Chapter Three The Tales of Deadmen

Taron and Mason intend to nab Samantha and find out just what she's after, but they soon find themselves wrapped up in something more dangerous than they could ever have imagined.

3

The Tales of Dead Men

 

 

“Just what makes you think she’ll be here?” Mason queried, gazing at his cousin curiously.  It had been an hour since they had skulked their way under the cover of darkness to the twisted rod-iron fence, and found a good vantage point in some shrubs. 

Taron didn’t answer right away.  He was carefully scanning the ranks of white marble stones, as they snaked up in crooked and broken rows up the steep ridge, to a gutted old country chapel atop the hill.  The moon was bright overhead, allowing him to see the immensity of the graveyard�"for the time being anyway�"as there where boney fingers of clouds occasionally covering it’s glow.

Mason cleared his throat loudly, he would not be ignored.

“I don’t know if she’ll be here exactly,” said Taron, chuckling faintly. He glanced at Mason’s irritated look.  “In fact there are several of these cemeteries she could be at right now.”

“Then what the hell is the point.”

“This is the one with the most Spanish graves in it, and, I’m gambling she comes looking here first.”  Taron continued to scan the cemetery, frowning however, when a charcoal colored cloud put out the moon, and he hoped anxiously it would come back soon.  It would be pure chance whether or not the girl would show, but it would be a tragedy if she did show and they couldn’t see her.  For perhaps at the other end of the cemetery, closer to the chapel, she would find her grave, and if the moon remained hostage, they would never see her from their hiding spot.  And what if she did come?�"the thought tempered him. It was a question he could not answer, even though he could recall his exact thoughts at the moment she had struck him on his bruised chin that afternoon.  It had seemed so obvious then, as he watched dizzily, her beautiful backside shrink away from him.  But now he was not so sure.  Could he bring himself to drag her into that police station? He told himself yes, but, something inside him nagged of doubt.

He wanted more than anything to hold malice for her�"he couldn’t.  Every time he thought he had himself convinced that she was dangerous as smoking around fireworks, his conscience came calling, and he would think back to earlier that morning, when she stood there in the catacomb, her eyes big and sparkling, pleading for him to understand her.  Though it might have been an act, he conceded to reasoning, it was a damn good one if it was.

Presently, he strived to clear his troubled mind, trying to focus on the matter at hand. He and Mason scanning what little of the huge cemetery they could see in the moon’s absence, which was only about sixty yards into the desolate garden of stone.  And it was what one would expect a six hundred year old graveyard to be�"spooky.  From the burned out chapel on the top of the hill, to the gnarled trees that shared the one thing all the occupants had in common, in that they had long ago left the living world. The cemetery was a place that could no doubt make the most steadfast, whistle nervously upon their passing stroll.   

At last the moon finally escaped the clutches of the serpent like clouds, bathing the bone-yard in its pale light.  Mason tapped Taron to attention, who until then had been playing with the screw-cap on his flashlight.  They looked at one another with wide smiles, then back at their unsuspecting prey. 

“That’s our girl,” Mason whispered.  “Let’s go get her.”

Taron pulled him back down as he tried to rise. 

“No, not yet.”

“What the hell do you mean not yet?  There she is�"let’s go get her and be done with all this.”  His voice was harsh, but wisely hushed.

Taron’s gaze was firm.  “I wanna see if she finds what she’s after.”

“What the f**k for?”

“Cuz I’m curious.  Besides, if she finds what she’s looking for, she’ll be distracted.  And in case you didn’t notice she’s carrying a shovel.  Now my jaw is about as black as it can be, and your bal…Well, they’re probably bruised too.  So if you don’t mind, I’m gonna wait till she has her hands full before I go out there.”

Mason nodded. “Now yer thinkin’.” 

So they contented themselves to watch, as the girl strode up and down the many rows of stones.  At times she was a mere ten feet away from them, as she came to the end of a row and started back up another, both men seizing their lungs in their rhythmic working, until the girl unconsciously moved away and could again breath.    

