Saguaro Riptide

TWO

Woodrow stepped away from the motel office, holding the key to room 21 in his wounded left hand. He hoped the number was a good omen, for he was definitely due a change in luck.

He did not know exactly why he had come to the Saguaro Riptide. Baddalach was here, of course-the clerk had let slip that a famous boxer was staying next door in room 22, saving Woodrow the trouble of any detective work.

It was Woodrow’s job to kill that boxer. But in light of the revelation that had occurred in the desert outside Tempe, the execution of Jack Baddalach seemed suddenly unimportant.

It was, however, quite necessary. Now, more than ever, Woodrow was determined to protect his professional reputation. It was the cornerstone of his identity, the one thing he could cling to in a trying time such as this.

He drove past two cars parked in front of the motel proper. A battered Dodge Dakota with Arizona plates and a Range Rover with a Budget Rent-a-Car sticker. Woodrow guessed that the latter vehicle had most probably been rented by none other than Jack Baddalach.

To the west of the motel stood a junkyard surrounded by a chain-link fence. A dirt road ran along the fence, stretching into the desert.

Woodrow parked in the gravel lot at the side of the motel. Hopefully he would be able to execute the boxer somewhere other than his motel room. It would be preferable to force the pugilist into the Saturn at gunpoint, then transport him to a remote location where one could easily dispose of a corpse.

Exhibiting no little care for his wounded left hand, Woodrow attached a silencer to the Combat Commander and returned the weapon to its shoulder holster.

The coming dawn was beautiful. Not colorful at all, but beautiful just the same. A smear of ash along the horizon, the dull petrified earth below, soft light bathing all. He stared at it for a long moment, listening to his heartbeat, filling his lungs with cool dry oxygen.

He felt surprisingly relaxed. Confident. Certain of his identity. He’d suffered a couple of blackouts, that was all. He’d killed a man-a man of hideous disposition whom he would have undoubtedly killed anyway. And he’d tossed his own clothes into the desert, and he’d written himself a note, signing it with the name he’d gone by as a callow youth. These were not events that should trouble him. They were nothing more than the result of a knock on the head-isolated incidents that would soon fade from his memory.

The fact was that he felt much better now. The morning light didn’t bother him at all. A little rest, a little relaxation, and he’d be perfectly fine. No more bright lights. No more blackouts.

Woodrow stepped out of the Saturn.

He knew exactly who he was.

And exactly what he had to do.

He opened the trunk and withdrew a prayer rug. He unrolled it on the gravel at his feet, turned toward Mecca, and prepared for his morning salat.

Woodrow Saad Muhammad prayed five times a day. To him, prayer was as important as breath. He knelt. .

. . and prayed for guidance. .

. . for freedom from his past. .

. . opening himself to Allah. .

. . and his concentration was interrupted by a dog barking in the junkyard.

Woodrow turned, his wounded hand tensing automatically. A stubby little pit bull charged along the perimeter of the fence, tried to climb the chain link with its stubby little legs, ended up earthbound as a brick. Woodrow paused, stared at the dog, studied its fury. The animal was completely focused, the way he had to be right now, when only one thing was important-

Another sound punctuated the dog’s barking. Crackling. No, crunching. Quick footsteps on gravel-

Someone grabbed Woodrow from behind and dragged him him his feet.

Automatically, Woodrow’s hand slipped under his coat. Fingers closing around pistol grips, index finger finding the trigger, he started to draw the weapon.

He never made it, because the pain was explosive. Thermonuclear. A private little cold war erupted on his backside, just below his ribs. He knew he’d been kidney punched-that was all there was to it-but the pain was paralytic, and just as it started to pass there came another explosion, the epicenter of this one his backbone, and his legs went numb for an instant, and he never even felt his knees caving in.

And then he was on the ground, gravel in his mouth.

The dog was still barking, raking chain link with sharp teeth. Woodrow grunted. Something was pinning him to the ground. Someone’s foot, or knee. That someone leaned forward, putting his full weight on Woodrow’s spine. Woodrow’s coat was pulled back, and the butt of his pistol tore at his ribcage as it was drawn from his shoulder holster.

Woodrow heard the slide rake back and forth as his attacker chambered a round.

The man said, “Think about it.”

Woodrow did.

And that was when his skull caved in for the second time in two days, and suddenly he was falling. . falling. .

. . into a bottomless pit of light.