Chapter 22

The tall Uruguayan looked up from the peephole, a puzzled expression on his face. "Que pasa, Ramos?" he asked.

Manuel was mute with rage. He had to stop Renee and that Americano from getting away. Fortunately Manolito spoke almost no English. If he could stall him...

"Pepe," the Uruguayan said suddenly, making up his mind. "Vamanos! We go!"

Without a word, his partner sprang up and grabbed the ever- present suitcase. "Adios," Manolito said tight-lipped to Manuel.

They were almost to the door before Manuel could make up his mind. They couldn't leave him like this. He was spread too thin. He needed money, and now. If the police became involved there would be payments. Maybe he would even have to leave the country.

"No!" he snapped. "Leave it," he nodded at the suitcase, "and take the two women."

Curtly, Manolito said, "No!"

They were going out and there was nothing else Manuel could do. His hand came out of his pocket holding a long piece of ebony. His thumb moved slightly, there was a sharp snick of sound and six inches of tempered steel suddenly shone wickedly from Manuel's hand.

In two steps he was behind the tall Uraguayan. The knife flashed briefly in the dim light and Manolito stiffened, clawing at his back with his mouth gaping open in a voiceless scream.

Pepe turned, his face slowly registering shock at the sudden attack. "NO!" he cried. He threw his hands up in front of his face and Manuel lunged savagely, burying the knife to the hilt in his soft belly. Pepe put his hands to his stomach, dropping the suitcase. Then he lifted them before his face, awed at the crimson stain that bathed them.

Manuel jerked the knife out. A gout of blood hissed after it, splattering Manuel's clothes and face.

For a moment it seemed Pepe was going to say something as he stared into Manuel's eyes. Before he could get it out, however, his legs crumpled and he pitched face forward on the floor.

Manuel was trembling. He hadn't wanted to do it. The fools. Didn't they realize... ? He shook his head and picked up the suitcase. Moving briskly he headed for the stairs, not quite running.

In the hallway, Alex was dragging Renee along behind him with one hand and using the other to pound on doors and scream, "Raid! Raid!" He hoped these sailors didn't know prostitution was legal in Mexico. It was the only hope they had.

Doors were popping open and half-dressed Americans began streaming out with screaming prostitutes dragging at them, confused, but determined to get their money before all else.

Through the milting crowd Alex could see the burly doorman working his way toward them. The confusion helped, but it wasn't enough. He dragged Renee deeper into the crowd and hauled her down on the sofa, temporarily out of sight.

Somewhere across the room a deep voice with a heavy Mexican accent was bellowing for calm. Subtly the mood of the crowd changed from panic to curiosity. Alex felt it, knew what it meant.

His fingers shook as he groped in his pocket until he found his cigarette lighter. Nobody was paying any attention to him. They were all looking in the direction the voice apparently was coming from.

Alex coaxed the flame and held it to the fringes of the material that covered the couch. At first it refused to burn. Then a brown spot appeared on one pink flower. Another. A tiny tongue of flame licked up. Alex started another spot and another. Then, grabbing Renee's hand, he dragged her after him to an overstuffed chair and repeated the maneuver.

Within seconds the smell of burning cotton dominated the room. Someone screamed, "Fire!" This time there was no hesitation. The mob was an animal with one motivation. Running over everything in its way, it plunged for the door.

The doorman was between them and the exit and, as Alex and Renee moved with the crowd, he eased along blocking their escape route.

Suddenly the heat of the couch reached a critical temperature and the whole thing burst into a crackling ball of flame. Those in back of the mob felt the heat. It was enough. With a wild scream they surged forward.

Alex and Renee started to follow and at that monument Manuel lurched down the stairs, suitcase in one hand, bloody knife in the other.

Manuel stopped, suddenly, realizing his luck. The opportunity was his to silence these witnesses against him. Silence the witness. The woman was still worth something.

Licking his lips, he advanced on the American keeping the knife in a constant motion to the left. Making a deadly little circle of steel in the air that was impossible to parry at the last moment when he finally lunged.

Manuel was an experienced knife fighter. The steel felt good in his hand. Of course, the suitcase hampered him but he wasn't going to put it down.