riptide_asylum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
riptide_asylum) wrote2011-02-07 03:50 pm
riptide_asylum) wrote2011-02-07 03:50 pm
"Sole Survivor - Part Two" (Dreamtime, 1987)
Title: Sole Survivor
Rating: PG
Summary: The boys set off for Mexico to assist in a take-down of a guerrilla group. Their part seems simple... until a terrible accident derails the case and everything comes down to one thing: survival. Will the Riptide Detective Agency ever be whole again?
Part One
"I assure you, doctor, I will take excellent care of him." Lieutenant Guerrera waved his hands placatingly.
"The man has barely recovered from a head injury! He took his first steps in a year yesterday! In a year! And now the police come and want to drag him around town like a marathon runner! No! I won't have it!"
Perez was putting on a good performance, Nick thought dispassionately. From his point of view, he didn't care who came out on top--it made no difference to him whether he did Guerrera's work today or tomorrow. All that mattered was that he found out who needed to pay.
He watched the two men argue back and forth, occasionally sipping water and wishing it was a beer. Or maybe something stronger. Perez was weakening, he realized, and wasn't in the least surprised when Guerrera's suggestion of taking Nick to his own house instead of Police Headquarters swayed the doctor so that he gave in.
"In fact," Guerrera said slowly, "why doesn't Mr. Ryder spend the night with me? That way we may continue tomorrow without driving him about the town again?"
"Well," said Perez, "this I can allow only on the condition that I come and examine him this evening! And if there is a problem, back he comes!"
"Bien," Guerrera said, smiling widely. "I shall expect you then at seven?"
Perez smiled, and withdrew.
Nick let Guerrera take him down to the car in a wheelchair, not because he didn't think he could have walked--he was sure he could, earlier in the day, he'd locked himself in the bathroom and done a few star jumps and a couple of press-ups, and felt like anything short of a five mile run would be fine--but because his native caution had kicked in. Guerrera could be on the level, or he could be one of the leaks, and either way, it wouldn't hurt the guy to think Nick was a lot sicker than he really was.
As soon as they arrived at Guerrera's home, Nick's suspicions intensified. Guerrera's house was palatial, more, Nick was sure, than a police lieutenant even in corrupt Mexico could afford. Nick remembered the big businessman Guerrera had said he was trying to nail, and said nothing.
Nick took one look at the stairs and declared them beyond him. He thought they'd keep him downstairs, but Guerrera made a phone call and a few minutes later a huge man with a face like a professional wrestler appeared. "Sancho will carry you," Guerrera said and smiled, showing all his gold fillings.
Nick measured the wrestler with his eyes. He couldn't take the guy down like this. But he could take Guerrera and get his gun--
Nick stopped himself and managed a pleasant smile. "Thank you," he croaked. Against the wrestler laying hands on him was the advantage of being on the second floor with everyone in the house believing him incapable of descending the stairs.
At last he was installed in a pale blue bedroom at the end of the upstairs corridor. It had a bathroom attached "so you must only walk a few steps. I trust Dr. Perez will be satisfied!"
Nick had no idea if Perez would be satisfied or not, but the bedroom worked for him. It opened onto the big front balcony, which had outside stairs leading to the ground. That gave him two exits plus the bathroom window in a pinch. Nick wondered just how many armaments Guerrera kept in the house, and whether he could hope to get the names he needed tonight. If the house yielded a couple of guns, a grenade or two if fortune was kind and a wad of cash, he could steal a car from any of the flash homes in this neighborhood and hopefully have cleaned up this end before sundown tomorrow.
His ruminations were cut off by Guerrera returning with a notebook and a beefy sergeant. Painstakingly, Nick told what he could remember and embellished what he could not, carefully forgetting names he remembered perfectly well and mixing up addresses. The two names he did give, clearly--he even spelled them--were those of the CIA agents who had gotten them into this mess. Let them take their chances. They, at least, were getting paid for this shit.
At last Guerrera seemed to think they'd done enough for one day. He went away and his sergeant with him, but Nick watched from the window and the sergeant did not leave. Twenty minutes later the man who'd called himself Sergeant Cuellar was seated on the front lawn in street clothes disposing of a six-pack of beer with the wrestler.
Nick supposed they might be Guerrera's friends, but they looked a lot more like bodyguards to him.
Nick stripped to his shorts and put on the robe hanging on the end of his bed. He folded back the sheets and disarranged the bedding so that it looked as though he had been in bed, the tired invalid, in case he was surprised. He was beginning to think that in Guerrera he had stumbled onto the heart of the matter.
An hour later, a large black limousine arrived. Nick nodded to himself as Cuellar jumped to attention and hurried to open the door. The man was no more a sergeant than the wrestler was a ballet dancer.
The man who got out of the limo moved too quickly for Nick to get a look at him. Nick considered leaving his room and attempting to listen, but wrestler-boy and Cuellar abandoned their beer and went inside so he decided to play safe. He was still wondering how to get a look at the visitor when footsteps sounded outside his room.
Quick as thought, Nick dived between the sheets, pulling them up to his waist. He dropped back on the pillows and closed his eyes just as the door opened.
"Well well! I am early, and you care for my patient as well as you said. Good, very good."
Nick's eyes flew open. The man who'd arrived in the limousine was Dr. Perez.
Cody was on the bed, resting again. He was getting stronger every day, but he tired quickly. The weakness infuriated him, but there was nothing he could do about it--except blow his top at Murray, which he'd done three times already. And that, naturally, only left him feeling worse.
He wished there was something he could do to make it up to the little guy. Murray had taken care of everything: found the people to salvage the Mimi, rented the motel, dealt with the police and the paperwork. Kept Cody from shooting anyone.
The only thing he hadn't been able to do was get to Nick.
That was tearing Cody apart. Nick hated hospitals worse than just about anything. Cody had no real firm ideas about the afterlife but he couldn't shake the idea that Nick was trapped in the hospital, alone, all this time.
Murray said something that Cody didn't catch, and he turned over slowly. Perched at the small table in their unit, Murray was typing frantically on his portable computer. Long wires snaked from the keyboard up to the television on the wall, and as Murray clicked the keys a procession of green characters marched down the screen.
"What'd you say, Boz?"
Murray pushed two more keys then turned, a look of grim triumph on his face. "I said, Guerrera's a crook." He shook his head. "Cody, I'm starting to think this is all my fault."
"What are you talking about?" Cody sat up, cautiously swinging his weakened legs over the edge of the bed.
"I didn't do these background checks before we started out. If I only had, maybe none of this would have happened."
