When I drifted back into consciousness my head was throbbing but the bleeding had stopped. Immediately I found the automatic near my hand and listened for sounds of Bautista but heard none. How long had I been out? I had no way of knowing; maybe just a few minutes even though it seemed longer. Or perhaps my unconsciousness hadn’t been total and something in me had still been alert and listening. A sound might have brought me back up again. What had it been? Again I listened, ears like radar, but could detect nothing.
Making no sound, I peered out from behind the corrugated iron sheets. On my right, seeming further away than it really was, the entrance showed as a dark grey rectangle amid the general blackness. No shadowy figure stood there. The broken windows above and across from me were too high and noisy for Bautista to access that way. The floor of the hangar was, I recalled, fairly clear of debris and obstructions, apart from the corners where there was all kinds of garbage. Keep away from those and, assuming my legs would bear me, I should be able to move around quietly.
The rusty iron sheeting gave me some protection but if Bautista managed to get across to this wall he could approach silently and fire under the sheets, knowing I’d likely be hiding there. I left the backpack where it was and crept out the far side.
The moon must have become completely obscured as it was now pitch dark in the hangar. I stood up; knowing that even a cat would have trouble seeing me. There was no sudden rush, no muzzle flash and shots ringing out. All was still and motionless in the black ink surrounding me. I retreated to the back wall, placing each step slowly and carefully. There was an old doorway there but it was boarded up. I stopped when I reached it.
Silence reigned, broken only by the pounding of my heart. I should have been terrified, as I knew the tiger must be here, crouching ready to spring. The few minutes of unconsciousness must have done me good, as my panic was gone. Instead, I now felt relatively calm, reminding myself that even Bautista couldn’t see in total darkness. My job now was to make sure he didn’t wound me again with a lucky shot, leaving me helpless for him to finish off. I had to find him before he found me.
At last I heard a scuffling somewhere ahead and on my left. I steadied my hand on the automatic and waited. The scuffling stopped. Then it began again, louder this time, and getting closer. My ears honed in on it, sure now that it was coming from the left wall of the hangar, about halfway down. I held the Sig Sauer rock steady with both hands and aimed it at the spot.
The trampling sounds continued. Is he crazy? He must hear himself. Have I deafened him with a bullet or something? I had to take advantage of his carelessness, finish it now while I could. My finger tightened on the trigger.
I fired, again and again. Four, five, maybe six rounds until the hammer clicked and told me the clip was all used up. As I fired I sensed I wasn’t hitting him, that I’d got something badly wrong. Even then, when he fired back the angle shocked me. Flashes came from way over on my right. I ran forward, tripped over something like a brick or lump of wood, and fell prone to the ground. Another round thudded into the concrete near my shoulder. He was shooting low, knowing full well I had to be on the floor.
Silence again. I lay defenceless, an empty clip in my Sig Sauer, unwilling to move and risk more of Bautista’s bullets. What had just happened? I wracked my brains to figure it out. The scuffling on the left side of the hangar had sounded exactly like footsteps. Did Bautista have an accomplice? Sure, they had been strangely noisy, almost a bit random . . .
“This place is full of rats.” Bautista’s voice was low, ominous, sneering, “If you’d grown up as I did, you’d recognise their sounds.”
I tried to locate the voice. He was still on my right but the hangar was just one large black box, impossible for my eyes to fix on any specific spot. Wherever he was, I had to reload, get up, and vie for an advantage. My hand slid down to my jacket pocket and slowly undid the zip.
Another shot rang out, this time pinging off the concrete floor down next my knee.
“Am I getting closer?” the voice taunted, “Maybe that one got you? I’m in no hurry anyway.”
The damned voice was floating, as if he was projecting it across the hangar like a ventriloquist. I couldn’t locate it with any precision at all. Our contest had rapidly become guerrilla warfare, something he was obviously used to, and was far more skilled at than me. In our life and death game of field chess, one more false move by me and I’d be in checkmate.
My sole aim in life now was to get out of the hangar. But I was terrified of moving so much as a finger in case he would fire again and get me. The sliding of my shoes on the rough concrete, even a crack of my knee joints while getting up, might give me away.
