Bad to the Bones(44)

But what sort of standoff was this? At sixty yards he wasn’t certain he could bury the guy. But the guy would definitely hit him once he leaped on his bike and started the engine.

“What do you want?” Knoxie bellowed.

“I’m asking you that! What’s the big idea? Why are you sneaking away?” Meanwhile, the daimyo had his radio to his ear, no doubt reporting Knoxie’s presence.

“I came to visit someone. Saw the windows of the hut all steamed up, didn’t want to bother you.” A likely story.

“Then why are you pointing that gun at me?” shouted the daimyo. Knoxie thought he heard him say excitedly into the radio, “Code orchid at the east gate! The eggplant has landed! Need Big Fandango down here pronto.”

What the f*ck? Knoxie knew then the daimyo was calling on Shakti to fly low down there and…well, Knoxie didn’t want to wait to find out. In a flash, he was in his saddle, hitting the fuel switch. He had to use his Glock hand to hold onto the ape hanger grip, so the piece was useless for a few seconds. He’d just turned the key on when he was hit in the calf.

That bullet wasn’t coming from the guard shack.

He was pushing the engine button when the second bullet whizzed by. His motor sprang to life, but he only managed to ride a few feet before he was hit again in the shoulder.

He laid the bike down, thanking god for his leathers. He parked it horizontally almost in slow motion. The big machine came down on the injured leg before it spun off onto the gravel, and Knoxie knew he was doomed. He was sprawled on his back—all he could see was the bowl of purple-blue sky above.

Distant shouts came closer, and he had the presence of mind to stick his Glock into his boot before he tried to sit up.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




KNOXIE


“Express yourself, my dove. Express the air from your lungs.”

That was kind of hard to f*cking do, given the position Knoxie was in. The daimyo—Bulsara, Knoxie figured his name was—had tied some slinky white nylon rope around Knoxie’s wrists and tossed the ends over a convenient pulley attached to the overhead rafter of the guard shack. This was after removing Knoxie’s gloves, his shirt, his cut. He figured they wanted to emasculate him, to cut him down a peg, because without his cut, he was no one. But how did they know that? Maybe they felt the same way about their stupid purple rags.

Although the blood from the gunshot wound in his calf was starting to sting, Knoxie said nothing. The boot leg of his jeans was halfway shot away, but no one seemed to care or notice. The second bullet seemed to have grazed the bicep. He was allowed to dangle halfway sitting in a chair, but already his arms were wrenched in agony. He had too much pride to ask to be lowered a bit.

Shakti had come right away. The one-eyed bastard in the Ed Wood cashmere sweater had turned a chair around backward to straddle, as though they had come up together and would discuss their childhoods. Knoxie thought of what Rafael had told him about his sister’s finger before he’d driven back into the compound. But that was the cartel. Surely these doomsday preppers didn’t need to be that cruel. What threat did he represent, anyway?

Knoxie tried to remember what he’d yelled the last time he’d been up here. Something like, “you’re in our sights, you sick swami!” Something like that. “We’re taking you down!” “You’d better look behind you when you walk!” Oh, and then he’d written a love note on the Stuart Grillo daily log. It sure was easy to make such childish, brash threats when you were pretty certain the twatwaffle with the AK wasn’t about to shoot you.

He knew better now.

He tried to still his emotions, to rein them in, prevent them from running away like a herd of wild horses. It’d been a long time since he’d had to call on his rusty SEAL training. From what little he’d heard of these people and their broken bones, smothering, and raping, it would be wrong to feel anything near secure. And now the weirdo was talking.

“I know of your predicament, my dove.” The swami spoke in what was supposed to be a soothing tone just dripping with hypocritical sap. He brandished a snowy crystal wand, blunt at its tapered tip. He waved it as though sprinkling fairy dust. “I know what happened to you as a youth. I can see you wearing the vestments with the angelic white wing arms. What a glorious boy you must have been.”

What the f*ck? Knoxie’s heart nearly stopped. Then he calmed himself. He’s just guessing. He doesn’t know a thing about me.

“See, the thing is, Mr. Hammett…I can see where you would want to take Asanga from me. The two of you complement each other. As a rough and tough biker, you fear and humiliate women.”

What in the name of an extraterrestrial thetan? Knoxie finally spoke, letting all his pent-up scorn drip from his words. “Rough and tough biker? I can see you get your stereotypes from watching Sesame Street. As for ‘taking’ Bellamy from you, you were the one who tossed her out with the used diapers and the rest of the alkies you bussed in to vote for your candidate. I hardly had to do any ‘taking,’ you asswipe. She voluntarily came with me.”

Shakti pointed at the ceiling with the wand. “That’s where you are wrong. Asanga is easily duped, easily manipulated thanks to the trauma of her father leaving when she was young. I can see how the two of you suit each other, what with your complementary trauma at the hands of those priests who pretended to be so holy. They were supposed to be an example for youth, a symbol of all that is holy for idealistic kids. Instead they revealed their true colors, the truly dark, rotten pit of their souls.”