Blue Labyrinth

Still peering over the edge, she saw him lying on his back in a thicket of crushed vegetation, his body going into a crazy horizontal dance, writhing and convulsing, jittery hands clutching and tearing at random leaves and flowers, until suddenly his entire frame tensed, arching upward like a drawn bow until only the back of his head and his heels were on the ground. He jittered for a moment in that frozen position. Constance fancied she even heard vertebrae snapping before the body collapsed into the bed of disordered vegetation, and his brains slid out of a steaming hole in the back of his head to settle in a greasy gray puddle.

The effect on the two others was gratifying. These were men, Constance surmised, who had fought in war and seen much killing and death. They were, of course, stupid — like many men — but were nonetheless highly trained, dangerous, and good at their job. But they had never seen anything like this. This was not guerrilla warfare; this was not a special op; this was not “shock and awe”—this was something completely outside their training. They stood like statues, flashlights fixed on their dead companion, stu

With great rapidity, Constance moved out on the limb until she was positioned above one of the two — Shaved Head — and this time she poured out the rest of the bottle’s contents, then let it fall, taking care that not a single drop of the acid touched her own skin.

Again, the results were most satisfactory. This dousing was not as precisely aimed as the first, and the acid splattered in a swath across the man’s head and one shoulder, as well as the surrounding vegetation. Nevertheless, the consequences were instantaneous. It appeared as if his head melted in on itself, expelling a rush of cloudy, greasy gas. With a shriek of animal horror, Shaved Head sank to his knees, his hands clutching his skull even as it was dissolving, panicked fingers pushing through liquefying bone and brain matter before he keeled over, going into the same peculiar convulsions as Tattoo. As he did so, the vegetation that had been splashed with the acid began to smoke and curl up, bits of it flashing into fire, then quickly flaring out — no fire could sustain itself long in the damp vegetation.

Like all superacids, Constance knew, triflic acid generated a strong exothermic reaction when encountering organic compounds.

The third man was now collecting his wits. He backed away from his convulsing comrade, and then looked up, firing his weapon in a panic. But Constance was already hidden behind a limb and the man was shooting randomly. She used the opportunity to climb higher into the tree’s upper limbs. Here the branches knitted together with the surrounding trees, forming a dense canopy. Slowly and deliberately, keeping the duffel close, she moved from one limb to another, while the frantic man below fired ineffectually at the sounds of her movement. Managing to climb onto an adjacent tree, she descended a few feet and concealed herself in the crook of a thick limb covered in leaves.

There was the crackle of a radio. Now the shots stopped and the flashlight beam played about, searching this way and that. In that moment, two more men burst into the Tropical Pavilion.

“What’s going on?” one of them cried, pointing to the smoking bodies. “What the hell happened?”

“The crazy bitch poured something on them — acid, maybe. She’s up in the trees.”

More flashlight beams joined in roaming about among the canopy.

“Who the fuck was firing? The boss says don’t kill her.”

As she listened to this exchange, Constance took stock of the small chemical case. Three more flasks remained within it, full and carefully stoppered. Then, of course, there were the other contents of her bag to consider. She mentally reviewed the situation. There were, as best she could guess, six or seven men remaining, including Barbeaux.

Barbeaux. She was reminded of Diogenes Pendergast. Brilliant. Formidable. With the kind of sadistic streak reserved only for psychopaths. But Barbeaux was cruder, militaristic, less refined. Her hatred for Barbeaux was now so incandescent she could feel the heat of it warming her vitals.

73

John Barbeaux waited in the darkened space of the Palm House. The two men who stayed with him had stretched Pendergast out on the floor. The handcuffed agent remained unconscious despite being slapped and even shocked with the cattle prod. Barbeaux leaned over and placed two fingers on Pendergast’s neck, searching for the carotid pulse. Nothing. He pressed a little harder. There it was: very weak.

He was at death’s door.

At this, Barbeaux felt a vague disquiet. The moment of his triumph had come; the moment he had been thinking about for so long, fantasizing over, savoring — the moment when Pendergast would be confronted with the truth. The moment Alban Pendergast had promised. But it hadn’t quite played out as he’d imagined. Pendergast had been too weak to appreciate the full flavor of his defeat. And then — to Barbeaux’s vast surprise — the man had apologized. He had, essentially, taken responsibility for the sins of the fathers. That shock had taken much of the enjoyment out of his achievement; deprived him of the chance to gloat. At least, he felt fairly certain this was what lay at the heart of his disquietude.

And then, there was the girl…

It was taking his men far longer to retrieve her than he’d anticipated, and he began pacing once again. His movements caused the lone candle on the table to flicker and gutter. He blew it out, leaving the Palm House to the light of the moon.

He heard another fusillade of shots. This time, he pulled out his radio. “Steiner. Report.”

“Sir,” came the voice of his Ops Crew leader.

“Steiner, what’s going on?”

“That bitch took out two of our men. Poured acid on them, or something.”

“Stop shooting at her,” said Barbeaux. “I want her alive.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Where is she now?”

“Up in the treetops of the Tropical Pavilion. She’s got a bottle of acid, and she’s freaking crazy—”

“Three of you with automatic weapons, against one woman, treed, dressed only in a slip, armed with, what, a bottle of acid? Do I have that right?”

A hesitation. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry — what the fuck is the problem, exactly?”

Another hesitation. “There is no problem, sir.”

“Good. There will be if she’s killed. Whoever kills her, dies.”

“Sir… forgive me, sir, but the target — well, he’s either dead or dying. Right?”

“Your point being?”

“So what do we need the girl for? Her retrieval of that plant — it doesn’t matter now. It would be much easier to just throw up a screen of bullets, drop her with—”

“Aren’t you hearing a word I’ve said? Steiner, I want her alive.”

A pause. “What… do we do?”

And this from a professional. Barbeaux couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a deep breath. “Bring your squad into position. Approach diagonally. Liquid falls vertically.”

A silence. “Yes, sir.”

He replaced the radio. A lone girl, up against professional mercenaries, some of them ex-special-forces. And yet she had them spooked. Unbelievable. Only now were his men’s limitations becoming obvious. Crazy? Yeah — crazy like a fox. He had underestimated her. That would not happen again.

He leaned down and touched Pendergast’s neck. Now he could feel no pulse at all, no matter how he probed or pressed. “Goddamn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He felt cheated, betrayed, robbed of the victory he had worked so long and hard to achieve. He gave the body a savage kick.

He turned toward the two men who had taken up positions on either side of Pendergast. There was no longer any need to keep vigil over the body; there was something more important to accomplish.