Thirty minutes had soon passed, and the two men still sat patiently as the girl methodically searched the graveyard stone by stone.  Sometimes she would stop, and they would perk with interest as she took the time to study a weathered marker, only to be disappointed when she would get up and continue her search.  She was determined that was for damn sure.  As there must be, Taron surmised, over five thousand graves in the confines of the twisted iron fence.  An unenviable task, but for one whose lot was to sit, wait, and watch, it was a preferred one.     

It was getting unbearable for the two men crouching in the encroaching grasp of the brush, bristling with thorns, but if the girl was dogged enough to search the whole night, they were willing to wait her out.  However, Taron began to wonder if the grave she was looking for was in that particular cemetery.  After all there were plenty of other places it could be, and not necessarily around Naples either�"for all he knew anyway.  But suddenly his doubts were laid to rest, as the girl seemed to have found the grave in question.  It rested beneath one of those crooked trees, and she hung her light from a low branch before setting to work.  She was not far from them, maybe forty yards or less as she labored with the spade.  Taron clasped Mason on the shoulder, rising up but keeping low as he crept from the tangle of brush.  Mason followed him as they snuck from one marble marker to the next.  They stopped nearby where the girl was laboring eagerly, and each ducking behind a stone, waited for their moment.

She was tossing spades full of dirt up from the hole, which was now waist deep, and the two Nebraskans could appreciate her tenacity and her skill with the spade, harkening them back to the days of repairing irrigation ditches in their youth. Thus, they were well enough acquainted with a spade and its uses, to judge another’s employ of the tool.  And the girl seemed a natural, for it was not long before the top of her head was barely visible behind the mound of excavated dirt, the soil flying up and thudding dully on the moist pile, as now all that could be seen was the sporadic emergence of her shovel.

The two men grinned at one another, when they heard her shovel ring sharply on something metal.  Taron put up a steadying hand to settle Mason.  The time was not yet right.  They listened, and Taron ventured a gander over his marble façade.  The girl grunted as she climbed out of the grave.  Covered in filth, she knelt down beside the red duffel bag, rummaging inside it and stirring all sorts of noises metallic in nature.  She produced a medium size crowbar and a ball-pin hammer, before dropping back into the grave, her boots thudding on something hollow. 

Taron waited, listening close, Mason watching him intently for the signal.  He heard the hammer ring several times on the crowbar, and then her grunting as she no doubt pried with all her might on the bar.  The object of this abuse groaned sorrowfully as it began to give.  The girl growled in herculean exertion, and finally with a loud and sustaining croak, something snapped and one could hear it fling open.  Taron looked to his cousin, nodded�"it was time.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

“You!” the girl exhaled in shock and shielded her eyes, as Taron blinded her with his flashlight. 

“Yes, me,” he replied, smirking. 

She lunged for the shovel lying beside the hole, but Mason put a heavy boot on it, pinning the tool to the ground.  She looked up at him, her eyes burning like coals as he shook his head.  He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her from the grave. She put up a mighty struggle, necessitating the involvement of Taron as well.  She cursed then groaned as Mason pinned her on her stomach, his knee firmly, but not roughly, in the middle of her back. 

“You’ll be sorry!” she warned heatedly, as Taron zip-tied her wrists.

“Sweetheart, I’m already sorry. Sit her up Mason.” He helped his cousin bring her to her knees.  Taron chuckled seeing that the side of her face was smudged with mud.  He knelt down beside her, taking out his handkerchief, and he wiped the mud from her cheeks.  “I’m sorry Sam, but you’ve given me no choice.”

Her eyes were flashing fire, her bottom lip curled beneath the upper. “I knew this would happen, I never should have�"”

“What? Told me about the grave. You think I want whatever the hell is in this hole.” He spoke sternly, waving disgustedly toward the open grave to emphasize his point.

“Why else Taron?” Her eyes were dark and suspecting. 

