"Call me Blaize."
The Extinguisher watched her go. She moved like a jungle cat, slipping between trees until she was only a shadow, then a shape, then one with the eternal jungle night.
He unlimbered his pack, picking through it carefully. The way things were going, he'd have to jettison extra gear if he was to make it to his destination-wherever that was.
Digging into his pack, he discovered something important was missing.
There was only one Extinguisher novel. He had brought two. Worst of all, the missing one was the one he hadn't finished.
"Damn it. Musta left it behind last time I took a dump."
Repacking his gear, he left the surviving book out.
It was too dangerous to sleep. Time enough for sleep when Assumpta returned.
Breaking out his waterproof poncho, he tented it over his head, making sure the skirts came all the way to the ground. Clicking on a flashlight, he began reading
The Extinguisher #221, Hell on Wheels.
Massachusetts State Trooper Edward X. MacIlwraith thought he'd seen everything in his twenty-eight years cruising Bay State highways until the day he pulled over the cherry red Eldorado and found himself looking into the bore of a .50-caliber Browning gutripper .. . .
The Extinguisher grinned happily. "Looks like a good one ...."
Chapter 31
Colonel Mauricio Primitivo was not accustomed to the jungle.
He knew enough to stay away from the Manzanillo tree, whose easily bruised bark leaked a thick, milky sap that made the skin erupt in ferocious rashes and boils.
The give-and-take palm was also to be avoided, although it was not as vicious as the Manzanillo.
The night wore on. The darkness was both impenetrable and absolute. The wild calls of unseen things abroad in the forest were disturbing. Colonel Primitive clutched his Heckler submachine gun more tightly.
The dark plots of bean and cornfields that had been scorched black to prepare the land for the spring planting gave off an odor that called to him.
It meant a village. In Chiapas a village meant indios. Indios meant Juarezista sympathizers. And sympathizers inescapably suggested a safe haven where the Masked One might go to lick his wounds.
Releasing the safety on his H Mauricio Primitivo picked up his pace. His thick mustache quirked upward in a slow anticipatory smile.
He would find what he sought or there would be a slaughter this night.
Perhaps a slaughter might transpire even if he found his quarry. All things were possible in lawless Chiapas.
Chapter 32
"We're getting nowhere," Remo said, pulling over to the side of the road.
It was well past midnight. They had been driving for hours and they hadn't come across a single Juarezista to interrogate.
"I say we head into the forest," Remo- suggested.
"You must carry my trunk," said Chiun.
Remo eyed the steamer trunk with the blue phoenixes in the back seat.
"Can't we leave it here?"
"It will be stolen by thieves."
While they were arguing, an armored column roared past.
The faces of the soldiers were grim. And they were in a fierce hurry.
They blew on past without stopping to ask questions.
"Maybe they're on the trail," said Remo.
"Let us follow them," Chiun suggested.
"Beats walking," said Remo, getting the Humvee in gear. He sent it back up the road. They fell in behind the armored column.
They followed a half mile before it abruptly left the highway and disappeared up a winding road.
"Here goes," said Remo.
The road led to a military installation. It was ablaze with lights, and soldiers were climbing into armored vehicles parked in front of it.
The column screeched to a disorganized stop, and men started piling out, blocking the way out.
"Looks like they're getting ready for war," Remo told Chiun. "Wait here with the trunk."
The new arrivals began yelling at the soldiers preparing to leave. They were being yelled at in return. All of it was in Spanish, and Remo understood none of it.
It was a great, noisy confusion in which his "Anyone here speak English?" was completely lost.
Noticing a main building, Remo entered. No one tried to stop him. They were too busy arguing and trying to get their vehicles lined up so the fresh soldiers could depart by the one winding access road.
Remo found the commanding officer fussing at his desk. He was digging through a sheaf of communications while trying to talk into two phones at once, one perched on each shoulder. His nameplate said ZARAGOZA.
"You speak English?" asked Remo.
The commander looked up.
"Si. Now go away."
"Can't."