Chapter Thirty-Eight
What with one thing and the other, the population of the ruins woke up late, groggy, filthy and afflicted. Most tolerated those conditions to some extent, but Dancy gritted her teeth then brushed them, then boiled some coffee. A dollop or two of Tequila also seemed appropriate. After a cup or two, she hung the bandolier over one shoulder and a Mexican army assault rifle over the other, pulled on her wide-brimmed canvas hat, grabbed a machete to cut brush and the striped cotton blanket she used as a towel, and headed to the river to clean up.
By the time she reached her favorite pool she’d picked a bright red bromeliad for her hatband and was humming show tunes. She peeled to her panties but before stripping them off and diving in she stood on a big basalt boulder above the pool admiring her reflection in the slick green water. She looked better with the hat on, and much better with the bandolier and rifle. Best of all with the machete clenched between snarling teeth. She started trying to figure out how to beat her breast and give a Tarzan yell without dropping it.
Doc was surprised by the condition of Lios Leyva’s ex-castle, but not greatly shocked. He could think of several explanations for its condition: the important thing was that it was still occupied and the big black car out front meant the occupants were not just squatters. He focused his Leica’s 500 mm mirror lens on the wreckage of the Hummer and saw the silver eagle. Must be the place. He circled on the jungly cliffs, choosing observation points and optimum routes for approach and for getting the hell out.
After an hour or so he knew where the guns were. Security seemed a bit relaxed, even soporific, given the appearance of the castle; but maybe the gang had little left to fear. Or were starting to lose their structure. The firepower didn’t impress Doc all that much. It was a typical drug traffickers idea of defense–everybody and his buddy had an UZI or something even more butch and rapidfire. They might look scary, but were actually much easier to take than trained militia. It takes disciplined training to control automatic fire. Coke cowboys can usually be counted on to spray the entire countryside, shooting themselves empty in minutes. Then they’ll like as not throw away their flashy choppers and pull out the handguns or knives they are more comfortable with and run around in no order, virtually volunteering to be neutralized. They might be vicious, they might be well-armed, but Doc saw them as essentially amateurs.
The picture was beginning to gel for him. He could see the various approaches, where to cut off retreats and escapes. It would take a lot of troops, but he figured O’Donough and Russell could spring for them. What he needed was the woman’s location and her routine. With any luck at all she went riding in the hills everyday.
Or, he suddenly thought, with even more incredible luck, he might not need any plans or help at all. Someone had come out of the ruins and was heading down a path to the river. And there couldn’t be that many big, bright blondes in the works. She was carrying a towel and walking alone. Doc immediately started moving down the hill towards a section upstream where there were several deep pools. It was a major break and he instantly decided to capitalize on it quickly and relentlessly. He could take the sort of precipitous, definitive action he’d lived by in his youth, get the whole thing settled right here and now. He thought momentarily of Con O’Donough and mouthed, “The luck o’ the Irish, begorrah.” The way it looked, though, she wasn’t quite what you’d call a prisoner.
Dancy had about perfected her truculent pirate/bandida pose when she sensed something and started to turn. She only saw a flash striking down from the overhanging trees, then there was a man standing behind her with his forearm over her mouth and his right hand engulfing her grip on the gun, one finger jammed in behind the trigger to keep it from firing. She started one of her drilled-in anti-assault moves, but her assailant had anticipated it and used the move to strip away her rifle and lock her arm behind her back. The instant she started to move her legs she felt her head pulled back and a rough hip at her backside boosting her up on tiptoe.
She realized that he wanted to keep covering her mouth, so she moved her left hand towards the machete she’d thrust into her pistol belt. Immediately the man holding her lifted her right arm towards her shoulder blades and away from her back, and simultaneously twisted her head sideways in a motion that scared the shit out of her. She wasn’t in stabbing agony, but could see it from there. For a girl who’d roughed up the guys who tried to manhandle her since junior high, she was feeling pretty helpless. Wow, she thought, Barbie Meets Godzilla. She carefully relaxed and awaited developments.