Mason could see his cousin tremble to answer, and abruptly realized that he had feelings for the girl. “Because he needs to clear his name,” he inserted. “When you left him in that chapel this mornin’, you all but guaranteed him prison time.”

“I’m sorry for that.” Her eyes were heated, but filled with tears. “You wouldn’t go.  I couldn’t share...I won’t now.”

“Share what?” Taron queried softly.

“What I’m looking for. You kept asking, and I tried not to tell you much, but you just kept filling it in yourself.” Her voice was firm and unbroken as tears rolled down her cheeks, but her eyes were fierce and contemptuous. 

Taron looked at Mason, whose expression showed the same suspicion, he then gazed sternly at the girl.  “Maybe I should have a look in this grave.”  Her face showed a flicker of fear, as he shined his light into the chasm.  His face contorting ruefully as he studied the grimy skeleton lying in the rusted iron-lined coffin.  “Hey!”  He dropped in the grave, having discovered something.  The girl’s face was streaked with dread, but mixed in curiosity.

“Find somethin’?” Mason queried, keeping a strong grip on Samantha’s shoulder. 

“Maybe.” Taron crawled from the darkness, a square bundle beneath his arm.  He studied the square package wrapped in stained linen, and began to peel away the stiff covering.

“Taron please,” implored the girl fervently.

He ignored her as he tore away the remaining skin and studied the naked artifact.  “It’s a book,” he said, holding it up for the others to see.  He opened the leather bound tome.

“Taron,” she pleaded again. 

“No, you had your chance to come clean.  Now I’m gonna know just what it is you’re after.”  He flipped carelessly through the heavy pages, causing the girl to chew her lip in agony.  “El diario de Diego de Almagro el Segundo.  The journal of Diego de Almagro the second.”  He was noticeably puzzled.  “This”�"he held up the book as he eyed the girl confusedly�"“is what you’ve been after.”

She hung her head, her shoulders slumping solemnly as she surmised Taron’s treachery. 

“I’m assuming that it’s just another piece of a puzzle you’re trying to solve.  A tomb raider’s quest, huh Sam?”

She answered with a glare so hot it burned him to meet it.  “You’re smart enough Taron, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

He grinned. “I’m pretty good at connecting dots, but there’s nothing here to connect.”  He knelt down in front of her and opened the journal wide for her to look.  Her eyes grew big, her mouth gaping in disbelief as she beheld a bitter sight. The journal, the one clue she had come to place so much importance upon�"was useless.  The pages had been thoroughly saturated with centuries of water and the residue of rust from the coffin.  Whatever secretes it could have held were lost forever.  It wrenched her very heart, and her shoulders sagged in sorrow, her head bowed in defeat.

“No,” she murmured, her voice soft and absent of life. 

Taron reached out and lifted her chin, looking thoughtfully into her eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah it’s a shame,” Mason spoke up, his voice filled with a devil-may-care mockery.  “C’mon, it’s time to go to jail.”  He tugged the broken woman to her feet, and she presented no struggle.  She walked solemnly in defeat as Mason ushered her down the lane of the old cemetery, Taron following in a somber mood.

They approached the large, arching gateway by the chapel, its rusted gates swung out and resting decades down into the dirt.  Mason held the girl by her bound wrists; noticed Taron had stopped behind him.

“What now?” he queried with apprehension, for his cousin had a pondering look about him.

  “What other clues do you have,” Taron asked of the girl.  She turned to him, her face showing a sudden light.  He was sincere in asking.  “Surely you have something else, something that got you this far.” 

“What’s it matter?”  Mason was visibly angry.  “We got her. We can clear your name.”  Taron ignored and aggravated him further. 

He looked earnestly at the girl.  “What else do you have?”   

She grinned meekly, as Taron’s interest began to reconstruct her own resolve.  He had helped her before, maybe together they could figure out the next step.   

“Taron!”  Mason was gritting his teeth in apparent fury.

Taron stepped up, brushing his cousin aside.  He took out a knife and cut the girl free.  She rubbed the discomfort from her wrists, but was eyeing him closely as she contemplated his sudden change of heart.

