Vixen 03

49

The chilly winter air seeped through the seams of the truck bed and stabbed Lusana's skin. He was lying on his stomach, his hands and legs tightly bound to his sides. The metal ribs of the floor jarred his head with every bump the stiffly sprung truck took from the road. Lusana's senses were hardly functioning. The hood over his head closed out all light and left him disoriented, and the loss of circulation had turned his body numb.

His last memory was of the smiling face of the flight captain in the first-class hospitality bar at the airport. The few lucid thoughts he had had since then ended on the same image.

"I'm Captain Mutaapo," the tall, slender pilot had said.

He was a balding middle-aged black man. but his smile made his face youthful. He wore the dark-green uniform of BEZA-Mozambique Airlines, with an abundance of gold braid entwining the lower sleeves. "A representative from my government has requested me to ensure a safe and secure flight for you, Mr. Lusana." "Precautions were necessary for entering the United States," Lusana had said, "but I seriously doubt I am in any danger on a departing flight surrounded by American tourists."

"Nonetheless, sir, you are my responsibility, as well as the one hundred and fifty other passengers. I must ask if you foresee any problems that may endanger lives."

"None, Captain, I assure you."

"Good." Mutaapo's teeth flashed. "Let's drink to a smooth and comfortable flight. What will be your pleasure, sir?"

"A martini, straight up with a twist, thank you."

Stupidity, Lusana thought as the truck rumbled over a railroad crossing. Too late it dawned on him that commercial-airline pilots cannot take alcohol twenty-four hours before a flight. Too late he realized that his drink had been drugged. The bogus flight captain's smile seemed frozen in time before it slowly clouded and dissolved into nothingness.

Lusana could not measure the hours or the days. He had no way of knowing that he was kept in a constant state of stupor by frequent injections of a mild sedative. Unfamiliar faces appeared and reappeared as the hood was temporarily removed, their features floating in an ethereal haze before blackness closed in once more.

The truck braked to a halt and he heard muffled voices. Then the driver shifted gears and moved forward, stopping again in less than a mile.

Lusana heard the rear doors open and he felt two pairs of hands pick him up roughly and carry his numbed body up same kind of ramp. Strange sounds came out of the darkness. The blast of a distant air horn. Metallic clanging, as though steel doors were being opened and slammed shut. He also detected the smells of fresh paint and oil.

He was unceremoniously dumped on another hard floor and left there as his bearers faded out of earshot. The next thing he sensed was the rope's being cut from his body. Then the hood was removed. The only light came from a small incandescent red bulb on one wall.

For nearly a full minute Lusana lay there motionless while the circulation slowly awakened his agonized limbs. He screwed up his eyes and squinted. It appeared to him that he was on the bridge of a ship. The red glow from above revealed a helm and large console dotted with multicolored lights that reflected off a long row of square windows embedded in three of four gray walls.

Above Lusana, still holding the hood in his hand, was a huge mass of a man. Looking like a distorted giant, from Lusana's prone position on the deck, the man stared down from a kindly face and smiled. Lusana was not taken in. He well knew that most hardened killers flashed angelic expressions before slitting their victims' throats. And yet the face on this man seemed strangely innocent of bloodthirsty intent. Instead, he exuded a detached sort of curiosity.

"You are Hiram Lusana." The deep bass voice echoed against the steel bulkheads.

"I am," Lusana answered hoarsely. His voice sounded odd to him. He had not used it in nearly four days.

"You don't know how much I've looked forward to meeting you," the giant said.

"Who are you?"

"Does the name Fawkes mean anything to you?"

"Should it?" Lusana said, determined to resist.

"Aye, it's a terrible thing when you forget the names of the people you've murdered."

A realization mushroomed within Lusana. "Fawkes… the raid on the Fawkes farm, in Natal."

"My wife and children cut down. My house burned. You even slaughtered my workers. Whole families with the same skin as yours."

"Fawkes… you're Fawkes," Lusana repeated, his drugged mind fighting to grasp a bearing.

"I'm satisfied the filthy business was done by the AAR," said Fawkes, a subtle hardening in his voice. "They were your men; you gave the orders."

"I was not responsible." The fog was lifting from Lusana's head and he was coming back on balance, inwardly at least. His arms and legs would not respond to command. "I'm sorry for what happened to your family. A tragic bloodletting that had no rhyme or reason. But you will have to look elsewhere to place the blame. My men were innocent."

"Aye, a denial was to be expected."

"What do you intend to do with me?" Lusana asked, his eyes without fear.

Fawkes looked out the bridge windows. It was pitch dark outside and a light mist coated the glass. There was a strange kind of sadness in his eyes.

He turned to Lusana. "We're going to take a little trip, you and I, a trip with no return ticket."