I fought down the fear, reminded myself of what I’d already been through and overcome, and very gradually eased the fresh ammo clip out of my pocket. Then slowly brought it up to the Sig Sauer. I went over the sequence in my head; eject the spent clip, slide in the new one, put a round in the chamber, point and fire. The sort of thing a trained professional does without thinking. I was no pro.
“Say your prayers, Knox. You’re about to die.” The voice had shifted but remained even-toned, calm, and impossible to pin down. Still, it was encouraging to know that he too feared a lucky shot and was keeping on the move. His continued comments were meant to provoke a response, from which he would be able to tell if I was still in the same place and whether I’d been seriously hit or not. I kept my mouth tight shut.
“You weren’t the first, you know. That slut María was a bitch in heat.”
I was up on my hands and knees before I knew what I was doing. He fired again and made the rest of my movements completely automatic. I rose up like a sprinter out of his blocks and ran towards the entranceway. My hands moved, the old ammo clip clattered on the floor behind me, the new clip went in, my arm swung around and I fired several times at where I thought he was standing.
Bautista screamed. It was glorious, the most welcome and lovely sound I’d ever heard in my life. His firing instantly stopped. I’ve got the bastard! My intention to get out instantly forgotten, I swung around, ready to fire again.
The damnable silence returned. I listened intently for moans or groans, the sound of crawling, a gasp of pain, anything to indicate how badly Bautista was hit. Nothing. Have I killed him?
Only one way to find out. I took several steps forward, deeper into the hangar again, closer to where he had to be hiding. The blackness enveloped me even more. Physically, I could feel the adrenalin draining out of me, like a wave retreating from the shore. I staggered a bit on my aching feet and my head swam. The scalp injury had weakened me most. A wave of fatigue swept over me. I craved rest, sleep.
There were plenty of little sounds coming from all directions; rats again, I assumed. Rotten planks expanding or contracting in the warm night. Scurries, creaks, the whirring of an insect flying near my face. Bautista somewhere among it all. I held the Sig Sauer aloft, trying to pick out a sound that could only be human. With only the remains of this clip and one more left, I wanted to be sure before firing again.
I picked out a different kind of creak. A leather shoe taking three or four steps? Then a slight muffling, as if he was walking on a soft, dusty patch. Another crack – a footstep on dry wood! I pointed the automatic, ready to fire.
By now I was pretty sure that Bautista had moved away from the right side of the hangar and crossed over toward the centre. All his noises had stopped, suggesting he was either standing perfectly still or, more likely, lying down on the floor to give me the toughest target possible. He was waiting for me to show myself, hoping I would make for the doorway.
I spread my feet further apart to steady myself and very carefully bent my knees. In slow motion I touched my palms to the floor and spread myself prone, facing the centre of the hangar. If I was wrong about Bautista, so be it. I had to keep playing this game of odds and of waiting to its deadly conclusion.
There we lay, separated from each other by maybe fifteen or twenty feet of space, neither of us daring to move or make a sound. My ears, and the taste of blood dribbling into the corner of my mouth, were the only senses I had left. A century – maybe five minutes – trickled by. Then I heard him. He was there all right, exactly where I’d estimated. Strangely, he drew a deep breath, a sort of slow, almost silent sigh. But it was not quite noiseless. I clenched the Sig Sauer tightly, closed my finger on the trigger, tempted to fire. But I would still have been shooting blindly into inky blackness. If I missed, which was likely, he’d see the flash of my muzzle and fire right back at me, but far more accurately.
I waited another quarter of an hour or so but there were no more noises and I was getting worried that he was up to something. Silently circling around to my rear? That was probably impossible even for the most experienced 161uerrilla or tracker, but I could not be sure. I needed some kind of ruse, a trap to fool him. The toe of my shoe touched against a small rock. With infinite care I pushed myself backwards with my arms until I was level with the rock. I never moved so slowly in all my life. At last, my fingers fumbled around and found the small, smooth stone.
My plan was to toss the stone to my left, a little to the right of Bautista, close enough to startle him and lure him into firing first. Then I would return fire whenever I saw the flash of his automatic. If Bautista moved to his right as I thought he would, it would be difficult for him to return fire at me from under his body and across his left arm. He would have to get up. By then I hoped I’d have killed him.
I took a deep breath through thin lips and tried to visualise where the stone had to land.
Then I tossed it and all hell broke loose.