Freedom Express (11 page)

He knew right away that these people were all of one

profession.

"
Jeesuz
" he whispered. "It looks like a mercenary convention."

He donned a pair of almost clear sunglasses, thereby

cutting down on the chances that someone would recognize him.

Then he made his way into the crowd.

His first impression of a mercenary's reunion wasn't too far off. As he walked the crowded streets, he saw that dozens of storefront recruiting offices lined every block. Some had signs advertising work for trench troops, sappers, guards, recondos and rocketeers. Others wanted tank drivers, truck drivers, combat engineers, even cooks. He was simply amazed by it all. He had seen similar mercenary marketplaces in Algiers, but he never imagined such a thing was going on right in America.

And this too made him suspicious. There was only one reason the mercs had flooded to West Santa Fe-the promise of a lot of work to be found.

He turned onto a particularly loud and raunchy-looking

boulevard, one that had many rag joints squeezed into both sides.

Loud music spilled out of dozens of broken windows. Small groups of young women roamed the sidewalks, brazenly approaching men and even couples, trying to sell their rather obvious talents.

It was the same scene up and down the street.

"How much gold do you have on you?" one streetwalker asked Hunter, seductively grabbing his arm.

He looked at the girl's makeup-plastered face and guessed that a very pretty sixteen-year-old girl was underneath the hideous, bright violet eye shadow and lipstick. He resisted the impulse to suggest that she should take a bath and try to salvage what was left of her youth.

"I thought the first one was free?" he replied.

The girl laughed at him. "You may be better looking than most of these Burns," she said, pointing to the streetful of meres, "but a girl's still got to make some money."

"So do I," he said. "And quick."

He produced a single gold coin. "This is yours if you can tell me something all these other guys don't know."

She understood right away. Taking the coin and putting it down the front of her ultra-tight halter top, the girl pointed toward a bar across the street.

"Go over to that place, the Happy Apache, and ask the bartender there," she suggested. "He knows everything that's going down in this town."

Hunter thanked her and made his way across the crowded

street, wondering if the world would ever again be a place where kids could grow up without losing their innocence by the time they hit the age of ten.

He pushed through the swinging doors of the Happy Apache, and his nostrils were immediately invaded by a wave of stale beer and cheap perfume. Loud and very bad piano music came from one corner of the large, crowded barroom; a woman was playfully stripping off her clothes in another.

"My kind of place," he mused.

To no surprise, he saw the saloon was lousy with

mercenaries. A long bar filled one side of the room, and he made his way through the human traffic jam in that direction.

The only empty stool was next to a man who had passed out, his head lying in a puddle of spilled beer on the bar. As Hunter was claiming the vacant seat, the bartender grabbed the drunk by his hair, yanked his head up and wiped up the beer with a filthy-looking rag. Then he let go, allowing the drunk's head to fall back to the bar with a resounding
crack
!

The barkeep-a short, fat man with a straggly yellow beard streaked with gray-then turned his attention to Hunter.

"I don't serve strangers," he said, eyeing him suspiciously. "And I ain't never seen you before."

"So?"

"So get the fuck out of here."

Hunter dropped a handful of gold coins onto the damp bar.

"Just cut the crap and give me a goddamn beer," he said with intended harshness.

The bartender looked at the coins and smiled; up until

recently, real gold had been a rarity in these parts. He filled a cloudy, cracked glass with a weak-looking yellow liquid and plunked it down in front of Hunter.

"That'll be a half a bag of gold," he said.

Hunter laughed in his face. "Sure thing, skinny," he replied with a smirk, tossing two coins toward the chunky man.

"Hey, nobody says you have to drink here, wise ass," the bartender rumbled, reluctantly picking up the sticky coins.

Hunter took a swig of the so-called beer. It was about as tasty as week-old dish water.

"I was told you'd know if there was any 'special' work available around here," he said.

The bartender seemed to laugh and scowl at the same time.

"And who the fuck told you that?"

"Your daughter," Hunter shot back. "She just propositioned me outside."

The bartender's face turned six shades of red.

"You must be tired of living, pal," he told Hunter, reaching for a Bowie knife in his belt buckle.

A split-second later, the man was staring down the barrel of Hunter's M-16.

"So," Hunter continued calmly, "should I assume you don't know of any 'good' jobs?"

"I didn't say that," the fat man replied nervously as the rifle touched his nose. "I ... I just haven't decided if it's worth it to tell you."

Hunter lowered the gun and pushed three more coins across the sticky bar.

The bartender quickly scooped them up. "OK, what kind of work you looking for?"

"I'm a merc," Hunter said. "And a guy told me there was big doin's down this way."

Now the bartender really laughed. "Well, get in line, asshole," he said. "That's the same bullshit story I've heard from every one of these guys."

"Is that so?" Hunter asked. "Well, any of these popheads bragging about being able to drive a B-52?"

"You're a bomber pilot?"

"I can be if the price is right," Hunter told him.

The man stared hard at Hunter for several seconds, and

Hunter stared right back.

"Wait right here," the bartender finally said. Hunter unconsciously took another sip of the revolting beer and wound up spitting it out on the floor. Wiping his mouth, he scanned the barroom again. It was a marketplace of drugs and sex. Men huddled over tables, openly exchanging money and bags of white powder; scantily dressed women of all ages draped themselves over every there who showed the slightest interest.

A moment later, Hunter felt a tug on his trousers. He was surprised to see a midget had eased up beside him.

"I hear you're looking for action," the little guy squeaked.

"Not with your sister, I'm not," Hunter replied.