"Hey, Murray, no. You did background checks, what're you talking about? We had pages and pages of info--remember Nick saying he'd have no fires to fight this year seeing as you'd used every tree in California for printer-paper?"
Murray gave a wan smile. "Yeah, on the crooks, Cody. On the crooks! What I didn't do was check up on the law enforcement."
"Well, even if he is a crook, so what?" Cody took a deep breath. "Boz, Mimi crashed. She'd've done that even if he was on the level."
"I'm telling myself that but--" Murray shook his head. "The day we pulled her out of the lagoon, he didn't have to be there. And I saw him come out of the cockpit. Maybe there was some evidence, something there."
"A bomb, maybe." Cody caught on, anger sparking in his heart. "That makes sense. Just before Nick shouted, there was that sound--I thought it was static, but now I'm not so sure."
"I heard it too," Murray agreed. "It could have been a bomb."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"So, what have you got?" Cody said eventually. "Can we put him away?"
"I doubt it." Murray looked despondent. "It's very clear from his bank accounts that he's on the take, but there's something more than that. You know we believed that there was some kind of big-time finance behind these revolutionaries, but the CIA dismissed the idea as far-fetched?"
"Yeah." Cody sat forward, eyes kindling. "And?"
"I think Guerrera's the one arranging the finance." Murray looked unhappy. "It'd be nearly impossible to nail him with that sort of money behind him."
"We have to shut him down. One way or the other." Cody looked at bedside table and Murray paled.
"Cody, we're not vigilantes," he said hastily.
Cody's smile was grim. "Maybe you're not," he said.
"Cody!"
"Listen, Boz. Listen to me, okay? Because of that scum, Nick's dead. He's dead. Now I'm all for bringing Guerrera down the right way, and if we do, I hope he gets to spend a good long time in a Mexican jail and dies of dysentery. But if we can't get him, or if he walks, I'm gonna take him down myself, if it takes me the rest of my life to do it." He stared at Murray, almost daring him to disagree.
Murray looked down. "I suppose I understand you feeling that way," he said in a low voice. "But it all seems so pointless... it can't bring him back, Cody."
"I know it can't, Boz." Cody sank back on the bed. "Believe me, I know."
Nick had submitted to being examined by the doctor although he'd palmed the medication he'd been given, eaten some sort of spicy stew for dinner and listened with interest to soft, regular footfalls pacing up and down the corridor outside his room. Sneaking over and putting his eye to the keyhole had shown Sancho the wrestler prowling up and down. It was obvious that he was on watch. There was no escape that way.
Perez hadn't left the house after examining Nick, and Nick assumed that he and Guerrera were in some sort of conference. Obviously whatever was going on they were in it together, and just as obviously, whatever the racket was it paid damned well. Nick ran through the possibilities in his mind. It all came down to war-mongering of some kind, and the most likely thing was weapons-smuggling.
Nick allowed himself a shark-like grin. He only hoped Guerrera and Perez kept samples of the merchandise at home.
He thought for a few moments, then decided to have a shower. It might lull the sentry outside his room into a false sense of security, and it would certainly kill time until darkness fell. After dark, he might be able to escape via the balcony.
The bathroom was small but luxurious, in a pale blue tile that matched the wallpaper in the bedroom. It was kitted out like an upmarket hotel with a basket of fragrant soap and tiny bottles of shampoo.
Nick luxuriated in the shower. He'd been submitting to sponge baths for four days--hell, a year and four days, apparently--and that was four days too long. The hot water felt great on his skin, and if the soap smelled like a hooker's boudoir, well, that was better than a hospital too. He opened one of the bottles of shampoo and lathered up his hair.
He was rinsing the shampoo on autopilot, trying to figure out how many rounds of ammo he was gonna need and estimating how much was likely to be on the premises, when something struck him. He stopped, rolling his hair between his fingers.
His hair wasn't oily.
Nick well knew that his hair turned greasy and lank if he didn't wash it regularly. So either the sponge-bath nurse did a great line in shampoo and sets on coma patients, or...
Nick finished rinsing his hair and climbed out of the shower, very thoughtful indeed.
In the drawers under the sink, he found a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, and made use of both. And as he rinsed his mouth and straightened up, he looked at himself in the mirror and saw a dark shadow on his left shoulder.
Nick looked more closely. Both shoulders showed bruising, the left worse than the right. When he probed the places they were only slightly sore, meaning the bruising was mainly in the skin. He supposed that it was possible there were hospital procedures that bruised like that, even though he had no idea what they were.
But the one thing Nick knew that bruised like that--exactly like that--was a helicopter pilot's harness. And Nick had never heard of bruising taking a year to disappear.
---
The wrestler was still pacing like he meant it outside Nick's room, so Nick turned his attention to the balcony. Clad in only his jeans, he slipped outside, ready with an excuse of feeling ill and needing fresh air.
The scent of cigarette smoke came up to him clearly and peering down, he saw Cuellar resting nonchalantly against the outdoor staircase. There was no escape that way. Nick slipped past the head of the stairs, wondering if there were any more sentries posted.
He'd gone about halfway along the balcony when he heard voices. Pressing himself against the wall, he inched closer and realized he had come to the room where Perez and Guerrera were in conference. They, perhaps, rather than he, were the reason for the guards.
Nick got as close to the open window as he dared, and settled down to listen.
At the end of an hour, he'd learned three things. Guerrera and Perez were up to their necks in arms dealing, there were definitely arms in the house somewhere, and the following night, an important buyer was expected from somewhere in South America. Nick headed back to his room very slowly.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered down. Cuellar was still there, sitting this time. For a moment Nick thought he was asleep, and then there was a rustle of paper, and Nick realized the man was reading a newspaper.
Holding his breath, Nick eased softly down the stairs. A carefully aimed karate chop silently dispensed with Cuellar, and Nick looked carefully at--but didn't touch--the newspaper in his hand.
The date read 18 February 1987.
---
Nick slipped back to his room, stripped off his jeans and silently put himself to bed, but not before he'd wedged one of the scented soaps under the balcony door, making it nearly impossible to open from the outside. It would do double duty in keeping him safe from intruders and diverting suspicion once the attack on Cuellar was discovered.
The bed was comfortable, but Nick didn't sleep. The commotion signaling the discovery came a half-hour after he went to bed, but apart from Sancho opening his door and shining a torch over his face, Nick was not disturbed. After that, he was alone with his thoughts.
Whichever way he looked at it, he could come to only one conclusion. He was still alive only so that Guerrera could pump him for information. Once he had told what he knew, he would be disposed of.
The coma story could have only one possible explanation. It was to keep him from Cody and Murray, and any other help he might seek. Without it, he would have demanded to see the bodies. He would have checked himself out of the hospital and escaped their control.
