feet had ceased. He trotted forward, heard or sensed a movement across his front toward the right and angled his course to match. A moment later he heard her move.

"Don't run," he said softly. "You were heading right for the fence. It may be electrified. Anyway you'll hurt yourself."

He found her in the night and took her in his arms. She was not crying, just shaking. She felt as delectable and smelled as delicious as she had in Washington — more so, perhaps, with the heat of her excitement and perspiration wet against his cheek.

"Easy, now," he soothed. "Get your breath."

She would need it. The house was in an uproar. Men ran along the side, pointed up at the window, searched the bushes. Lights went on at the garage building and several men came out, half-dressed and carrying long objects which Nick decided were not shovels. A car raced up the road and disgorged four men and the lights of another hurtled toward them from beside the main house. Dogs barked. Through a patch of light he saw a guard with a dog join the men under the window.

He considered the fence. It had not looked electrified, just high and barbed-wire topped — the best industrial plant fencing. The three gates in the valley were too far away, led nowhere and would soon be watched. He looked back. The men were organizing — and quite well. A car went down to man the gates. Four patrols spread out. The one with the dog headed straight toward them, his nose on their trail.

Swiftly Nick dug at the base of a steel fence post and planted the three plaques of explosive that looked like black plugs of chewing tobacco. He added two more power-bombs that looked like fat ballpoint pens, and the eyeglass case filled with Stuart's special blend of nitroglycerine and kieselguhr. It was his stock of explosives, but with no way to contain the force it might take it all to rend the wire. He set a miniature thirty-second fuse and dragged Jeanyee away, counting as they went.

"Twenty-two," he said. He pulled Jeanyee to the ground with him. "Lie flat. Flat! Put your face in the ground."

He faced them toward the charges to present as small surfaces as possible. The wire might fly like grenade splinters. He had not used his two grenades, built Like cigarette lighters, because their charges weren't worth risking their shower of razor-sharp metal. The patrol with the dog was only a hundred yards away. What was wrong with…

WHAMO-O-O-O!

Old reliable Stuart. "Come on." He dragged Jeanyee toward the explosion point, explored the ragged hole in the blackness. You could drive a Volkswagen through it. If the girl's logic started to work about now and she refused to move he would have had it.

"Are you all right?" he asked sympathetically, squeezing her shoulder.

"I… I guess so."

"Come on." They ran toward where he estimated the trail over the mountain might be. After covering a hundred yards he said, "Stop."

He looked back. Flashlights probed at the hole in the wire. The dog bayed. More dogs answered — they were leading them in from somewhere. They must have several breeds. A car raced across the lawn, its lights stopping when the torn wire was in their glare. Men tumbled out.

Nick fused a grenade and hurled it as hard as he could toward the lights. It wouldn't reach — but it might be a depressant He counted fifteen. Said, "Down again." The blast was like a firecracker compared to the other. A submachine gun chattered; two short bursts of six or seven each, and when it stopped a man roared, "Hold that!"

Nick pulled Jeanyee erect and headed for the valley border. A couple of the slugs had passed in their general direction, ricocheting off the ground to flip past in the night with the vicious whir-r-r-r-r that is intriguing the first time you hear it — and chilling whenever you hear it forever after. Nick had heard it many times.

He glanced back. The grenade had slowed them up. They were approaching the wire gap well spread out, like an exercise group at infantry school. There were twenty or more men chasing them now. Two powerful flashlights stabbed into the murk, but didn't reach them. If the clouds uncovered the moon, he and Jeanyee would have had it.

He trotted, holding the girl's hand. She said, "Where are we…"

"Don't talk," he cut her off. "We live or die together, so depend on me."

His knees struck brush and he stopped. Which way was the trail? Logically it must be to the right, parallel to the course he had followed from the main house. He turned that way.

A strong light blazed from the gap in the wire and crept over the lawn, reached the forest at their left, fingered its way along the brush with a pale touch. Someone had brought up a more powerful light, probably a six-volt sportsman's handlamp. He pulled Jeanyee into the brush and pressed her to the ground. Pinned! He bent his head toward the ground as the light patted their hiding place and moved on, probing at the trees. Many a soldier has died because his own face glowed.

Jeanyee whispered, "Let's get out of here."

"In a moment I don't want to get us shot." He couldn't tell her that there was no way out. At their back was forest and bluff, and he did not know where the trail was. If they moved, the noise would be fatal. If they walked on the lawn, the light would find them.

He probed experimentally through the brush, trying to work along to where the trail might be. The low hemlock branches and second-growth set up a crackle. The light swept back, missed them again and explored in the other direction. If they moved in the brush, they'd draw it back.

At the wire they had started to come through one at a time, in nicely spaced rushes. Whoever commanded them had them all down now except the ones who advanced. They knew their business. Nick took out Wilhelmina, pressed his inner arm against the single spare clip fastened inside his belt over where his appendix used to be. It was faint comfort. Those short bursts had indicated a good man with the spray gun — and there were probably more.

Three men were through the gap and spreading out. Another ran toward it, a good target in the car lights. There was no use waiting. He might as well move while the wire was on his team, holding back their concerted rush. With the precision of a craftsman he allowed for the drop, the man's speed, and collapsed the running figure with one shot. He put a second bullet into one of the car's headlights, and it became suddenly one-eyed. He was aiming coolly for the strong handlight when the submachine gun opened up again, was joined by another, and two or three pistols started to blink flame. He hit the dirt.

The ominous whir-r-r-r-r sounded all around them. Slugs zipped through the grass, clattered on dry branches. They were peppering the landscape and he did not dare move. Let that light catch the phosphorescence of his skin, a chance glitter from his wrist watch, and he and Jeanyee would become animal meat riddled and torn by lead and copper and steel. She attempted to raise her head. He pushed it down, gently. "Don't look. Stay still."

The firing rattled to a halt. Last to stop was the spray gun which was stitching short bursts methodically along the forest line. Nick resisted a temptation to peek. That's my boy — a good infantryman.

The man Nick had shot groaned, a throat-tearing, misery-filled retch of pain. The strong voice shouted, "Hold your fire. John Number Two drag Angelo back behind the car. Then don't move him. Barry — take your three men and get a car and circle outside and hit those trees. Ram the car in, and get out and work along toward us. Keep that light going' along the edge there. Vince — you got ammo left?"

"Thirty-five — forty." Nick wondered — my good gunner?

"Watch the light."

"Right."

"Look and listen. We've got 'em pinned down."

So you have, general. Nick pulled his dark jacket up across his face, curled his hand inside it and risked a look. That cluster of orders should have most of them watching each other for an instant. In the Cyclops eye of the car headlight another man was dragging away the wounded man who was gasping out a blubbery choke. The handlight was moving along the forest far to the left. Three men ran toward the house.

An order was muttered which Nick could not hear. The men began to crawl in behind the car, like a patrol behind a tank. Nick worried about the three men who had come through the wire. If there was a doer in that bunch, he would be inching his way forward like a deadly reptile.

Jeanyee gurgled. Nick patted her head. "Quiet," he whispered. "Be very quiet." He held his breath and listened, tried to see or sense anything that moved in the near blackness.

Another mumble of voices and the handlight winked out The single headlight on the car was extinguished. Nick scowled. The mastermind would advance his gunners now without lights. Meanwhile, where were the three whom he had last seen lying prone somewhere in the sea of darkness out there in front?

A car started up and roared down the road, paused at the gate, then turned to race across the meadow. And here come the flankers! If I had support I'd radio for artillery, mortar fire and a support platoon. Better yet, send me a tank or armored car if there's one to spare.