The midget smiled, as if it were a joke. "Is it true you can fly heavy stuff?" he asked, his thin voice turning serious.

"Depends," Hunter replied. The midget smiled again. "Good answer," he said.

"Come with me."

Instantly Hunter's sixth sense started flashing. All of his instincts were telling him the dwarf would lead him to some valuable information. Knowing he had to start somewhere, Hunter followed the man-all three feet of him-through the crowd and out of the bar.

"Many of these mercs are just
bullsheet
artists," the midget said as they walked along. "But if you truly are a bomber pilot-or any kind of pilot -I know people who will want to talk to you."

"And supposing I'm not," Hunter asked.

"Then my brother will slit your throat for lying to me,"

the midget replied nonchalantly.

They went down the crowded street for about a hundred yards, then the midget suddenly turned into a dark alley. He pointed to a gray, two-story dilapidated house halfway down the court.

"Go there," he said in his crackling, squeaky voice. "Up j the stairs. Say Carlo sent you." The midget held out his hand expectantly. Hunter dropped two gold coins into it, and the little man vanished around the corner.

Hunter approached the house cautiously, noting that the alley seemed to be the only quiet place for blocks around. The first floor of the gray house was dark, but there was a light in an upstairs window. He carefully eased open the front door with his gun barrel and found himself in a dark hallway. His keen eyesight picked out the shape of a staircase on the far wall.

He mounted the stairs, each squeaking step signaling his ascent.

The upstairs hallway was dimly lit, revealing several doors. One was open, and a huge silhouette was outlined there. I

"Who are you?" a voice called out.

"Carlo sent me," Hunter responded. "I'm a bomber pilot-looking for work."

Hunter's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when the man behind the voice stepped out into the hallway. He was at least seven feet tall and five hundred pounds or more -a certifiable giant.

"My brother Carlo sent you?" the giant asked. "Then come here. And
geeve
me your gun."

"No chance, big boy," Hunter replied smartly.

The Mexican monster looked like he wanted to eat Hunter for a snack. He reached out to grab him, but Hunter was quicker. His trusty stiletto jackknife was suddenly poised at the giant's ample throat.

Just then a woman's voice called out: "Bring him in here, Manuel."

The giant obediently led Hunter into the room. The only light was a small lamp on a table next to a sofa facing the door.

From the shadows in one corner came the woman's voice again.

"Come over here," she said.

Hunter walked toward the voice, and the woman rose to meet him.

She was wearing a black shirt with the top three buttons open to reveal several inches of very inviting cleavage. Her shapely hips and legs were packed into black jeans. Hunter's eyes roamed appreciatively over her enticing form and came to rest on her enormous pearl-handled Colt .45s.

"Nice guns," he said suggestively.

"Thank you," she cooed. "My name is Juanita Juarez."

Right away Hunter's sixth sense started flashing again, telling him two things: He was definitely on the right track, and the woman was extremely dangerous.

"You are really a bomber pilot?" she asked, her hand lightly touching his.

"Yes, ma'am," Hunter answered. "And I'm a damn good one.

I've fought on four continents, and I'm ready for more."

Juanita's dark eyes locked with his. There was something about this man, he could hear her thinking. Something different.

She took a long look at his lean frame, his muscular shoulders, his longish, dark blond hair. Even the rumpled clothes and unshaven chin did little to conceal his innate good looks.

"Manuel, leave us," she commanded.

"But my lady-" the giant began to protest.

"I said
leave us!"
the woman sneered at him.

Manuel meekly left the room, a spot of blood leaking out from his chin.

Juanita gestured toward the sofa. "Let's talk. Tell me about yourself."

For the next ten minutes, Hunter told the Mexican beauty every conceivable lie that he could think of, all revolving around his supposed bomber pilot-for-hire career.

When he finished, he couldn't tell if she believed him or not. Oddly, it appeared as if she really didn't care.

"OK, you pass part one," she said, her jet black eyes glowing like a cat's. Then she stood up in front of Hunter, unbuckled her gun belts and dropped the huge weapons on the floor. "Now for part two. . . ."

As Hunter watched in growing disbelief, Juanita slowly

loosened the few remaining buttons on her black shirt and let it slip easily off. Then she deftly unsnapped her bra, letting her lovely, round, erect-nippled breasts spring free. Next, she removed her jeans, sliding them seductively down her brown, perfectly shaped legs. As Hunter's eyes drank in her

overwhelming sexuality, she eased out of her black panties and stood before him totally naked.

It was the most unabashed display of wantonness that Hunter had ever witnessed.

She lowered herself onto Hunter's lap, pushing her heat against him. "Screw me until I can't move," she whispered, ".

. . and you've got a job."

Now, once again, the tormented conflicting emotions

streaked through Hunter's brain at supersonic speeds. Of course he wanted her . . . any man with a pulse would. But he certainly couldn't allow passion to totally distort his sense of

self-preservation.

Besides, he was on an intelligence mission. Therefore, his situation called for a plan.

He slipped the strap of his M-16 off his shoulder and laid the weapon on the floor next to the sofa, still within easy reach.

Juanita quickly unbuttoned his shirt, allowing her breasts to press soft and warm against his bare chest.

He stood back from her and looked deeply into her eyes. She began to speak -but suddenly couldn't. All she could do was look back at him, her eyes magically drawn to his.

This done, he placed his hands on her bare breasts and began making counter-clockwise circles with his fingers, never taking his eyes off hers. She gasped once, her dark pupils still unblinking, and then she began to softly moan. Gradually he tightened his grip until he held both her nipples between his fingers.