The pressure on her head let up and he spoke to her. In English, which was a surprise. She would have guessed maybe a little blanket party by some tougher, bigger brother of Santo. What he said by way of greeting, was, “Put your left hand behind your back.” Simple enough. When she did, he moved her right hand down until he had both her wrists securely grasped in one hand. At that point he let her put her weight back on her feet, still shutting her mouth with a big hard forearm that smelled slightly of sweat and jungle. She wondered if this was how the Tarzan and Jane thing got under way.
He gave her a little slack to speak, but not much. She had a feeling she should be careful what she said and how. His next line was, “I’m working for your father. He wants me to bring you home.” He was waiting for some response. Carefully, softly, Dancy said, “For Pete’s sake, Daddy. I was just there for Thanksgiving.”
That gave him a little pause. Thinking what to say while holding her against him in nothing but thong panties and combat drag. What he said was, “Didn’t I see you in the “Soldier of Fortune” swimsuit issue?”
Now it was her turn to search for a response. Softly, carefully, she said, “Of course not. It was “Fredricks of Lebanon”. Another pause.
“Look,” Doc told her, “We have to get to the top of that ridge across the river here. It’s steep, almost a climb. I was going to choke you unconscious and carry you fireman’s style, but I’m starting to think you’re not stupid enough to start screaming and get a lot of people shot. So maybe you’d rather walk?”
“Those are my choices?”
“Sorry. Just the two. But I’m real, real serious about you keeping quiet.”
“Hey, I know serious when it lands on my neck, Rambo. I’ll be good. Can I get dressed? I just can’t show up at Daddy’s topless, can I?”
“Real fast, if you would.” And the arm snaked away from her mouth, leaving her lips a little numb and her neck a little stiff. She stayed quiet. He let go of her arms and she stepped carefully to her skirt and blouse and pulled them on, not yet looking at him. When she turned around, he was about what she was expecting. Big, rough, cold, dressed nondescript, holding her rifle on one shoulder. Camouflage sneakers, for crissakes. She said, “By the way, I’m Dancy.”
“If you weren’t my face’d be red. Okay, let’s head across on those big rocks, then right up by that red tree there. After you. Oh, yeah. Call me Doc.”
Sociable bastard.
Getting back to the Mustang was actually a bitch of a climb–a goat trail almost straight up the extremely steep, overgrown ridge, then down the other side until they could rockhop down another stream to the sideroad where Doc had left the car. She showed no sign of trouble at any time. In spite of being in a rush and keeping his senses wired up for possible pursuit or interception, Doc was rather enjoying moving up through the jungle behind the big blonde. Especially watching the way her calves, thighs and occasionally buttocks handled the climb. Dancy caught him peeking up her skirt a time or two and smiled to herself. Hell, when he was bearhugging me nearly naked he barely noticed me. Men.
Dancy seemed a little disappointed in the Mustang. “I thought you’d be using a Land Rover or something. One of those Rat Patrol Jeeps.”
Doc shook his head and let her in, saying, “This one has a tape deck.” As soon as he was moving, he handed her the water bottle he’d left under his seat. She drank slowly, but deeply, then tilted the mirror around to examine her hair and dab at the sweat on her upper lip and forehead. Doc reached for the bottle, noticing that she was stifling laughter. He cocked an questioning eyebrow, but she waved him off. “You’d have to have gone to Parochial school.”
“Well if it’s in Latin or something, skip it.”
“No, it’s silly. But there I am standing in front of a strange man with everything hanging out. And I just caught myself thinking, it could have been worse, I could have had patent leather shoes on.”
“You mean so I could see “up your dress” reflected in them?”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t have done.”
“So the myth is real?” Doc asked, “Did you wear blue sweaters and get spanked by nuns with rulers and all that?
“The whole ball of sanctimonious shinola.”
“Does this seem like a weird conversation under the circumstances?”
Dancy took another pull of the water bottle, then handed it to him. “What do you normally chat about with the women you abduct?” No snappy comeback to that one. They didn’t talk much all the way back into Huajijimic. The tape deck was fine if you dug a bunch of beaners playing accordion polkas.