Blood Play. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ the shotgun’s barrel and diverting a 12-gauge round that would have otherwise turned his head into chowder. Half-deafened by the rifle blast, Tramelik lunged forward, clipping the other man below the waist with enough force to buckle Donny’s knees and send him stumbling headlong down the porch steps. The Mossberg went flying from Upshaw’s grasp and clattered to the ground as he landed hard on his right arm. Before Upshaw could reclaim the weapon, Tramelik pivoted on the steps and swung one leg outward, connecting the steel-toed tip of his right boot with the other man’s jaw. Upshaw slumped to the ground, dazed. Off in the distance, the coyotes had already bounded from the garbage Dumpster and were racing off down the driveway.

      Tramelik sprang from the porch, his mind racing. His well-orchestrated plan may have gone awry, but there was still a chance he and Barad could carry out their mission. When Upshaw began to stir, Tramelik rushed over and clippped him across the skull with his sap. Upshaw slumped back to the ground, blood oozing through his scalp where he’d been struck. Tramelik cursed under his breath and dropped the sap, putting a finger to his victim’s wrist. The man still had a pulse.

      “Good,” Tramelik murmured. He fished through his pockets and withdrew a penlight, a shoestring and a syringe enclosed in a protective sheath. Once he’d tied the string around Donny’s left biceps, he snapped open the sheath and tested the syringe, squirting a few drops into the night air, then shone the light on Upshaw’s well-scarred inner right elbow. Once he pinpointed a vein, he inserted the needle, injecting enough heroin to ensure that it would be some time before the groundskeeper regained consciousness.

      Now it was all up to Barad.

      ALAN ORSON WAS SEALING the last of four cardboard shipping boxes set near the doorway leading out of the stables when a call came in on his cell phone. He tapped his transceiver and took the call as he applied a final strip of packing tape. Nearby, Orson’s pet terrier lazed on a foam pad tucked beneath one of several work benches vying for space with storage cabinets and an industrial lathe inside the modified building. All the benches were strewn with tools and various half-built prototypes that Orson hoped would soon add to his list of patented inventions. The Taos native specialized in gadgets for the military and had made millions in recent years off contracts with the Department of Defense. Once he closed a deal for the items he’d just packed in the cardboard boxes, Orson calculated that his fortunes would quadruple, if not more, giving him the option to retire early and enjoy a life of travel and leisure.

      “’Lo, Alan,” the caller drawled in Orson’s ear. “It’s Franklin.”

      “Hey, Frank.”

      Franklin Colt was one of Orson’s longtime poker buddies. They played twice a month, usually at the home of a mutual friend in Santa Fe. It was a long drive for a low-stakes game, but Orson liked the action as well as the camaraderie.

      Colt was calling for another reason, however.

      “Are we still on for tonight?”

      “Sure thing,” Orson said. “I just need to load the truck and take Ranger for a walk and I’ll be on my way. Your friend’s due in at midnight, right?”

      “Thereabouts. Turns out he’s got a couple friends flying in with him.”

      “I’ll meet you at the airport,” Orson said. “You think those guys might be into playing a little Hold ’Em?”

      “Dunno,” Colt told him. “I’ll ask when they get in.”

      “Great.” Orson wrapped up the call, then walked over to scratch his terrier behind its ears. “What say, Ranger? A quick lap around the track so you can do your business?”

      Ranger seemed in no hurry to leave his bed. Before Orson could try any further coaxing, however, the dog suddenly turned its head and growled low as it stared past the boxes stacked near the door.

      “I hear ’em, too,” Orson said. “Easy, boy. Shh.”

      Orson flicked off the main overhead lights and moved to the nearest window overlooking the driveway. He parted the blinds and peered out.

      “Good, they fell for it,” he whispered.

      Orson moved from the window and grabbed a shotgun racked on a wall illuminated by the dull glow of a nearby bench lamp. It was another Mossberg, identical to the one he’d bought for his groundskeeper a few days earlier after coyotes had killed his other terrier.

      “Payback time, Ranger,” Orson told his dog.

      The inventor was thumbing the rifle’s safety when he heard the other Mossberg fire. Ranger bounded from his bed and began to yelp. Orson ventured back for another look out the window. The coyotes had fled the Dumpster and were scurrying down the driveway. None of them appeared to have been hit.

      “He missed ’em!”

      Orson headed for the doorway. Ranger beat him there, still barking,

      “Sit!” Orson commanded. When the dog obeyed, he gently pulled it back from the door. “Don’t worry, if I get those critters in my sights they’re toast.”

      The bespectacled inventor slipped outside and was closing the door behind him when he detected movement to his immediate right. Turning, he caught a brief glimpse of someone pointing a gun at his head. It was an image he would take with him to his grave.

      THE MOMENT HE SAW Orson drop at Vladik Barad’s feet, Petenka Tramelik made a quick call on his cell phone.

      “It’s done,” he whispered. “Get up here, quick!”

      Tramelik was slipping the phone back in his pocket when Barad jogged over, holding the small Raven Arms MP-25 he’d just used on Orson. “Those damn coyotes almost ruined things.”

      “Never mind that,” Tramelik said. “Give me a hand.”

      Barad stuffed the handgun in his waistband, then took hold of Donny Upshaw’s ankles. Tramelik grabbed the groundskeeper by the armpits and together they hauled him across the grounds to the stables. Ranger was barking wildly behind the closed door. Once they’d set Upshaw on the ground a few yards from Orson, Barad drew the Raven again and threw the stable door open. The terrier backed away momentarily, then was about to charge when Barad put a bullet through its chest, dropping the dog in its tracks.

      “There’s been enough racket here without having to listen to that,” he told Tramelik.

      Tramelik nodded. “It’ll be a nice touch once we’re finished. Let’s do it.”

      Upshaw had begun to groan slightly but was still unconscious when Barad crouched beside him and put the Raven in the groundskeeper’s right hand, then clasped his own hand over it and guided Upshaw’s index finger onto the trigger. Tramelik helped Barad aim the weapon at Orson, who lay on his side facing them, blood draining from his left temple where he’d been shot.

      “Okay, Donny,” Tramelik whispered to Upshaw. “Put one through his heart for good measure.”

      Barad gently pressed his index finger against Upshaw’s and the Raven fired once again. Orson’s body stirred slightly as it absorbed the round.

      Far down the driveway the men heard the crunch of tires on gravel. It was the Dodge Caravan, heading up toward the garage with its lights out.

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