“You have more clues?” he asked, his expression gravely earnest.

She nodded.

“Taron don’t be a fool.  She’ll just run off the first chance she gets.”  Mason stepped in, looking his cousin piercingly in the eye.  “You have to be practical.”

“I am being practical. And I don’t see what good it would do for either of us to go to jail.”

“Better her than you,” retorted Mason bitterly. 

Taron ignored his cousin, shifted his gaze to the girl.  “Sam, I hope you can appreciate what I’m doing, cuz I sure as hell can’t understand it.”  He was firm of voice.  “I don’t know what it is you’re looking for.  I’m guessing it’s worth a fortune whatever it is.  But how about we...” He was abruptly distracted by the sound of vehicles approaching, and the trio looked down the winding lane leading from the church on the hill, and could see four sets of headlights.

“Friends of yours,” Mason queried heatedly. 

The girl shook her head in response, watching as four black SUV’s came to a stop just outside the open gate, their headlights blinding the three. 

Taron glanced at the girl suspiciously, but was surprised to find a bewildered look dominated her face as well.  Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and all four doors flung open on the forward most vehicle.

Samantha immediately narrowed her eyes at a repulsively familiar face.  She stepped forward her hands defiantly on her hips, as a handsome man in a black suit accompanied by a beautiful woman, came walking arrogantly toward them.  Behind the pair, stood two big men, their arms crossed, their eyes focused on Taron and Mason.

The man and woman stopped about ten yards shy of Samantha, and Taron moved up beside her in support, sharing her same expression of irritation.  It was clear to him whoever these people were, they certainly were not friends.  He studied the woman first, finding her to be lacking nothing in the looks department.  She filled her tight black pants and leather jacket out perfectly, her hair was up and her face was pretty.  However, as Taron ventured a wink at her that got nothing in return, he surmised she lacked something, and whatever it was, it made her unnerving to look at, sending a chill down his spine as her icy gray eyes stared through him. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends Samantha,” the man finally spoke.  He was an Englishman with a singsong voice, wearing a fine suit with an even finer air about him.

“I’d be happy to Titus�"just as soon as you introduce me to yours.”  Samantha’s voice was harsh, her gaze even harsher.

“You know this a*****e?” Taron asked her, though he was loud enough to be certain the Englishman heard him.  It invoked a wry grin from the man in question, and he met the American’s gaze with a friendly demeanor.

“Titus Murphy,” he chirped cheerfully. “And what do they call you yank?”

Taron smiled briefly, yet falsely. “I’m Taron Swift.  The scowling individual behind me is my cousin, Mason Reynolds.”  His voice was obliging but his expression showed otherwise.  “Now that we got introductions out of the way, just why are you here?”

Titus grinned impishly with a chuckle.  He looked at Samantha, ignoring the yank’s question.  “You always did enjoy the company of hapless idiots.”

Samantha smirked. “You’re proof of that Titus.”

“I wonder,” spoke the Englishman smugly, “do your friends here have any clue what you’re looking for?”

“Yeah, we do,” inserted Taron.

“And what is that yank?”

“That stick stuck up yer a*s.”  Samantha cracked at Taron’s stab, and to the Englishman’s chagrin, his goons behind him could be heard stifling laughs.  Taron could tell the Englishman didn’t fancy being the butt of a joke, and his victim was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the sudden angry outburst of the woman beside him.  She chewed on her British associate in angry Russian, as the three Americans looked on in bewilderment.

Mason leaned forward, and asked Samantha in a whisper, “Who are these people?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you can dispense with the secrecy s**t,” Taron interjected, meeting her gaze. 

“I don’t know,” was her heated retort.  “I only know Titus.  The others, I don’t have a clue.”

“Can you guess?”

“Not really, but if Titus is with them, we’re in a lot of trouble.”

“We?” Mason’s eyebrows were lifted inquisitively.

She looked at Taron sheepishly. “I told you, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“You say that like we’re in danger.” 