They'd doped him up to make him feel weak and ill, mocked up a newspaper. Mocked up the letter from Cody's mother.
Faked the deaths of Murray and Cody.
The idea was so impossibly perfect that Nick was afraid to believe it. But if Murray and Cody were dead, none of the elaborate deception made sense. If they were alive, everything fell into place.
Believing Nick dead, Cody and Murray would forget about arms dealing and Central America. They'd go back to King Harbor and forget Los Mochis and everything it contained, leaving Guerrera and Perez safe. Nick would spill his guts and be quietly disposed of, with everyone who cared one way or another thinking him already dead.
It had to be the setup. Nick felt ill. He wondered if Cody and Murray had already gone home, or if they were still in Los Mochis. He wondered what they'd been told about him.
He hoped and prayed Murray really was looking out for Cody, just the way he'd asked him to when he believed them both dead.
He wouldn't look at the cold link of fear that remained in his heart, reminding him of the crash. Reminding him that one or both of his partners might have been severely injured or worse.
Murray finally packed the computer away for the night. Cody was already asleep, his injuries catching up with him, but Murray hadn't stopped until he'd found Guerrera's address, which had involved unraveling three false names. Murray was justly proud of himself.
In the end, Cody had promised not to shoot Guerrera on sight, and Murray thought he believed him. They decided to check out his house the following night, stake it out and possibly try to plant a bug. Against them was the fact that Guerrera knew them both by sight, and Cody's injury; in their favor the likelihood that Guerrera believed himself safe.
A quick trip to the hardware store in the morning would supply everything Murray needed to whip up a microscopic transmitter, and the Roboz's communicator could do double duty as a receiver. The only thing left to do was call Lieutenant Parisi and have her set up a sting.
Next morning, Nick spent an hour with Guerrera, smiling through his teeth, then pleaded illness. It wasn't a difficult plea to back up: looking at the guy made Nick sick to his stomach. Guerrera was all solicitation, insisting Nick must go to bed and saying he did not mind at all waiting another day to finish the job.
Nick thanked him pathetically and went to his room. As he'd hoped, Guerrera went out shortly afterward. Nick pretended to be asleep when Cuellar brought him lunch, and refused the food weakly when he was awoken. He curled up in a ball while the man was still watching, and listened with satisfaction as the footsteps receded down the hall.
He gave it another half hour then crept out, using the hall door this time. No-one was around: he hoped against hope that everyone had gone for a siesta.
So it seemed. Nick met no-one as he crept over the large house. Snores from a ground floor room at the rear alerted him to Cuellar and Sancho's presence, and he avoided that one, but nearly an hour went past and he found no weapons.
He was nearly ready to give up when he found the cellar.
The first crate he came to held M60s, and a quick check was sufficient to show him that they were the unadulterated kind. Nick extracted two and closed the box up again. The ammunition took him longer, but he found it in the end, and had just returned to his room with his treasures when he heard a car on the drive.
He tucked the loaded weapons quickly beneath his mattress and jumped into bed.
---
Nick's prizes remained undiscovered all afternoon, although his pulse raced every time he heard footsteps approaching his door.
But no-one came in until Perez arrived, solicitous about Nick's supposed ill-health, fussing with thermometers and blood-pressure cuffs until Nick wanted to hit him. Nick pretended to swallow his tablets, then spat them into the toilet the moment Perez had left the room.
He paced the room like a tiger, wondering. Killing Guerrera was still on his list, but finding out where Murray and Cody were was a greater priority. But it seemed sloppy to leave Guerrera's home with him still alive, just in case he never got another chance. Nick was still weighing the alternatives when he heard the unmistakable beat of a chopper approaching.
Suddenly the significance of the broad, flat, treeless front lawn came to Nick and he nodded grimly. If Guerrera was catering to international customers, a private helipad--especially one that didn't look like a helipad--was almost an essential. Nick watched with appreciation as a sleek chopper dropped slowly out of the sky and set down, disgorging two passengers.
Nick looked closer and started to laugh. The passengers were unknown to him, but the helicopter itself was a Baxtercraft 1000. Some hotshot at Baxter Aviation must have disposed of the flawed fleet to South America. Nick wondered if Bax knew.
It was nearly dark. Nick looked at his watch and then at the chopper. As soon as it was dark enough to cover him he'd get out there, take the pilot down and steal the bird. From there, he figured to head north, get across the border, then set down somewhere with a phone and try to find out what had really happened to Cody and Murray.
Guerrera, he decided regretfully, would have to wait for another day.
But halfway across the lawn, Nick realized he'd have to rethink. Instead of just the pilot, Cuellar and Sancho were also in front of the chopper.
Nick made a slow sweep back to the house. Through full length lighted windows, he could see four men in a ground floor room, sitting around a coffee table. Two of the men were Guerrera and Perez, and the others had come in the chopper. Nick slipped close, hoping to overhear, but they were speaking Spanish.
He looked back at the chopper. What he needed was a diversion.
Suddenly a shout came from the direction of the bird followed by running footsteps pounding across the graveled drive. Coming to attention like a pointer, Nick slipped back the way that he had come.
He ghosted through the foliage until he could see the chopper. Only the pilot was in evidence, and Nick exhaled with relief. He shifted slightly to the side--and froze as something cold and hard was shoved against his neck.
"Drop those fucking guns and don't turn around, or I'll blow your brains all over this lawn." The whisper was harsh and the speaker meant every word. Nick knew it like he knew his own name and his eyes filled with tears.
"Cody," he said, voice breaking with relief. "Oh, Cody."
Nick didn't drop his guns. That was the only thing he was really sure of for the next few minutes. They weren't really safe, even here in the shrubbery, but he wouldn't let go of Cody long enough to try and move somewhere safer.
Cody had his arms round Nick's chest, holding on so tight Nick wasn't sure he could breathe. He'd started out to hold Cody the same way but a breathless squeak told him that was a bad idea. He figured Cody maybe had some broken ribs and contented himself with an arm across his back, the other hand buried in his thick gold hair.
Cody had his head on Nick's shoulder, and he was crying so hard Nick was starting to worry Cody wasn't going to be able to breathe much longer. "Easy. Easy," Nick whispered in his ear, rubbing his back. "Cody, baby, it's okay. I gotcha, big guy. I gotcha."
With a huge effort, Cody mastered himself, but his grip didn't slacken. "I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead." A tremor wracked his body. "Nick. Oh God, Nick."
"They told me you were dead," Nick said grimly, anger burning through him at the confirmation of his suspicions. "It was only last night I figured some stuff out, and it didn't add up."
