119 Line of fire by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Toronto : Worldwide
Published: 1988-05-14T23:00:00+00:00

ANTONIO YBARRA found it awkward and distasteful dealing with the forest peasants. Born of lowly stock himself, he had succeeded in escaping from the dead-end drudgery of village life. He had position now, respect, in pan because he worked for the Pedilla syndicate, and partly from his reputation as a killer. Put the two together and you had a man of means.

Ybarra had been killing from the age of twelve, at first to guarantee his own survival, later as a method of transacting business and occasionally as a sport. He had no more regard for human life than for the lives of the insects he daily trod beneath his feet, but he was wise enough to understand that violence must be held in reserve on some occasions, promised rather than displayed.

The people of this nameless village and a hundred others were like children, putty in his hands. He flattered them with lies that none of them took seriously, but the threat of violence that resided in the holster on his hip and in the guns of his companions made the peasants fall into line like sheep. Ybarra gloated over the sense of power he derived from stepping in and channeling their lives in new directions, almost on a whim.

The whim, of course, wasn't his own. He thought the ultimate achievement of his life would be to stand in place of the patron and choose himself which lives would be disrupted, which destroyed. What absolute, apocalyptic power that would be.

He had detailed his men to sweep the village while the sheep were loaded onto the trucks. He wouldn't put it past the villagers to hide a man or two, perhaps some children, in an effort to deceive him and avoid contributing their all to the construction effort. He wouldn't begrudge them the attempt, but neither would he let them make a fool of him. If an example was required, Ybarra was prepared to leave the slackers with a memory to haunt them all their days.

It seemed to him that every hovel in the village had been emptied by the sounds of their arrival, save for one. A solitary house in need of repairs was situated at the far end of the village, separated from the others by some yards, as if the occupants had tried to set themselves apart, avoiding constant contact with their fellow peons. No one had emerged from this house to observe the trucks or listen to his little speech, and this peculiar lack of curiosity immediately made Antonio suspicious.

Calling on his shotgun rider, he approached the house without a hint of hesitation. He recognized potential danger but refused to let it cow him. If a peasant crouched beside the hovel with a shotgun or a muzzle-loading rifle, he would take his chances, counting on his reaction time and expertise to make the difference. And woe to anyone inside if the first shot wasn't on target.

Ybarra had a dozen yards to go when he was startled by the opening of the front door.

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