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  Date with Death

  ( The Destroyer - 57 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Overkill

  The heat's on. Bodies are strewn acrosss the Sunbelt. Who they are and where they came from is shrouded in mystery. The casualties are still mounting when Remo and Chiun come to cool things off - unprepared for the discoveries that await them there, like the impregnable mountain fortress where 242 beautiful senoritas are being imprisoned. And the insidious plot that has them earmarked as gifts for America's most powerful men. And the blackmail that's sure to follow..

  Rescue operations begin at once, with Remo's job-and life-on the line, as he and his mentor tackle a new Old West that's wilder than the shootout at the O.K. Corral!

  Date with Death

  The Destroyer #57

  by Richard Sapir & Warren Murphy

  Copyright © 1984

  by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy

  All Rights Reserved.

  Date with Death

  A Peanut Press Book

  Published by

  peanutpress.com, Inc.

  www.peanutpress.com

  ISBN: 0-7408-0851-6

  First Peanut Press Edition

  This edition published by

  arrangement with

  Boondock Books

  www.boondockbooks.com

  ?CHAPTER ONE

  The shack was made out of bits and pieces. Cardboard mostly, plus the remains of several packing crates and a couple of dented tin signs stolen from a nearby construction site. The floor was hard-packed earth covered with a patchwork of fraying straw mats. There were no windows. Just an opening that served as a door, and a fist-sized hole in the roof to ventilate the smoke from the kerosene lamp.

  Inside the tiny shack, seven people were sitting cross-legged around a makeshift table. Six of them were members of the Madera family. The seventh, the one nearest the door, was their honored guest. The guest's name was Wally Donner, and at the moment he wasn't feeling well. In fact, if he didn't get some fresh air soon, he was going to be sick, violently, eruptively sick, and that didn't fit into his plans at all.

  Donner's face glistened under a sheen of sweat, and his sopping stay-press shirt was permanently glued to his back and shoulders. Along with the heat, his legs were starting to cramp up from sitting so long on the floor. But the worst of it was the smell, the almost indescribable odor of six unwashed bodies packed into a space not much bigger than his walk-in closet back home.

  Donner took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore his surroundings. He had to concentrate on the job, the only thing that really mattered. He was here to sell a dream, a vision of a distant, glittering place. It wasn't nearly so easy as he'd first thought it would be. Sometimes you had to make people imagine that place, to see it clearly in their minds. And like all good dream merchants, Donner tried to remember the first and only rule of the game: Keep your mind on the dream.

  "Everyone get enough to eat?" he asked with a big, friendly grin. His voice was deep and soothing. In the sputtering lamp light his damp blond hair looked like burnished gold. His pale blue eyes were bright with feverish excitement.

  "It was truly a feast," Consuela Madera murmured politely. She was the oldest of three sisters, and the best-looking. Donner had met her just a few minutes after he'd parked the van under a dusty piñon tree in the village square. From the moment he saw her, he knew she was exactly what his employer was looking for. The two younger Madera girls were acceptable, too. Both ebony-haired beauties in their own right, they had turned out to be an unexpected but welcome bonus.

  "It's nothing," Donner said, gesturing expansively over the litter of torn Cheese Doodles wrappers and bags that had once contained Ring Dings and Devil Dogs. "In America, this would be no more than a snack." Just looking at the chocolate-smeared cellophane made Donner's stomach turn, but he kept smiling.

  "Such things are easily bought in America?" Miguel Madera asked hopefully. He was the family's only son, a fat, wheezing lump with dull, lusterless brown eyes and near-terminal cases of bad breath and acne. He'd eaten almost as much as the rest of the family put together. For a while, Donner thought he was going to have to go back to the van for another armload of goodies.

  "You can get them just about anywhere north of the border," Donner assured them. "And with the kind of money we're offering, you could fill whole rooms with the stuff."

  The announcement set off a burst of excited chatter among the Maderas. They lapsed into the local dialect, a weird blend of Spanish and some guttural-sounding Indian language. Donner spoke fluent Spanish, but he could only understand every fourth or fifth word of what they were saying. It irritated him.

  He felt a faint breeze and turned his head quickly toward the flow of fresh air. His stomach settled down a little, but the stench remained. It was the thick, clinging smell of poverty, as unmistakable in its own way as the scent of $50-an-ounce perfume.

  "Tell us again about the dwelling places," Consuela requested with a smile.

  "Each of you will have a room of your own," he explained. "A room ten times the size of this place. There will be thick carpets, wall to wall, air conditioning, and hot water. And of course, as I promised, a color television in each and every room."

  "It all sounds so fantastic," Consuela murmured. She tilted her head in contemplation. The dim, wavering light emphasized the bold curve of her high cheekbones and the coppery glow of her skin. Her black hair shimmered with gold highlights.

  She was a beauty, all right, Donner thought. No matter that in twenty years she'd look like every other potato-bodied broad in Mexico. For now, she was just right. She would serve his purpose well.

  "What exactly would we have to do in return for all this?" she asked.

  He flashed his most charming smile. "Why, whatever you'd like," he crooned. "Arrange flowers, decorate, shop. Anything that's fun." He gave her hand a pat.