"Guerrera," Cody said.
Nick nodded. "And Perez. But that... that's for later. Right now, we gotta find Murray and we gotta get out of here."
"Murray drew those two thugs off over there." Cody loosened one arm and pointed toward the other side of the house. "Hell, I'm supposed to plant this bug."
"Where? Inside? Because I'm not going back in there, Cody. Not now I've found you. We're getting the hell out before one of us eats it for real." Nick tightened his arms, drawing Cody closer again. "I can't do this without you," he said simply. "You know?"
Cody looked him in the eye. "Believe me, Nick. I know." He took a deep breath. "The bug can go outside. On the wall where those guys are talking was where Murray planned it."
"Right. Come on."
"Nick..."
"What?" Nick turned in surprise as Cody hung back, and for the first time saw the crutches lying on the ground beside him. "You're hurt," he said, suddenly frightened. "Cody, why didn't you say?"
"I'm all right, but I'm slow." Cody looked from the chopper to the house, then back at Nick. "I'm gonna slow you down--"
"Then I'm gonna go slow," Nick said with calm determination. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight for one second until these goddamn crazies are safely underground--"
Cody grabbed Nick's arm, grinning. "I used to hate when you got like this."
Nick gave a soft, short laugh. "And now you don't, huh?"
Cody's only answer was another grin. He pointed at the M60s slung over Nick's shoulders. "Can I have one of them?" He tucked his own gun back in the waistband of his pants.
"Pleasure." Nick unslung one and handed it to his partner. "Aim low," he advised. "Better to take out a kneecap than shoot over their heads."
They crept back to the house. Nick could tell Cody was tiring, and he left him hidden behind the last tree, sprinting the few yards to the house and planting the bug in the window frame. His heart pounded the whole time he did it, and when he got back and found Cody waiting for him, he had to fight back tears.
By the time they crept back across the expanse of shrubbery, Cuellar and the wrestler had returned to the chopper. Nick surveyed them in annoyance. "Where was Murray going after he created his diversion?"
Cody shrugged. "We were playing that by ear."
Just then, a shot cracked from the far side of the house. Cuellar and Sancho took off at a run, and Nick looked at Cody uneasily. "I don't want to leave you, but Boz might be in trouble," he said.
He hesitated a moment longer, and suddenly heard a penetrating whisper. "Cody! Where are you?"
Cody gave a low whistle, and the shrubbery rustled with a noise like a herd of young buffalo. Nick couldn't wipe the grin off his face as Murray climbed right through the middle of a bougainvillea and stopped in front of them. He was liberally sprinkled with petals. "Hey guys," he said, then did a double take. "Guys? Nick!"
Nick blinked back tears. He opened his arms and Murray flung himself into them. Cody joined them, and the three of them held each other tight.
It was Murray who pulled away first, wiping his eyes. "We have to escape," he said distractedly, looking at the chopper. "Nick, since you're--you're not dead, we can take that helicopter, right?"
"We sure can, Boz," Nick said. "And I think we oughtta hurry up and do just that, before Cuellar and Sancho come back."
"Friends of yours?" Cody said wryly.
"The best."
The chopper was in the center of the clear front lawn with no cover on the approach, but they did their best, sneaking around behind it and using the bulk of the helicopter to hide them. For once, everything went smoothly. Nick placed a gun to the pilot's head, Murray helped Cody in and scrambled in himself, and Nick hit the pilot over the head and as he crumpled, leaped in and started the chopper.
Cuellar and Sancho came running as the chopper's rotors started, but Cody leaned out the door, raking the lawn with machine-gun fire.
"No fancy flying, Nick!" Murray ordered as they left the ground.
"Don't worry, guys. This is a Baxtercraft 1000. The toughest thing I'm gonna ask it for is a straight line." Nick grinned, looking to his right. Cody was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, grinning back at him, and Nick's heart swelled. "I'm sure glad to be going home."
Cody reached out and rested a hand on Nick's thigh, squeezing gently. In the rear seat, Murray leaned forward between them, grinning like a fool. "If home is where the heart is, then we're already home," he blurted.
"We sure are, Murray," Cody agreed.
Nick nodded, blinking back tears. "We sure are." He turned the chopper's nose for the North Star, and flicked the radio switch experimentally. He was rewarded with a comforting hiss of static. At least the radio worked.
Flipping it off again, he glanced back at Murray. "I don't suppose you've got your Roboz-remote with you, man?"
"Well, sure, Nick." Murray pulled the orange keypad from a pocket, grinning. "The bug Cody planted is transmitting through it right now, straight back to Lieutenant Parisi in King Harbor."
Nick breathed a sigh of relief. "You got no idea how glad I am to hear that, Boz. Because this tin can we're flying hasn't got Mimi's range, and if we drop down uninvited and try to buy fuel, I think it's more'n likely the Mexican authorities are gonna hand us right back to Guerrera."
Cody went white. "Maybe we should ditch the chopper, Nick. Maybe--"
"Maybe nothing. My first plan was to steal a car, but there's even more ways that can go wrong, you know? At least up here, there's less chance of anyone pulling us over."
Murray giggled, fiddling with his keypad. "I have Joanna online," he declared. "Well, her computer, that is. What do you want me to tell her?"
Nick calculated in his head. "Hermosillo. See if she can have a welcome wagon waiting for us there to fuel up. You won't see your boat tonight, man," he glanced at Cody, "but we'll make it to the border and set 'er down in Tucson."
Cody reached out and laid a hand on Nick's leg, squeezing. "I thought you said something about the Bahamas," he said huskily. There were tears in his eyes.
Nick blinked back his own tears. "Nah," he managed. "Hawaii. I changed my mind."
Cody sat back, smiling, and wiped his eyes. "Tucson, King Harbor, Hawaii. I'm gonna hold you to that, pal."
"Hawaii?" Murray frowned, leaning forward. "Nick, I thought you said Hermosillo. That's where Joanna's setting up the helicopter fuel. Are we flying to Hawaii instead? But if we can make it that far, surely we can make it to King Harbor?"
Nick and Cody looked at him, then each other, and burst out laughing. "Hermosillo's perfect, Boz. Perfect," Nick gasped.
"Good. But... I don't understand why you're laughing." Murray still looked confused.
Cody grabbed his shoulder, grinning. "Because we're going home, Murray. All of us. We all made it, we're all going home, and everything's perfect."
Murray looked from Cody to Nick and started to laugh himself. "You're right, guys. You're right. Wherever we end up, it's gonna be perfect."
Nick pushed the cyclic forward, coaxing the Baxtercraft to its top cruising speed as below them, the lights of Los Mochis gave way to the darkness of countryside and coast. He looked at Cody and smiled. This once, the Boz had got it wrong.
