Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Two of Raoul’s men hurried in and grabbed the big detective while a third held a gun on the group.

“You come with us, big mouth,” said one of them. “We’ll see how smart you are. When we do nice things to you, you will tell us what we need to know.”

Shayne had just been thinking that at least he had until dawn the next day to figure out something. Suddenly his time had been drastically reduced.

VIII

The outside air was cooler than the building, and a night breeze rustled the bushes and trees. Shayne sized up the situation quickly as they pushed him over the sand. None of the remaining seventeen soldiers was visible. Maybe they were having a meeting.

“Wait here,” said the man in charge. “I get Raoul.”

Shayne backed up a step, deliberately putting both captors in front of him. The baggy-uniformed guards were about five feet apart and about two feet from him.

“Cigarette?” the detective asked, shifting his glance back and forth.

The man on the right shrugged his shoulders. Letting his gun momentarily hang from its strap, he reached with his right hand to his jacket pocket.

For a split second the guard on the left let his eyes wander to his friend’s actions.

Forgetting the occupied soldier, Shayne struck. His left hand slapped the Uzi outward while he pivoted on his left foot. With all his strength he rammed his right knee into the soldier’s groin. The captor dropped to his knees abruptly, wailing like a new-born child. Shayne spun around furiously. The other guard was dropping his cigarette lighter and reaching for his gun.

Shayne beat him to it. He grabbed the Uzi and tugged. The guard swung round and crashed into his fallen comrade. Shayne threw two quick punches. It was all he had to.

The big detective was about to roll over one of his captors and grab a gun, both of which were at the bottom of the pile, when he heard Raoul’s voice. “Juan, Esteban. Que pasa?”

Then a gun burped fire from behind the voice.

Shayne was already rushing into the palm cover when the slugs bit the sand where he had been moments before. Zigzagging through the thick undercover, Shayne realized quickly he could make the best time on the western beach. Reaching it, he began to move northward on the wet sand which seemed to be trying to suck him downward with each step.

He estimated he had put about half a mile between him and his captors’ headquarters when the disappearing moon illuminated a rundown beachhouse. Shayne crawled up to its base and peered through some cracks in the rotted sea fir. It was dark, but he could make out a lump huddled in the far corner. Shayne crept closer. The lump was a man. No movement.

The redhead’s heart skipped a beat involuntarily in fear of what he might find. Seeing no one else about, he stepped through an open window and flicked on his lighter.

The tied and gagged figure was Tim, his face covered with sand that had crusted with blood. If Tim were dead — Shayne’s anger mounted. Not after all these years. Not in some godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. Not Tim. The detective had watched too many of his friends go.

He felt for a pulse.

Tim was alive — but barely.

Carefully Shayne removed the gag and untied his limp friend. The reporter was slowly starting to come around. He looked weak, probably from hunger and loss of blood.

“Mike, you old sonofabitch,” exclaimed the Irishman as his eyes flicked open, “what took you so long?”

Shayne laughed in relief.

“You’re the ugliest St. Bernard I’ve ever seen, and I bet you forgot the brandy too,” Tim joked through the pain.

Yes, Tim was alive and so was his sense of humor. Gradually and gently Shayne massaged his friend’s limbs to get the circulation going.

“Come on, Tim,” urged the redhead, “we’ve got to get out of here. They’re after me.”

“The kooks in the army suits?” Tim uttered.

“How did you get yourself in such a mess?” the detective asked, his grey eyes scanning the brush.

“Journalist burnout. I’d done so many stories on violence and death that I thought I’d take a little R & R with a puff piece on the other half.” Shayne’s old friend chuckled to himself. “Some irony, isn’t it? I can spend the night in Little Havana and nothing happens to me, but a few days in McCord’s ‘West Coast Eden’ and I end up with this.”

Tim pulled back his bloody shirt. For the first time Shayne saw the bullethole in the journalist’s left side just above the heart. A trickle of blood still flowed.

Carefully Shayne picked up his friend and began to carry him. In the distance he heard a whine.

“Those damned hellhounds,” said Rourke.

Shayne worked his way back to the beach. It was harder carrying his friend through the shallow ocean water, but he hadn’t heard of the dog yet that could follow such a trail.

Tim was asleep again, and dawn was only a few hours away when the big detective reached the northern tip of the island. From this point the mainland shore looked even farther away then the portion he had swum earlier.