At last her turn came and she stepped up to the counter. The woman smiled at her perfunctorily and Evira handed her over a passport. The clerk reached under the counter and came up with an envelope.
“Cairo,” she said simply. “Gate fifteen.”
“Complications,” Evira returned. “I’ll need two.”
The clerk’s expression changed a bit. “It will take time.”
“I have it.”
“A passport?”
“My problem. Just get me another ticket.”
The woman disappeared through a door behind the long service counter and Evira had settled herself to waiting patiently when she heard a commotion behind her. Turning, she saw a half-dozen Revolutionary Guardsmen making their way through the terminal in her general direction. Evira turned back, heart leaping in her chest. But such appearances were not uncommon. She needed only to remain calm. The clerk would take care of her.
“Cairo is much too hot this time of year, I’m afraid,” came a voice from almost directly behind her, a voice she recognized but realized couldn’t be. “Yes, Evira, I’m talking to you.”
She turned at that and froze. There, standing slightly ahead of six Revolutionary Guardsmen, with bystanders clustering about, was General Amir Hassani, alive and in the flesh. Another pair of soldiers closed in on her from either side, rifles at the ready.
You’re dead! Evira wanted to scream at Hassani but her eyes locked on the boy who stood transfixed in rage behind the soldiers.
“Run!” she screamed at him. “Run!”
And to distract the soldiers she made a feeble lunge toward Hassani, Evira feeling the rifle blow to the back of her head only briefly before oblivion welcomed her.
Chapter 22
“Well, Indian, for better or for worse, here we are,” McCracken said, easing their car off to the shoulder.
Wareagle nodded in the direction of a sign ahead which stated its message with crystal clarity.
WARNING!
AIR FORCE GUNNERY
RANGE AREA
ROAD ENDS 1 MILE AHEAD
Hank Belgrade had explained it all to Blaine on the phone the previous evening, how the gunnery range which ran between Arizona’s Sierra Estrella and Maricopa Mountains was an elaborate hoax meant to disguise the existence of the O.K. Corral. Belgrade couldn’t be much more specific in his directions than to say the retirement community for aging government personnel was situated between Phoenix and Casa Grande, before Route 85 reached the southern part of the state.
After obtaining that information, Blaine and Johnny had driven to Boston’s Logan Airport and taken the next flight out bound for Phoenix. There were two stopovers and a long delay en route. The Thursday morning dawn was breaking by the time they finally landed.
“What now, Blainey?” Wareagle wondered, with the letters of the warning sign before them seeming to slide in the sun.
“We drive on like we’re not supposed to and see what we find. It’s tough country. Can’t be the first time somebody strayed off the road and got themselves stuck.”
“You plan to drive straight up to their front door?”
“That’s the idea for now, Indian. Just make sure those spirits of yours fasten their seatbelts.”
“They’ve been quiet today, Blainey.”
“Too busy watching us maybe.”
“Too busy laughing more likely.”
The area they were crossing was basically desert, and Blaine was forced to turn the rental car’s air conditioning off when the temperature needle flirted dangerously with the high zone. They opened all four windows in the sedan, which proved a blessing when they were perhaps five miles in.
“I hear something, Blainey,” Wareagle said suddenly.
“Not me.”
“Coming from the west, a little more than a mile off.”
“What is it, a chopper?”
Wareagle tilted his head from the window as if the air might tell him. “Hughes Thunderhawk, overhauled from its time in the hellfire.”
“Kind of like us, eh, Indian?”
“It’s closing, Blainey.”
“I figured they’d spot us before long. Must have sensors laid through the ground. Or maybe it’s just a routine patrol.”
“Too fast for routine.”
“Then what do you say we meet them on our own terms?”
McCracken had the sedan pulled over, the hood popped and his head beneath it, when his ears finally picked up what Johnny Wareagle’s had well ahead of him. The steady wop-wop-wop sifted through the wind at an ever-increasing volume until the dust started to kick up around him announcing the chopper’s arrival. Blaine gazed upward and feigned absolute shock over the black chopper’s appearance. He began to wave his arms frantically to signal it, as a motorist in grave trouble would have.
In his mind he could hear the pilot issuing a report back to the command center of the O.K. Corral, perhaps speaking to base leader Doc Holliday himself. A car had wandered into their territory and overheated. No sense making a big fuss. Just send some help fast or call the nearest Triple A. Wareagle had stayed hunched in the backseat the whole time the chopper was overhead. That way the report would mention only one man present, which was what they had to think if Blaine’s plan was going to work.
“You have entered an air force gunnery range area and are in extreme danger,” came the obligatory call over the chopper’s PA system. “Please leave with your vehicle immediately. Repeat, please leave with your vehicle immediately.”
McCracken threw up his arms helplessly once more and then pointed in frustration at the engine. He made sure they could see him shrug. He saw the pilot’s hand signal before the chopper swung round and headed back to the west and the O.K. Corral.
“How long you figure it’ll be before they can get help to us, Indian?” he asked when Wareagle had emerged from the backseat.
“My guess would be ten minutes, maybe fifteen. We’re close, Blainey.”
“Spirits tell you anything specific about the Corral we’ll soon be heading for?”
“A prison, Blainey, where the souls of the past loiter in the present without regard for the future.”
“So what else is new?”
As Wareagle had predicted, the jeep came kicking dust down the single unpaved road inside of fifteen minutes later. Blaine made a show of stepping away from his still-open hood and waving his arms again as is if to attract the driver. The jeep was marked in the colors and symbols of the air force, but the two men inside were dressed in civilian clothes.
“Am I glad to see you!” he shouted out when they pulled their jeep up not far from him.
They stepped down wordlessly, facial features obscured by the dark-tinted goggles each wore to keep the desert dust from their eyes while riding in the open jeep.
“What’s the problem?” one of them asked.
“Bastard overheated. Should’ve known not to trust a rental in these parts.”
One of the men pulled off his goggles to reveal a pair of expressionless eyes. He nodded to the other who headed back to the jeep.
“I really appreciate your help,” Blaine said. “Hey, you boys air force, or what?”
The man said nothing, just stood there.
“Well, thank the boys in the chopper for me, too.”
At the jeep, the second man had just reached into the back for a water jug when Johnny Wareagle rose from behind it and latched a hand over his wrist so he wouldn’t foolishly try for a weapon. Meanwhile, McCracken more crudely rammed a fist into the stomach of the man nearest him. The man doubled over and Blaine followed the blow up by slamming him hard under the chin. His head snapped back in whiplash and he passed out instantly. Blaine turned to see Wareagle approaching with a slight grin etched over his leathery face and the man he’d downed hoisted effortlessly over his shoulder.