Everything was already perfect.
Rating: PG
Summary: The boys set off for Mexico to assist in a take-down of a guerrilla group. Their part seems simple... until a terrible accident derails the case and everything comes down to one thing: survival. Will the Riptide Detective Agency ever be whole again?
Part One
"I assure you, doctor, I will take excellent care of him." Lieutenant Guerrera waved his hands placatingly.
"The man has barely recovered from a head injury! He took his first steps in a year yesterday! In a year! And now the police come and want to drag him around town like a marathon runner! No! I won't have it!"
Perez was putting on a good performance, Nick thought dispassionately. From his point of view, he didn't care who came out on top--it made no difference to him whether he did Guerrera's work today or tomorrow. All that mattered was that he found out who needed to pay.
He watched the two men argue back and forth, occasionally sipping water and wishing it was a beer. Or maybe something stronger. Perez was weakening, he realized, and wasn't in the least surprised when Guerrera's suggestion of taking Nick to his own house instead of Police Headquarters swayed the doctor so that he gave in.
"In fact," Guerrera said slowly, "why doesn't Mr. Ryder spend the night with me? That way we may continue tomorrow without driving him about the town again?"
"Well," said Perez, "this I can allow only on the condition that I come and examine him this evening! And if there is a problem, back he comes!"
"Bien," Guerrera said, smiling widely. "I shall expect you then at seven?"
Perez smiled, and withdrew.
Nick let Guerrera take him down to the car in a wheelchair, not because he didn't think he could have walked--he was sure he could, earlier in the day, he'd locked himself in the bathroom and done a few star jumps and a couple of press-ups, and felt like anything short of a five mile run would be fine--but because his native caution had kicked in. Guerrera could be on the level, or he could be one of the leaks, and either way, it wouldn't hurt the guy to think Nick was a lot sicker than he really was.
As soon as they arrived at Guerrera's home, Nick's suspicions intensified. Guerrera's house was palatial, more, Nick was sure, than a police lieutenant even in corrupt Mexico could afford. Nick remembered the big businessman Guerrera had said he was trying to nail, and said nothing.
Nick took one look at the stairs and declared them beyond him. He thought they'd keep him downstairs, but Guerrera made a phone call and a few minutes later a huge man with a face like a professional wrestler appeared. "Sancho will carry you," Guerrera said and smiled, showing all his gold fillings.
Nick measured the wrestler with his eyes. He couldn't take the guy down like this. But he could take Guerrera and get his gun--
Nick stopped himself and managed a pleasant smile. "Thank you," he croaked. Against the wrestler laying hands on him was the advantage of being on the second floor with everyone in the house believing him incapable of descending the stairs.
At last he was installed in a pale blue bedroom at the end of the upstairs corridor. It had a bathroom attached "so you must only walk a few steps. I trust Dr. Perez will be satisfied!"
Nick had no idea if Perez would be satisfied or not, but the bedroom worked for him. It opened onto the big front balcony, which had outside stairs leading to the ground. That gave him two exits plus the bathroom window in a pinch. Nick wondered just how many armaments Guerrera kept in the house, and whether he could hope to get the names he needed tonight. If the house yielded a couple of guns, a grenade or two if fortune was kind and a wad of cash, he could steal a car from any of the flash homes in this neighborhood and hopefully have cleaned up this end before sundown tomorrow.
His ruminations were cut off by Guerrera returning with a notebook and a beefy sergeant. Painstakingly, Nick told what he could remember and embellished what he could not, carefully forgetting names he remembered perfectly well and mixing up addresses. The two names he did give, clearly--he even spelled them--were those of the CIA agents who had gotten them into this mess. Let them take their chances. They, at least, were getting paid for this shit.
At last Guerrera seemed to think they'd done enough for one day. He went away and his sergeant with him, but Nick watched from the window and the sergeant did not leave. Twenty minutes later the man who'd called himself Sergeant Cuellar was seated on the front lawn in street clothes disposing of a six-pack of beer with the wrestler.
Nick supposed they might be Guerrera's friends, but they looked a lot more like bodyguards to him.
Nick stripped to his shorts and put on the robe hanging on the end of his bed. He folded back the sheets and disarranged the bedding so that it looked as though he had been in bed, the tired invalid, in case he was surprised. He was beginning to think that in Guerrera he had stumbled onto the heart of the matter.
An hour later, a large black limousine arrived. Nick nodded to himself as Cuellar jumped to attention and hurried to open the door. The man was no more a sergeant than the wrestler was a ballet dancer.
The man who got out of the limo moved too quickly for Nick to get a look at him. Nick considered leaving his room and attempting to listen, but wrestler-boy and Cuellar abandoned their beer and went inside so he decided to play safe. He was still wondering how to get a look at the visitor when footsteps sounded outside his room.
Quick as thought, Nick dived between the sheets, pulling them up to his waist. He dropped back on the pillows and closed his eyes just as the door opened.
"Well well! I am early, and you care for my patient as well as you said. Good, very good."
Nick's eyes flew open. The man who'd arrived in the limousine was Dr. Perez.
Cody was on the bed, resting again. He was getting stronger every day, but he tired quickly. The weakness infuriated him, but there was nothing he could do about it--except blow his top at Murray, which he'd done three times already. And that, naturally, only left him feeling worse.
He wished there was something he could do to make it up to the little guy. Murray had taken care of everything: found the people to salvage the Mimi, rented the motel, dealt with the police and the paperwork. Kept Cody from shooting anyone.
The only thing he hadn't been able to do was get to Nick.
That was tearing Cody apart. Nick hated hospitals worse than just about anything. Cody had no real firm ideas about the afterlife but he couldn't shake the idea that Nick was trapped in the hospital, alone, all this time.
Murray said something that Cody didn't catch, and he turned over slowly. Perched at the small table in their unit, Murray was typing frantically on his portable computer. Long wires snaked from the keyboard up to the television on the wall, and as Murray clicked the keys a procession of green characters marched down the screen.
"What'd you say, Boz?"
Murray pushed two more keys then turned, a look of grim triumph on his face. "I said, Guerrera's a crook." He shook his head. "Cody, I'm starting to think this is all my fault."
"What are you talking about?" Cody sat up, cautiously swinging his weakened legs over the edge of the bed.
"I didn't do these background checks before we started out. If I only had, maybe none of this would have happened."
"Hey, Murray, no. You did background checks, what're you talking about? We had pages and pages of info--remember Nick saying he'd have no fires to fight this year seeing as you'd used every tree in California for printer-paper?"