Suddenly the angry woman shouted something sharply in Russian, and the doors flung open on the other vehicles, and armed men in suits stepped out.

“Run!” shouted Samantha, and the three bolted into the cemetery as the wicked woman drew a fancy nickel-plated pistol, and it spat fire and echoed through the stillness of the cemetery. 

“Guess she didn’t like my joke,” Taron muttered wittily, as he kept pace with his companions.  But the moment was far from comedic.  Bullets were humming through the air, zinging from headstones upon ricochet, as the goons opened up on them. 

Taron suddenly tripped and looked up to see his friends had disappeared into the darkness.  He took a frantic look back to see a blossom of flame, and he crawled hastily as bullets tore at the dirt behind him.  He dove behind a crumbling mausoleum.  Slowly he rose up from the soil, pressed his back to the cool stone, his chest heaving in panicked breaths as he listened close.  He ventured a look, but couldn’t see anything, as the moon had again been captured by the clouds.  Sweat was beading upon his brow, as he leaned back into cover and tried to control his breathing.  He could hear shots on the other side of the graveyard, and he hoped the others were getting out of harm’s way.

“Fan out, find them!” shouted the Englishman.  His orders were then repeated in Russian by the woman.

“You’re a real genius Taron,” the young writer whispered to himself.  “First you follow a girl that kicks ya in the face. Now people are shootin’ at ya.  What a wonderful f****n’ day.”  He silenced himself, hearing the rustling of dry weeds as someone approached.    He closed his eyes and listened closely, waiting for the right moment.  The footfalls were very close, halting just around the corner of the mausoleum.  He watched and waited, knowing there would only be one chance.  Suddenly the man whipped around the corner, his weapon at the ready, but Taron was decisive.  He lunged and pushed the Uzi’s deadly gaze off to one side as it growled and spit fire. He struck the minion with a heavy right that crumpled him. 

The young author took up the weapon and sprinted away as several flashes of retaliation flared from the darkness.  He thought of firing back, but decided against it.  Being outnumbered, he rightly figured that stealth would be the best course in staying alive.  He skidded to a stop as a burst thudded and tore chunks of marble from a headstone.  His balance was off, tottering on one foot as another burst sent a gush of heated air just under his chin.  Suddenly he was grabbed by his ankles and yanked from his feet, just as another burst of buzzing rounds zoomed overhead. 

“Taron!”

He shot a glance behind him, from where the frantic whisper had come. Samantha, her face wild in excitement, was waving for him to join her in the open grave.  He slid into the darkness of the hole, cringing as he could hear the crunch of the dead man’s ribcage beneath his boots.

“Have you seen Mason?” he queried, breathing hard.

“No, I lost him.”

“Alright Sam, just who the f**k�"”

She silenced him by rudely covering his mouth, as the rigid outline of a man appeared on the rim of the grave. 

Taron wasted no time, lunging up and taking the goon from his feet.  He dragged him into the grave and delivered a head butt that stunned him, before a left-right-combo finished the poor man, and he sank to the bottom of the hole.

“It’s nice to see you can fight,” remarked the girl, amusedly. 

“I do alright, when given a chance.” He was grinning wryly, but doubtful that she could see it.  He reached out to touch her pale shoulder in the darkness. “We better find a way out of here.  If the moon comes out we’re finished.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“Well, you’re not coming up with any plans now, are you?”  Taron was being cynical, but there was a hint of anxiety in his voice.  “Just who is that guy anyway?”

“An old flame.”

“Great.  And the crazy Russian chick?”

“His new flame.”

“Terrific.”

 

Meanwhile, Mason was experiencing discomfort of his own. He was crawling slowly through an old muddy culvert.  He cursed under his breath as yet again, something sharp snagged the sleeve of his T-shirt.  It was hard going through the culvert, but it was the best way of getting by the skirmish line of thugs.  He had discovered the old iron pipe quite by accident, having tripped over it on the reverse slope of the hill on which the chapel sat.  It was only two-foot in diameter, but at the time he had a madman with a Tec-9 bearing down on him, so he had been willing to chance it, but now, after more than thirty yards of crawling through the dank blackness of the tube, he was inclined to believe that getting shot, perhaps, would have been preferable. 

