“Wrong.”
Buchanan threw the ball.
And cursed when it struck the edge of the ring.
“And you’re wrong as well,” Raymond said unexpectedly.
Buchanan turned to look behind him.
Raymond had stood. Blood streamed from his mouth, dripping onto his leather armor. “You’re not going to win, after all.”
Raymond scrambled toward the ball.
Buchanan lunged after him.
And slipped.
He’d been standing too long in one place. The blood from the opened stitches in his side had seeped from beneath his armor. It had trickled down his leg and formed a slippery pool where he stood.
Although he didn’t fall, the strenuous effort of regaining his balance lost him sufficient time that Raymond was able to throw the ball through the ring.
Without pause, Raymond darted toward it again. But as he scooped it up, Buchanan swept his right forearm beneath the ball, freeing it from Raymond’s grip. Using his other forearm, Buchanan thrust the ball against Raymond’s left shoulder. The ball’s impact made Raymond groan. It rebounded, and as Raymond staggered back, Buchanan caught the ball with upraised forearms. Hurling it, seeing it touch the ring, he felt elated.
Then his chest cramped. The ball did not go through. It bounced off the edge and fell back. Jesus. Running forward, Buchanan leapt. But he didn’t get there soon enough. He didn’t raise his arms quickly enough. In midair, he had to strike the ball with his padded left shoulder. It flew back toward the ring.
And bounced yet again. But this time, Buchanan was ready. As he completed his leap and landed on the court, he raised his forearms, caught the ball, threw, and scored a point.
“Bravo,” Drummond yelled. “Yes, that’s how the game is played! Shoulders! Angles! Rebounds!”
“Bitch, watch me win!” Buchanan yelled at Holly. “You’re the one who’s going to lose! You’re the one who’s going to die! You’ll wish you’d never met me! You’ll wish you’d never led me on!”
At once Buchanan felt his breath taken away as hands slammed his back, propelling him against the side of the court. In a daze, Buchanan raised his padded forearms to cushion the impact against the stone wall. He spun and was slammed again, this time by Raymond’s right padded shoulder, a full blow to the chest. Then Buchanan’s back struck the wall, and a sharp pain made him fear that one of his ribs had been broken.
“Argue with her later,” Raymond said. “How do you contact your unit?”
“Exactly,” Drummond said. He coughed again, violently. More smoke swirled over him. The construction equipment continued roaring. Increasing gunshots reverberated, closer.
“Not until we have a deal!” Buchanan winced from the pain in his chest. Another pool of blood formed at his feet. He felt light-headed and fought to concentrate. He had to keep Holly and himself alive. Play your role, Holly. Play your role.
“What kind of deal?” Drummond asked.
“I tell you what you need, and I get to walk away,” Buchanan said. “In exchange for calling off my unit, I stay alive. But this bitch gets what she deserves.”
“You’d believe any bargain I made with you?” Drummond asked.
“Hey, your problem hasn’t changed! If anything happens to me, my unit comes after you!” Buchanan held his chest, the sharp pain restricting his breath.
“And what about Juana Mendez? Do you expect me to believe you won’t stop looking for her? Or maybe she no longer matters to you, either.”
“No.” Buchanan sweated. “She’s the reason I’m in this. I’ll keep looking. I’ll convince her this is none of her business. I want her left alone. The same as me.”
“She must be very special to you.”
“Years ago, I should have married her.”
“Buchanan, don’t do this to me,” Holly said. “Don’t sell me out.”
“Shut up. Anybody who uses me the way you did deserves to be sold out.”
“All right,” Drummond said. “Deal with the woman as you like. How do you contact your unit?”
Buchanan told them a radio frequency. “If you’re using a telephone, the number is. .” He told them that as well.
“That’s a lie,” Holly said.
Good, Buchanan thought. Keep going, Holly. Take my cue. Play the role. Buy us time.
“A lie?” Drummond asked.
“I don’t know about the radio frequency, but the telephone number isn’t the one I saw him use several times when he reported in. That number was. .” She gave a different one.
“Ah,” Drummond said. “It seems you haven’t been perfectly honest,” he told Buchanan.
“She’s the one who’s lying,” Buchanan said. “I have to call my people by midnight. Let me use your radio and-”
“This is bullshit,” Raymond said.
He picked up the ball and hurled it through the ring.
He did so again.
And again.
“You’re stalling,” Raymond said. “The two of you are pretending to fight with each other until you hope we’re so confused that we’ll keep you alive a little longer.”
Raymond threw the ball and scored another point. “That’s nine.” He stared at Buchanan. “I don’t believe either of you. One more point, and you’re dead.”
As Raymond prepared to throw the ball a final time, Buchanan lunged. He felt a tremor. The court seemed to ripple. His legs became wobbly.
Nonetheless, he kept charging. When Raymond threw, the ball struck the side of the rim. Buchanan intercepted it in midair, bounced it off his padded forearms, and knocked it through the ring.
But as he landed, his legs buckled. He was suddenly aware that the roar of the construction equipment had stopped. By contrast, the crackle of flames and the rattle of gunshots became louder. Men screamed.
He wavered.
“One more,” Raymond said.
He picked up the ball. “One more.”
He glared at Buchanan. “And the loser pays the penalty.”
He threw the ball.
Buchanan didn’t even bother to see if it went through the ring. He was too busy struggling to remain upright, preparing to defend himself.
Above him, he heard a commotion. Scuffling. A shout. Someone falling.
“Buchanan!” Holly screamed. “Behind you!”
Risking the distraction, he glanced quickly backward and saw that the guard had fallen from the terrace.
No! he realized. He was wrong. The guard hadn’t fallen. He’d been pushed! By Holly.
The fifteen-foot drop had dazed the man. He lay, holding his leg as if it might be broken. The man had lost his grip on his automatic weapon.
Buchanan scurried off balance toward it and was knocked to the side by the startling heavy impact of the ball against his back.
My head! It almost hit my head! I’ll die if it hits my head!
Buchanan heard more gunshots, more screams, but all he cared about was Raymond stalking toward him.
“You lost,” Raymond said. His blue eyes glinted with anticipation. His boyish smile was stiff and cruel. It made him look devoid of all sanity. “I’m going to kill you with this.” He picked up the weighty ball. “It’s going to take a long time. Finally, I’m going to use the ball to smash your head like an eggshell.”
Dizzy, Buchanan stumbled unwillingly back. He slipped on his blood. His brain felt swollen, his skull in terrible pain. He feinted toward the right, then dove toward the left, grabbing the fallen guard’s automatic weapon.
Raymond stood over him, swaying, the ball raised over his head, preparing to hurl it down with all his strength.
Buchanan aimed the Uzi and pulled the trigger.
But nothing happened.
The weapon had jammed.
Buchanan’s bowels felt as if they were suddenly filled with boiling water.
With a laugh, Raymond compacted his muscles to propel the ball down toward Buchanan’s face.
10
And froze, his body eerily motionless. His blue eyes seemed more empty than ever, glassy. His grotesque smile seemed even more rigid.