Murray gave a wan smile. "Yeah, on the crooks, Cody. On the crooks! What I didn't do was check up on the law enforcement."
"Well, even if he is a crook, so what?" Cody took a deep breath. "Boz, Mimi crashed. She'd've done that even if he was on the level."
"I'm telling myself that but--" Murray shook his head. "The day we pulled her out of the lagoon, he didn't have to be there. And I saw him come out of the cockpit. Maybe there was some evidence, something there."
"A bomb, maybe." Cody caught on, anger sparking in his heart. "That makes sense. Just before Nick shouted, there was that sound--I thought it was static, but now I'm not so sure."
"I heard it too," Murray agreed. "It could have been a bomb."
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"So, what have you got?" Cody said eventually. "Can we put him away?"
"I doubt it." Murray looked despondent. "It's very clear from his bank accounts that he's on the take, but there's something more than that. You know we believed that there was some kind of big-time finance behind these revolutionaries, but the CIA dismissed the idea as far-fetched?"
"Yeah." Cody sat forward, eyes kindling. "And?"
"I think Guerrera's the one arranging the finance." Murray looked unhappy. "It'd be nearly impossible to nail him with that sort of money behind him."
"We have to shut him down. One way or the other." Cody looked at bedside table and Murray paled.
"Cody, we're not vigilantes," he said hastily.
Cody's smile was grim. "Maybe you're not," he said.
"Cody!"
"Listen, Boz. Listen to me, okay? Because of that scum, Nick's dead. He's dead. Now I'm all for bringing Guerrera down the right way, and if we do, I hope he gets to spend a good long time in a Mexican jail and dies of dysentery. But if we can't get him, or if he walks, I'm gonna take him down myself, if it takes me the rest of my life to do it." He stared at Murray, almost daring him to disagree.
Murray looked down. "I suppose I understand you feeling that way," he said in a low voice. "But it all seems so pointless... it can't bring him back, Cody."
"I know it can't, Boz." Cody sank back on the bed. "Believe me, I know."
Nick had submitted to being examined by the doctor although he'd palmed the medication he'd been given, eaten some sort of spicy stew for dinner and listened with interest to soft, regular footfalls pacing up and down the corridor outside his room. Sneaking over and putting his eye to the keyhole had shown Sancho the wrestler prowling up and down. It was obvious that he was on watch. There was no escape that way.
Perez hadn't left the house after examining Nick, and Nick assumed that he and Guerrera were in some sort of conference. Obviously whatever was going on they were in it together, and just as obviously, whatever the racket was it paid damned well. Nick ran through the possibilities in his mind. It all came down to war-mongering of some kind, and the most likely thing was weapons-smuggling.
Nick allowed himself a shark-like grin. He only hoped Guerrera and Perez kept samples of the merchandise at home.
He thought for a few moments, then decided to have a shower. It might lull the sentry outside his room into a false sense of security, and it would certainly kill time until darkness fell. After dark, he might be able to escape via the balcony.
The bathroom was small but luxurious, in a pale blue tile that matched the wallpaper in the bedroom. It was kitted out like an upmarket hotel with a basket of fragrant soap and tiny bottles of shampoo.
Nick luxuriated in the shower. He'd been submitting to sponge baths for four days--hell, a year and four days, apparently--and that was four days too long. The hot water felt great on his skin, and if the soap smelled like a hooker's boudoir, well, that was better than a hospital too. He opened one of the bottles of shampoo and lathered up his hair.
He was rinsing the shampoo on autopilot, trying to figure out how many rounds of ammo he was gonna need and estimating how much was likely to be on the premises, when something struck him. He stopped, rolling his hair between his fingers.
His hair wasn't oily.
Nick well knew that his hair turned greasy and lank if he didn't wash it regularly. So either the sponge-bath nurse did a great line in shampoo and sets on coma patients, or...
Nick finished rinsing his hair and climbed out of the shower, very thoughtful indeed.
In the drawers under the sink, he found a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, and made use of both. And as he rinsed his mouth and straightened up, he looked at himself in the mirror and saw a dark shadow on his left shoulder.
Nick looked more closely. Both shoulders showed bruising, the left worse than the right. When he probed the places they were only slightly sore, meaning the bruising was mainly in the skin. He supposed that it was possible there were hospital procedures that bruised like that, even though he had no idea what they were.
But the one thing Nick knew that bruised like that--exactly like that--was a helicopter pilot's harness. And Nick had never heard of bruising taking a year to disappear.
---
The wrestler was still pacing like he meant it outside Nick's room, so Nick turned his attention to the balcony. Clad in only his jeans, he slipped outside, ready with an excuse of feeling ill and needing fresh air.
The scent of cigarette smoke came up to him clearly and peering down, he saw Cuellar resting nonchalantly against the outdoor staircase. There was no escape that way. Nick slipped past the head of the stairs, wondering if there were any more sentries posted.
He'd gone about halfway along the balcony when he heard voices. Pressing himself against the wall, he inched closer and realized he had come to the room where Perez and Guerrera were in conference. They, perhaps, rather than he, were the reason for the guards.
Nick got as close to the open window as he dared, and settled down to listen.
At the end of an hour, he'd learned three things. Guerrera and Perez were up to their necks in arms dealing, there were definitely arms in the house somewhere, and the following night, an important buyer was expected from somewhere in South America. Nick headed back to his room very slowly.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered down. Cuellar was still there, sitting this time. For a moment Nick thought he was asleep, and then there was a rustle of paper, and Nick realized the man was reading a newspaper.
Holding his breath, Nick eased softly down the stairs. A carefully aimed karate chop silently dispensed with Cuellar, and Nick looked carefully at--but didn't touch--the newspaper in his hand.
The date read 18 February 1987.
---
Nick slipped back to his room, stripped off his jeans and silently put himself to bed, but not before he'd wedged one of the scented soaps under the balcony door, making it nearly impossible to open from the outside. It would do double duty in keeping him safe from intruders and diverting suspicion once the attack on Cuellar was discovered.
The bed was comfortable, but Nick didn't sleep. The commotion signaling the discovery came a half-hour after he went to bed, but apart from Sancho opening his door and shining a torch over his face, Nick was not disturbed. After that, he was alone with his thoughts.
Whichever way he looked at it, he could come to only one conclusion. He was still alive only so that Guerrera could pump him for information. Once he had told what he knew, he would be disposed of.
The coma story could have only one possible explanation. It was to keep him from Cody and Murray, and any other help he might seek. Without it, he would have demanded to see the bodies. He would have checked himself out of the hospital and escaped their control.
They'd doped him up to make him feel weak and ill, mocked up a newspaper. Mocked up the letter from Cody's mother.