“What the hell,” he muttered.  He abruptly stopped as he could hear faint voices above him.  He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but judging by their accents, they weren’t his friends.  He pondered for a moment just where he might be in correlation to the surface.  He couldn’t be all that deep if he could make out voices, but his latitude was the true question.  “To hell with it.”  He dismissed his speculation and continued on, hoping he would emerge somewhere, and with any luck, there wouldn’t be a cadre of goons waiting for him.

He stopped again, this time coming across a small shaft of light shooting through the top of the pipe.  He crawled to it and rolled onto his back so he could examine it.  It was the removal notch in a manhole-cover, and he now knew where he was.  Remembering that there had been a small light on a pole near the gate of the cemetery, he surmised that maybe he wasn’t as bad off as he initially thought.  He slowly lifted up the heavy cover.  Clunk!  It struck something above the ground that was metal.  He let it down, waiting a few moments before another attempt.  His second try went much smoother as he simply slid the cover off to the side. 

“S**t.”  He could see the undercarriage of one of the SUV’s above him.  It wasn’t low enough to trap him in the pipe, but he surmised that his general location was a lot closer to the goons than he wanted to be.

However, he was leery of going any further in the tunnel, and decided that here is where he would emerge.  It was a small opening, but after finagling each of his big shoulders one at a time through it, the rest of him came out rather easy.  Once on the surface, he laid on his stomach beneath the vehicle, watching as a group about twenty yards away stood talking.  The Englishman was angrily addressing one of the henchmen. 

“Take one of the trucks and drive up to that ridge,” he said pointing.  “Use the infrared scope and radio back when you find them.  Go!”

The hapless minion scrambled toward the vehicles. But Mason had a plan, and he wasted no time in putting it into action.  He crawled forward and tore the wires from the starter, then rolled underneath the truck parked next to it.  He did the same thing to it, moving just ahead of the minion as he tried one SUV after the other, only to find that each vehicle wouldn’t start.  As he tried the third one of the four vehicles, Mason quietly climbed into the back seat of the fourth and waited. Shortly, the goon stepped into the last vehicle, cursing all the others in his native language as he tried the ignition.  The SUV fired, and in that instant Mason came up and grabbed the man from behind, taking his pistol from him and pressing it against the side of his head. 

“You speak English?” he queried harshly.

 The Russian nodded carefully. 

“Alright then, if you wanna stay alive you’ll be a good little chauffeur.”

 

Presently, Taron and Sam were still in the grave.

“How lucky are we?” queried Taron with a smirk. 

“People are trying to kill us, and you think we’re lucky.”

“Some people stupid enough not to bring flashlights. We should be thankful for that at least.”

Sam shrugged. “They must of thought I was gonna come easily.”

“Yeah�"well, we’re still stuck in a hole, so don’t get to countin’ your chickens yet.”  Taron poked his head up out of the grave and narrowed his eyes in the poor light.  He ducked back into the hole, a grim expression on his face.

“What?” asked Sam, anxiously.

“We gotta move.  They’re fanned out, walkin’ in rank, right at us.  We can’t stay here.”

“So let’s go then.”

“You head out�"I’m gonna take some pop-shots at ‘em and slow ‘em up.” He looked the Uzi over in his hand.

“Taron?”  She was unsure of his plan.

“Go on, I’ll just keep them busy long enough for you to get clear.”  He slowly cocked the machine pistol.  “Go!”

She nodded her gratitude, then carefully crawled out of the grave and skulked away.  Taron listened till he couldn’t hear her sliding in the dirt.  He looked at the weapon in his hand; it was familiar and comforting just as much as it was cold and deadly.  Gunplay was his forte, and unfortunately he had experience with it.  He took in a deep breath, about to do what he had hoped he would never have to do again. 

