Chapter 17

Alex reeled across the curb, slamming into the side of an old abandoned car.

He caught himself and crouched to defend himself against the huge doorman, but there was no need. He had re-entered the building with a backward look.

Tugging at his jacket to straighten it, Alex sighed. There wasn't a cab in sight. He'd have to walk into town.

The suspicion that he was being followed began with vague noises in the darkness behind him. He would see no one, yet the feeling persisted.

Climbing a steep street, he was suddenly boxed in by two men. One was heavy, squat, powerful. He reminded Alex of the doorman at the Casa de Los Angeles. His companion was short and skinny, dressed in a loud check suit. He was the dangerous one.

It was almost over so fast, Alex nearly missed the whole scene. The heavy-set man moved forward, grabbed him by one arm and flipped him to the ground. At the same time the skinny man lunged in and his knife seared along Alex's ribs like a red-hot razor blade.

Quickly the squat man knocked the little man's knife arm up and yelled, "No muerte, Antonio!"

The little man's ferrety eyes glared and he wavered, half- determined to charge again, this time with his big companion as his target.

It wasn't much, but it was a chance. Alex rolled free and then kept rolling and sliding down the steep street as fast as he could in a shower of stones and loose dirt.

The little man was first after him. His pointed Italian shoes plowed paths in the loose trash as he literally skiied down the slope on his heels. He held the knife ready and when he was close enough, set his feet and lunged.

Alex rolled away. This was no game. The little man was playing for keeps

He followed Alex relentlessly, holding his knife ready for the taste of blood.

Alex scuttled along on his back trying to get away, but the killer had him cornered and was closing in for the finish. He held his knife low, blade up. When he lunged, he came in low trying to make a horizontal stab into Alex's body.

Rolling again, Alex evaded the knife for the second time. But just barely.

He was breathing hard and the stones on the street bit into him as he slid along on his back.

Suddenly, one hand encountered a round object that turned under pressure. A rock! Perhaps half as big as his head. He caught it in his hand, mothered it and scuttled away from the little man, again.

Behind Antonio, the big man was coming to his aid, huffing and pulling on the raw slope.

It was now or never, Alex told himself grimly. And if he waited too much longer it was going to be never.

His body was taut in preparation. His will was concentrating on preparing for Antonio's next charge.

The little man was eager, now. He was hurrying. He could hear his larger companion rapidly shortening the distance between them threatening to end the game before he tasted the blood he sought, needed.

He dove forward, his knife-blade eager for the salty taste of gringo blood dripping from it.

Time seemed to stand still for Alex. The little Mexican paused, then plunged forward in what seemed like slow motion to Alex.

He was sure he was going to get away. So sure! And the knife tore into his side leaving a trail of pain.

It was only reflexes, reflexes and determination that drove his hand up and out, ramming that rock into the side of Antonio's head with all the force left in him.