Faked the deaths of Murray and Cody.
The idea was so impossibly perfect that Nick was afraid to believe it. But if Murray and Cody were dead, none of the elaborate deception made sense. If they were alive, everything fell into place.
Believing Nick dead, Cody and Murray would forget about arms dealing and Central America. They'd go back to King Harbor and forget Los Mochis and everything it contained, leaving Guerrera and Perez safe. Nick would spill his guts and be quietly disposed of, with everyone who cared one way or another thinking him already dead.
It had to be the setup. Nick felt ill. He wondered if Cody and Murray had already gone home, or if they were still in Los Mochis. He wondered what they'd been told about him.
He hoped and prayed Murray really was looking out for Cody, just the way he'd asked him to when he believed them both dead.
He wouldn't look at the cold link of fear that remained in his heart, reminding him of the crash. Reminding him that one or both of his partners might have been severely injured or worse.
Murray finally packed the computer away for the night. Cody was already asleep, his injuries catching up with him, but Murray hadn't stopped until he'd found Guerrera's address, which had involved unraveling three false names. Murray was justly proud of himself.
In the end, Cody had promised not to shoot Guerrera on sight, and Murray thought he believed him. They decided to check out his house the following night, stake it out and possibly try to plant a bug. Against them was the fact that Guerrera knew them both by sight, and Cody's injury; in their favor the likelihood that Guerrera believed himself safe.
A quick trip to the hardware store in the morning would supply everything Murray needed to whip up a microscopic transmitter, and the Roboz's communicator could do double duty as a receiver. The only thing left to do was call Lieutenant Parisi and have her set up a sting.
Next morning, Nick spent an hour with Guerrera, smiling through his teeth, then pleaded illness. It wasn't a difficult plea to back up: looking at the guy made Nick sick to his stomach. Guerrera was all solicitation, insisting Nick must go to bed and saying he did not mind at all waiting another day to finish the job.
Nick thanked him pathetically and went to his room. As he'd hoped, Guerrera went out shortly afterward. Nick pretended to be asleep when Cuellar brought him lunch, and refused the food weakly when he was awoken. He curled up in a ball while the man was still watching, and listened with satisfaction as the footsteps receded down the hall.
He gave it another half hour then crept out, using the hall door this time. No-one was around: he hoped against hope that everyone had gone for a siesta.
So it seemed. Nick met no-one as he crept over the large house. Snores from a ground floor room at the rear alerted him to Cuellar and Sancho's presence, and he avoided that one, but nearly an hour went past and he found no weapons.
He was nearly ready to give up when he found the cellar.
The first crate he came to held M60s, and a quick check was sufficient to show him that they were the unadulterated kind. Nick extracted two and closed the box up again. The ammunition took him longer, but he found it in the end, and had just returned to his room with his treasures when he heard a car on the drive.
He tucked the loaded weapons quickly beneath his mattress and jumped into bed.
---
Nick's prizes remained undiscovered all afternoon, although his pulse raced every time he heard footsteps approaching his door.
But no-one came in until Perez arrived, solicitous about Nick's supposed ill-health, fussing with thermometers and blood-pressure cuffs until Nick wanted to hit him. Nick pretended to swallow his tablets, then spat them into the toilet the moment Perez had left the room.
He paced the room like a tiger, wondering. Killing Guerrera was still on his list, but finding out where Murray and Cody were was a greater priority. But it seemed sloppy to leave Guerrera's home with him still alive, just in case he never got another chance. Nick was still weighing the alternatives when he heard the unmistakable beat of a chopper approaching.
Suddenly the significance of the broad, flat, treeless front lawn came to Nick and he nodded grimly. If Guerrera was catering to international customers, a private helipad--especially one that didn't look like a helipad--was almost an essential. Nick watched with appreciation as a sleek chopper dropped slowly out of the sky and set down, disgorging two passengers.
Nick looked closer and started to laugh. The passengers were unknown to him, but the helicopter itself was a Baxtercraft 1000. Some hotshot at Baxter Aviation must have disposed of the flawed fleet to South America. Nick wondered if Bax knew.
It was nearly dark. Nick looked at his watch and then at the chopper. As soon as it was dark enough to cover him he'd get out there, take the pilot down and steal the bird. From there, he figured to head north, get across the border, then set down somewhere with a phone and try to find out what had really happened to Cody and Murray.
Guerrera, he decided regretfully, would have to wait for another day.
But halfway across the lawn, Nick realized he'd have to rethink. Instead of just the pilot, Cuellar and Sancho were also in front of the chopper.
Nick made a slow sweep back to the house. Through full length lighted windows, he could see four men in a ground floor room, sitting around a coffee table. Two of the men were Guerrera and Perez, and the others had come in the chopper. Nick slipped close, hoping to overhear, but they were speaking Spanish.
He looked back at the chopper. What he needed was a diversion.
Suddenly a shout came from the direction of the bird followed by running footsteps pounding across the graveled drive. Coming to attention like a pointer, Nick slipped back the way that he had come.
He ghosted through the foliage until he could see the chopper. Only the pilot was in evidence, and Nick exhaled with relief. He shifted slightly to the side--and froze as something cold and hard was shoved against his neck.
"Drop those fucking guns and don't turn around, or I'll blow your brains all over this lawn." The whisper was harsh and the speaker meant every word. Nick knew it like he knew his own name and his eyes filled with tears.
"Cody," he said, voice breaking with relief. "Oh, Cody."
Nick didn't drop his guns. That was the only thing he was really sure of for the next few minutes. They weren't really safe, even here in the shrubbery, but he wouldn't let go of Cody long enough to try and move somewhere safer.
Cody had his arms round Nick's chest, holding on so tight Nick wasn't sure he could breathe. He'd started out to hold Cody the same way but a breathless squeak told him that was a bad idea. He figured Cody maybe had some broken ribs and contented himself with an arm across his back, the other hand buried in his thick gold hair.
Cody had his head on Nick's shoulder, and he was crying so hard Nick was starting to worry Cody wasn't going to be able to breathe much longer. "Easy. Easy," Nick whispered in his ear, rubbing his back. "Cody, baby, it's okay. I gotcha, big guy. I gotcha."
With a huge effort, Cody mastered himself, but his grip didn't slacken. "I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead." A tremor wracked his body. "Nick. Oh God, Nick."
"They told me you were dead," Nick said grimly, anger burning through him at the confirmation of his suspicions. "It was only last night I figured some stuff out, and it didn't add up."
"Guerrera," Cody said.
Nick nodded. "And Perez. But that... that's for later. Right now, we gotta find Murray and we gotta get out of here."