  Consuela nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew such things were possible, even true. She'd crossed the border herself last year, wading across the muddy Rio Grande by night with a dozen others, carrying a few things wrapped in cloth on her head. The border patrol had been waiting for them on the American side. When the aliens were spotted, men in trucks chased them, cutting great holes in the darkness with their glaring searchlights. But Consuela had managed to evade them long enough to spend three whole days with her cousin, who worked as a housekeeper in El Paso. The border patrol caught up with her there. After a night in a detention center, they'd sent her back home on a bus. But she'd seen the wonders by then and knew them to be true.

  "A few months ago," she said slowly, "another man offered to take us across the border. But he wanted us to pay him a hundred dollars apiece, in advance, and to hide in the trunk of his car, all of us together." She still shuddered at the memory of the grinning entrepreneur, with his pockmarked face and single gold tooth that gleamed like an evil eye.

  Donner laughed. "A coyote."

  "Pardon?"

  "A coyote," Donner said. "A professional smuggler of aliens. Well, I'm not one of them. I don't want any money from you people. My employer is covering all the expenses. We'll be crossing the border in style." He gestured toward the shiny new Econoline parked outside the door. "No hiding in trunks with me."

  "But the border guards—"

  "Arrangements have been made with the authorities for you to cross over without any of the usual bother."

  It all sounded so impossibly wonderful to Consuela, and yet she found herself hesitating over the offer. She didn't have the slightest idea why. "What about the carta verde?" she asked. "My cousin said that you must have one to be able to work in Ame
rica."

  "No problem," Donner replied. He smiled to cover his growing irritation while he reached into the pocket of his wilted shirt and slipped out a slender stack of "green cards," the necessary document for aliens working stateside. "We'll fill them in later," he said, fanning them out like a conjurer about to perform a trick. When everyone had gotten a good look at them, he tucked them safely away again.

  "Well?" he prompted Consuela. He knew she was the one to convince. If she went for it, the others would follow along.

  "But why?" she asked. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. 'Why us? We have done nothing special to merit this good fortune."

  Donner leaned forward conspiratorially. "Well, I'm not supposed to tell, but…" He let his words trail off into enigmatic silence. The Maderas leaned toward him in anticipation.

  "We don't say nothing," Miguel said finally, asserting his authority over the family. "What you say, it don't go no farther than this room, okay?"

  Donner made a point of staring at the Mexican for a moment, as if trying to decide. Then, once the tension was unbearable, he nodded. "All right," he sighed. "You're a tough negotiator, you know that?"

  Miguel grinned proudly. The women looked at their brother with adoration.

  "It began in the early days of television with an American show called 'The Millionaire,'" Donner said.

  One of Consuela's sisters clapped her hands together. "Oh, yes! Our uncle's friend in America wrote to him about it before he died. A rich man gave away money to strangers."

  "Is that what this is?" Consuela asked. "A gift from a millionaire?"

  Donner shrugged. "I can say no more. Just bear in mind that there are many, many wealthy people in the Untied States."

  "It is the land of opportunity," Miguel said stolidly. "In America, it is every man's right to be rich. Even if a man does not work, the government gives him a hundred times more money than we make here, just so he can be rich. It is called welfare."

  "You'll do even better than the folks on welfare do if you come with me," Donner said.

  The family went into a huddle again, switching back to the local dialect. Donner's stomach pitched and heaved. He really was going to have to get some fresh air soon. The bullcrap he'd been handing out was piling up so thick and fast, he could barely see his way through it. "The Millionaire," for God's sake, he thought. These dodos would believe anything.

  A hovering jijene landed on his arm. Donner crushed the sand fly with a slap and then flicked the miniature corpse away with a snap of his fingers. What in hell was taking them so long? As if to make the waiting less tolerable still, the family dog sauntered in, hoisted a leg, and decorated the wall with an aromatic yellow stream. Donner suppressed an almost overpowering urge to reach out and snap its scrawny neck.

  He shifted his attention back to the family. Consuela and her mother were talking in a barely audible whisper. The old woman's face remained expressionless. She looked more Indian than Mexican, with angular features and hooded eyes that never stopped looking at Donner. It gave him an uneasy feeling. The old lady almost looked as if she knew what he was up to. Maybe there was something in the blood, he thought, something passed on from that long-ago time when the first conquistador slipped the short end of the stick to one of her ancestors.

  Out of long habit, Donner slid his hand beneath the table just to make sure that the Ruger Blackhawk was still nestled comfortably in his ankle holster. He liked to play things safe, to always have an edge, even though he rarely had to use it. Donner gave his Rolex a meaningful tap. "It's getting late," he said good-naturedly. "I don't want to rush you, but…" He grinned and spread his arms. "If you're not interested, I'll have to get some other family. The rules, you understand."

  "We're coming with you," Consuela said firmly. Her mother continued to eye Donner suspiciously, but the old man squeezed Donner's shoulder and exposed two yellowing teeth in a smile. The two younger daughters started giggling. Miguel's eyes brightened at the prospect of unlimited Ring Dings. Even the dog looked pleased.

