"You stupid dreamer, you," Alfredo got out. "They're not coming. We've been set up. Left holding the fucking sack."
The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.
"Here they come," Alfredo snarled.
Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and jumped immediately to each side, crouching. They carried automatic shotguns, on the ready.
Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger, widened his eyes at the weapon's failure to fire, pulled desperately again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, "I'm out of it. Don't shoot! Give me a break!"
The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second. Grimed by dirt, eyes wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick look at the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
He stared down at Rick and said, "Why didn't you dizzards give up? We weren't after you. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to make some kind of decent living."
"Yeah, yeah," Rick panted. "That's it. Don't shoot."
The young gunman looked around at his companion. "Call for the medic, and Ostrander."
The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, "It's secure. There's only one left and he's wounded. Where's the doc?"
A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He was middle-aged, and toted an old-fashioned assault rifle under one arm.
He looked down at Rick and said, "Where's Dunninger? Don't make us force you to tell."
Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply. He got out, "Down in the bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door."
"He armed?"
A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair, and obviously tired. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his eyes around, dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came over to Rick.
Rick said, "Yeah, he's armed," to the one in command.
"That trap door locked from inside?"
"I don't know. I've never been down there."
The doctor said, "Shut up. Let me look at you," and knelt down next to the fallen bodyguard.
But the commander said, "Is there any way of communicating with him from up here?"
"That phone over there, hung on the wall."
"Shut up," the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to his mouth and ear, and activated a stud on its side.
He said, "Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we'll have to blow you out and that might wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out of there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall, nobody's coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a scrambler blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we scrape you out."
He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the wall. He looked at the steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.
Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked down at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle, who had passed out.
The doctor said, "Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the chopper."
One of the newcomers grumbled, "Why not let him die? Chet is dead and two of the other boys have copped one."
"Because we're not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft."
While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap door began cautiously to rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive man in his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling. He was clad in swimming trunks.
"Come on, come on," the commander of the terrorists said. The other climbed out fearfully and put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his head. "Come on, this way."
Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice, "Where are we going?"
"To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it."
"Oh, don't worry. Don't worry about that. You'll collect it. Don't worry."
"We're not worrying—either way."
They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall toward the front door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.
Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each other banteringly.
The commander said, "One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Cozzini, bandage his eyes. He's got a reputation as a sharpy."
When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached for altitude. The commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, "Get out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of those damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour before the IABI is after us."
"Right," the pilot said.
Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and the children were now safely in Mexico.
And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn't been getting along these days—ever since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city. The group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!
Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers' demands? After all, it was only money. There was always more, endlessly more, where it came from.
The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led blindly this point to that. Now he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed behind him.
Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesitantly, he reached up and tore the blindfold away.
He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant's room in any of his own houses. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed that this would bring punishment.