Rolling Thunder. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ a precipitous drop into a deep, narrow gorge. Turning the truck without going over the side would be a chore, even for an experienced driver. Brinquel weighed his predicament and shook his head again.

      “I can’t do it, Miguel,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

      Miguel reached to his side for a 9 mm Walther pistol similar to the one his sister had used earlier in the day to execute the woman who’d been picked up near the BLM’s worksite in Barcelona. He pressed the gun’s barrel to Brinquel’s head and barked, “Try!”

      Brinquel didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes went cold, as did his voice.

      “Who do you think you’re talking to, Miguel?” he asked calmly.

      Miguel held the pistol in place a moment, then slowly pulled it away. He averted his gaze from the driver and busied himself attaching the Walther’s sound-and-flash suppressor.

      “I apologize, Zacharias,” he finally murmured.

      “You and your brother. Such hotheads.” Zacharias sighed. He managed a faint smile. “Just like your father, rest his soul.”

      “Don’t forget Angelica.”

      “Yes, your sister, too,” Brinquel said.

      “I guess none of the apples have fallen far from the tree.”

      His point made, Brinquel dropped his smile and told Rigo, “Your father never pulled a gun on me.”

      Miguel was given pause. His father and Brinquel had been best friends since the early years of the ETA, and Zacharias had been at Carlos Rigo’s side the day, just over a year ago, when he’d been gunned down by the Ertzainta. By all rights, Brinquel had been next in line to take over as the head of the Navarra cell, but power held little interest for him and after he’d helped avenge Carlos’s death in an assault against the Ertzainta, he’d turned the organization over to Miguel, his friend’s elder son, who’d promptly broken with the ETA. Still, Miguel continued to rely on Brinquel’s experience and quiet wisdom as a counterpoint to their impatience and hardheadedness. He looked up to the man and the more he thought about it, the more Miguel regretted having taken his frustrations out on him.

      “It won’t happen again,” Miguel promised.

      “No, it won’t,” Zacharias responded calmly. “Now, are you sure there is no other way around the roadblock? What about San Marcos Pass?”

      Miguel inspected the map again and shook his head. “The road is too steep,” he said. “Besides, if the traffic is backed up as far as Luis says, we would be seen. No, we need to turn around.”

      Brinquel chuckled. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”

      “I have confidence in you, Zacharias,” Miguel assured the driver. “Just take it slow.”

      Brinquel nodded. “With this load, I couldn’t take it fast if I wanted to.”

      Halfway through the straightaway, the older man eased the semi off onto the shoulder and headed toward the guardrail. Once he was within a few yards of it, Brinquel turned the wheel sharply and headed back toward the road. He’d hoped that by some miracle there would be enough shoulder on the other side of the road for him to turn the truck without having back up, but once he crossed the median, he quickly ran out of room and was forced to put on the brakes just shy of the mountains. The truck was now completely straddling both lanes of the road.

      “So far, so good,” he said, putting his foot on the clutch and reaching for the gearshift knob rising up from the floor. “Now is when we need to say our—”

      Brinquel’s voice was drowned out by the sudden bleating of a car horn. A pair of headlights switched to high beam and bathed the truck’s cab with a harsh glow.

      Miguel squinted past Brinquel and saw a small sports car in the road. He couldn’t tell the make of the car, but from the sound of the horn he guessed it was a Fiat. Its driver continued to work the horn, giving off a series of short blasts, then settling on a prolonged, one-note wail that echoed off through mountains.

      Miguel cursed to himself and opened his door. “Back up just a few yards, then turn the wheel and inch forward. Keep doing it until we’re turned around.”

      “Where are you going?” Brinquel asked.

      “To have a talk with our friend about his horn,” Miguel said.

      “Best make it a short talk,” Brinquel said. “They can probably hear that horn all the way from here to the roadblock.”

      Miguel got out and circled the front of the truck, holding the gun behind his back as he approached the car. He was right. It was a late-model Fiat. The driver was a man in his forties, wearing a designer shirt and white slacks. He looked to Miguel like some sort of businessman, but when he raised his voice and shouted for the truck to move, the driver cursed at him like a longshoreman. All the while, he kept the heel of his right palm planted against the car’s horn.

      “I’m running late, damn you!” he shouted. “Get out of my way or I’ll report you to the—”

      The man suddenly fell silent. Miguel had brought his pistol into view. Before the man could react, Miguel pulled the trigger, putting two rounds into the driver’s face. The man’s head snapped back from the force of the rounds, then he slumped to one side.

      Miguel holstered his gun, then leaned into the car, reaching past the driver and shifting the Fiat into gear. As the car began to move forward, Miguel turned the steering wheel, then backed away. The Fiat quickly veered off the road and headed for the guardrail.

      When the car hit the barrier, there was a dull crash and the sound of snapping wood. The railing’s uprights gave way, and seconds later the Fiat disappeared over the side. A series of small explosions marked its swift descent to the bottom of the gorge.

      Miguel turned and headed toward the rear of the truck. Brinquel had already backed the rig up once and moved forward, but he was still nowhere close to completing the turn.

      “Back up again!” Miguel called out. “I’ll tell you when to stop!”

      As Miguel moved toward the partially collapsed guardrail, one of the trailer home’s windows opened. Two men peered out. Like Miguel and Brinquel, they both wore berets. One of the men brandished an M-14 carbine and bore a close resemblance to Miguel, though he was bearded and wore his hair longer. It was Jacque Rigo, Miguel’s younger brother.

      “What’s happening?” he called out.

      Miguel quickly explained the situation, then said, “Close the window and stay put.”

      “Are you sure we can get around the roadblock?” Jacque asked.

      “Let me worry about that,” Miguel snapped.

      Jacque was about to retort but thought better of it and withdrew inside the prefab along with the other man.

      Miguel moved back to the guardrail, then signaled to Brinquel, who slowly backed up. Once the truck was again within a few yards of the barricade, Miguel waved his arms and shouted for Brinquel to stop. The older man put on the brakes, then shifted gears and pulled forward. He had to repeat the maneuver СКАЧАТЬ