  "I applaud your good sense," Donner said. "You're really going to love it in America. I'll be waiting outside." He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Don't take too long packing. And no saying good-bye to the neighbors," he warned them. "They would only be envious of your good fortune and might tell the wrong people." With that final cautionary note, he groped his way out of the shack, gulping down air to quell his heaving stomach.

  He leaned against the van, smoking a cigarette while he kept a watchful eye on the Maderas' shack. Three in one, he congratulated himself. Consuela was perfect, just what his employer demanded. The face of a queen, and the body of a harlot. It was a damn shame she was Mexican.

  For as long as he could remember, Donner had hated all things even remotely Mexican. Just looking at a bag of Doritos nauseated him. He cringed every time he drove by a Taco John's. Mexicans were, as far as he was concerned, the scum of the earth. This negative national bias was particularly unpleasant for Wally Donner because he was, in fact, half-Mexican himself. Even his real name was half-Mexican. José Donner. He hated it.

  He had no real memory of his father, a gaunt, smiling blond man who disappeared one night a few months after Donner's birth. For years the man's silver-framed portrait sat on top of the TV. José's mother began each morning by dusting the portrait, after which she started on her ironing— shirt after shirt after shirt, all belonging to the wealthy men who lived up on the hill. While she ironed, Donner's mother spoke to her infant son in a constant flow of softly accented Spanish. She told him stories and legends, bits of folklore and gossip, anything to relieve the tedious repetition of her work.

  Young Donner never played with the neighborhood kids. Few visitors came to the family's peeling stucco bungalow. It was rarer still that mother and son ventured outside. As a result, Donner was a full five years old before he found out that English wasn't just a language spoken on TV. He learned the lesson the hard way— on his very first day at school. He looked so American, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and rosy complexion, but all that came out of his mouth was "beaner" talk.

  The white kids hated him. The Mexican kids hated him. The handful of blacks and Chinese just thought he was too funny for words. Young Donner spent the whole day fighting one kid after another. At the end of the day, he dragged himself home determined to learn American even if it meant that he never spoke to his mother again.

  His teacher was the television set. In a way, it became his home, too. Every evening he escaped into the ordered, happy world of "The Donna Reed Show," "Father Knows Best," and a dozen other similar shows. People had whole families on TV. They lived on pretty, tree-lined streets and washed their hands before dinner. The mother, regardless of the show, always wore earrings and high heels. Best of all, nothing really bad ever happened on TV sitcoms. Sure, the characters had their problems, but no matter how dire they were, everything seemed to turn out all right before the last commercial.

  Donner's favorite was "Leave It to Beaver." No one on earth was more wholesomely American than Wally Cleaver. Wally was a charmed soul. Donner could remember thinking that Wally Cleaver could have beaten an old lady over the head with an ice axe, and everything would still have been all right as long as he shuffled over to his father, hands in pockets and looking toothy and cute, and said, "Gee, Dad."

  So Donner watched, and learned. The years passed quickly, undistinguished by their sameness. Young Donner continued to fight by day and watch television by night, tuning out his mother's incessant babbling as he concentrated on the tiny flickering screen. It didn't take him long to learn American. He knew even then that the language had always been inside him. It was just a matter of getting his tongue to shape the words. He tried desperately to forget Spanish at the same time, but he just couldn't force it out of his mind. He finally had to admit defeat. It was with him for life, like some hideous birthmark that only he could see in the mirror.

  At fifteen he left home, slipping quietly away one Sunday mor
ning while his mother was at church. It wasn't anything he'd planned. He just woke up that morning knowing that it was time to go. He packed a few things in his gym bag and headed up the street, not bothering to close the door behind him. He didn't bother with a note, either. His mother would know he was gone for good when she saw the shattered picture frame on the TV and the smiling blond man's face torn and distorted under the shards of broken glass. And if she was dumb enough to think that was an accident, she only had to check the old Whitman's candy box where she kept the household money. Once she looked inside it, she'd know the truth for sure.

  That very first night on his own, Donner got a lift from a lady in a Cadillac Eldorado. He remembered her even now, that bright and brittle blond hair, the folds of tanned, wrinkled skin around her neck, the way her carmine-tipped fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on the steering wheel.

  She asked him what his name was. His lips started to form the sound, "José," but what came out instead was "Wally."

  "Wally. That's cute."

  "Gee, Ma'am, thanks," Donner had said.

  It was the beginning.

  She told him she felt sorry for him, a big, healthy-looking boy like himself all alone in the world like that. Her sympathy took the form of an invitation. She thought it might be nice if Donner stayed with her for a few days.

  The few days turned into a month, and Donner spent it learning some new and interesting things about his body, things he'd only just suspected before. In retrospect, he figured the old hag had gotten more than her money's worth. The three grand that Donner fled with worked out to a hundred a day. He knew he was worth that and a whole lot more besides.

  He kept moving from town to town. He found there was always someone willing to help him out, to put a little folding green in his jeans for the right kind of services rendered. Still, there were those rare times when the pickings got lean. So, like any good businessman, Donner branched out into another line of work. Armed robbery was what they called it in most places.