"Murray drew those two thugs off over there." Cody loosened one arm and pointed toward the other side of the house. "Hell, I'm supposed to plant this bug."
"Where? Inside? Because I'm not going back in there, Cody. Not now I've found you. We're getting the hell out before one of us eats it for real." Nick tightened his arms, drawing Cody closer again. "I can't do this without you," he said simply. "You know?"
Cody looked him in the eye. "Believe me, Nick. I know." He took a deep breath. "The bug can go outside. On the wall where those guys are talking was where Murray planned it."
"Right. Come on."
"Nick..."
"What?" Nick turned in surprise as Cody hung back, and for the first time saw the crutches lying on the ground beside him. "You're hurt," he said, suddenly frightened. "Cody, why didn't you say?"
"I'm all right, but I'm slow." Cody looked from the chopper to the house, then back at Nick. "I'm gonna slow you down--"
"Then I'm gonna go slow," Nick said with calm determination. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight for one second until these goddamn crazies are safely underground--"
Cody grabbed Nick's arm, grinning. "I used to hate when you got like this."
Nick gave a soft, short laugh. "And now you don't, huh?"
Cody's only answer was another grin. He pointed at the M60s slung over Nick's shoulders. "Can I have one of them?" He tucked his own gun back in the waistband of his pants.
"Pleasure." Nick unslung one and handed it to his partner. "Aim low," he advised. "Better to take out a kneecap than shoot over their heads."
They crept back to the house. Nick could tell Cody was tiring, and he left him hidden behind the last tree, sprinting the few yards to the house and planting the bug in the window frame. His heart pounded the whole time he did it, and when he got back and found Cody waiting for him, he had to fight back tears.
By the time they crept back across the expanse of shrubbery, Cuellar and the wrestler had returned to the chopper. Nick surveyed them in annoyance. "Where was Murray going after he created his diversion?"
Cody shrugged. "We were playing that by ear."
Just then, a shot cracked from the far side of the house. Cuellar and Sancho took off at a run, and Nick looked at Cody uneasily. "I don't want to leave you, but Boz might be in trouble," he said.
He hesitated a moment longer, and suddenly heard a penetrating whisper. "Cody! Where are you?"
Cody gave a low whistle, and the shrubbery rustled with a noise like a herd of young buffalo. Nick couldn't wipe the grin off his face as Murray climbed right through the middle of a bougainvillea and stopped in front of them. He was liberally sprinkled with petals. "Hey guys," he said, then did a double take. "Guys? Nick!"
Nick blinked back tears. He opened his arms and Murray flung himself into them. Cody joined them, and the three of them held each other tight.
It was Murray who pulled away first, wiping his eyes. "We have to escape," he said distractedly, looking at the chopper. "Nick, since you're--you're not dead, we can take that helicopter, right?"
"We sure can, Boz," Nick said. "And I think we oughtta hurry up and do just that, before Cuellar and Sancho come back."
"Friends of yours?" Cody said wryly.
"The best."
The chopper was in the center of the clear front lawn with no cover on the approach, but they did their best, sneaking around behind it and using the bulk of the helicopter to hide them. For once, everything went smoothly. Nick placed a gun to the pilot's head, Murray helped Cody in and scrambled in himself, and Nick hit the pilot over the head and as he crumpled, leaped in and started the chopper.
Cuellar and Sancho came running as the chopper's rotors started, but Cody leaned out the door, raking the lawn with machine-gun fire.
"No fancy flying, Nick!" Murray ordered as they left the ground.
"Don't worry, guys. This is a Baxtercraft 1000. The toughest thing I'm gonna ask it for is a straight line." Nick grinned, looking to his right. Cody was sitting in the co-pilot's seat, grinning back at him, and Nick's heart swelled. "I'm sure glad to be going home."
Cody reached out and rested a hand on Nick's thigh, squeezing gently. In the rear seat, Murray leaned forward between them, grinning like a fool. "If home is where the heart is, then we're already home," he blurted.
"We sure are, Murray," Cody agreed.
Nick nodded, blinking back tears. "We sure are." He turned the chopper's nose for the North Star, and flicked the radio switch experimentally. He was rewarded with a comforting hiss of static. At least the radio worked.
Flipping it off again, he glanced back at Murray. "I don't suppose you've got your Roboz-remote with you, man?"
"Well, sure, Nick." Murray pulled the orange keypad from a pocket, grinning. "The bug Cody planted is transmitting through it right now, straight back to Lieutenant Parisi in King Harbor."
Nick breathed a sigh of relief. "You got no idea how glad I am to hear that, Boz. Because this tin can we're flying hasn't got Mimi's range, and if we drop down uninvited and try to buy fuel, I think it's more'n likely the Mexican authorities are gonna hand us right back to Guerrera."
Cody went white. "Maybe we should ditch the chopper, Nick. Maybe--"
"Maybe nothing. My first plan was to steal a car, but there's even more ways that can go wrong, you know? At least up here, there's less chance of anyone pulling us over."
Murray giggled, fiddling with his keypad. "I have Joanna online," he declared. "Well, her computer, that is. What do you want me to tell her?"
Nick calculated in his head. "Hermosillo. See if she can have a welcome wagon waiting for us there to fuel up. You won't see your boat tonight, man," he glanced at Cody, "but we'll make it to the border and set 'er down in Tucson."
Cody reached out and laid a hand on Nick's leg, squeezing. "I thought you said something about the Bahamas," he said huskily. There were tears in his eyes.
Nick blinked back his own tears. "Nah," he managed. "Hawaii. I changed my mind."
Cody sat back, smiling, and wiped his eyes. "Tucson, King Harbor, Hawaii. I'm gonna hold you to that, pal."
"Hawaii?" Murray frowned, leaning forward. "Nick, I thought you said Hermosillo. That's where Joanna's setting up the helicopter fuel. Are we flying to Hawaii instead? But if we can make it that far, surely we can make it to King Harbor?"
Nick and Cody looked at him, then each other, and burst out laughing. "Hermosillo's perfect, Boz. Perfect," Nick gasped.
"Good. But... I don't understand why you're laughing." Murray still looked confused.
Cody grabbed his shoulder, grinning. "Because we're going home, Murray. All of us. We all made it, we're all going home, and everything's perfect."
Murray looked from Cody to Nick and started to laugh himself. "You're right, guys. You're right. Wherever we end up, it's gonna be perfect."
Nick pushed the cyclic forward, coaxing the Baxtercraft to its top cruising speed as below them, the lights of Los Mochis gave way to the darkness of countryside and coast. He looked at Cody and smiled. This once, the Boz had got it wrong.
Everything was already perfect.