Not wasting a second more he sprung to his feet, bringing up the weapon on the nearest approaching shadow.  The figure was surprised, stopping and jerking back, but Taron cut loose with the automatic.  The man shook violently as several bullets riddled his chest.  Taron then swung to the next nearest man, and he jerked twice as he was struck, his own machinegun belching fire into the night sky as he collapsed to his knees then fell on his face.  The others dropped to the dirt as Taron sent a sweeping burst up the hill.  He then scrambled from the grave and sprinted away as a garden of fire bloomed behind him, and bullets whizzed in his direction.  He ran wildly through the grave yard as the goons continued to send a barrage down the hill.  Lead was streaking dangerously close to him, and then it happened�"the bullet spun him a full turn and drove him to his knees.  Yet, he never stopped moving, ambling back up to his feet and continuing on, as he placed a hand over the burning spot on his neck.

“Hey!”

He turned, instinctively bringing up the Uzi, but was surprised to see the girl waving at him on the other side of the fence. 

“Come on, you can get through over here!” 

He could hear the squad of henchmen coming fast behind him, and he spun around touching off the machine-pistol.  They disappeared behind cover as he galloped toward the girl.  There was a busted rod in the fence, and he made a very tight squeeze to get through, but once through they hit the road that ran along beside the graveyard, their boots thumping loudly on the packed dirt as they ran for dear life.

However, their escape was hastily cut off, as a pistol packing goon stepped from some brush.  They skidded to a stop as Taron brought up the Uzi.  He pulled the trigger, but instead of shooting flame it clicked dully on an empty magazine.  The henchman smiled wickedly as he brought up the big pistol.  Taron stepped in front of Sam, as the minion said something in Russian and pointed the gun at the American who gazed coldly back at him, almost certain of his doom. 

Suddenly a horn blared, and the bright beams of headlights blinded Taron and Sam as an engine was redlined.  They regained their sight just in time to see the SUV come sliding sideways just a dozen yards away.  The bewildered Russian had little time to act as Mason leaned out the window with a 9mm that popped off twice.  The man jerked and grunted with each hit, then fell dead on the road. 

“Get in!” urged Mason.

“Took ya long enough,” stated Taron jovially as he ran to the driver’s side of the rig.  He was surprised to see one of the goons sitting behind the wheel, but he stepped into the back seat.  “Where’d ya get the driver?”

“He came with the rig,” touted Mason.  “You can go now Nicolai.”  The squad of henchman, now led by the Englishman, was scrambling through the cemetery fence. 

“Go Nicolai!” repeated Mason.

The driver refused to act.  Shots rang out, and the back window honeycombed.  Mason smacked the driver with the muzzle of his gun, leaned over and romped on the throttle.  The vehicle lunged up to speed as they tore up the rising road. 

“Get the door!” Mason shouted to Taron.  His cousin reached forward and tripped the latch, and Mason with a hefty shove, sent poor Nicolai tumbling in the dust.  He then slid over into the driver’s seat, glancing in the mirror to see his disgruntled chauffeur roll from the edge of the road, and become impaled on the jagged rods of the cemetery fence below.  Mason cringed, feeling bad about the Russian’s ghastly demise, but it was soon forgotten, as he commanded the vehicle to hasten them away.

 

“Son of a b***h,” cursed the Englishman, out of breath.  He ran a hand through his greasy dark hair.  Those Americans, whoever they were, had just caused him a lot of trouble.  Samantha was a handful just by herself, but teamed up with those two?  He shook his head in frustration.

“You let them get away,” came the cold harsh words of Nadia Kersarovich.

Titus was bent with his elbows on his thighs, as he worked for air. “I’ll admit, those two men threw me a curve but�"”

“But nothing�"next time we shoot first.”  She stuffed her pistol into her jacket, leaving in a huff.  

Titus straightened up as his breathing calmed.  A crooked grin spread across his face as he watched the red taillights disappear over a distant hill.  Next time?  Next time he would not underestimate them.