Riders of the Pale Horse Read Free Page B

Levi’s, and the next morning he had sought refuge from a monumental hangover in a Marine recruiting office. The spit-and-polish NCOs had taken one look at his strapping physique, ignored his somewhat off-center list and the way he shaded his eyes from the glare of their fluorescent overheads, and practically begged him to sign on the dotted line.
    Vietnam had swallowed up Robards, chewed him up, and spat him out. He was left scarred down deep, pitted with wounds that stubbornly refused to heal. He had then taken the only step he saw as both open and sensible, given the circumstances.
    Rogue Robards had become a mercenary.

    Sunlight hit him like metal striking an anvil as Robardsemerged from the hangar and sauntered toward the rank of taxis. Rank was definitely the right word here—the newest car in the lineup was a DeSoto of late fifties vintage with more rust than paint. But Robards liked the look of that vehicle and its driver, who had parked his car beneath the lot’s single sheltering palm. The man leaned silently against his car and watched while his compatriots started a raunchy chorus of pleas for Robards’ business. The man’s only reaction to Robards’ approach was a slight stiffening of his spine.
    Robards dropped his satchel at the man’s feet. “Hot day.”
    â€œI await a fare,” the man replied in oddly formal English.
    â€œYour fare’s just arrived,” Robards said.
    The man inspected him frankly. “You are representing the Siemens Company?”
    â€œIf that’s what it takes to get a ride.”
    â€œWhy me? You can see, twenty other cars are here, and they are all eager to take you anywhere you want to go.”
    Robards stayed put. “Where did you learn your English?”
    The driver inspected him for a long moment, then replied, “I worked for an American base on the Turkish side of the border. A sergeant at the post, he had a multitude of books. I read them all.”
    â€œImpressive. Might have been that we knew the same man.”
    The driver was clearly skeptical. “And yours—he had a love affair with his bunk?”
    â€œAnd a crew cut gone gray, and eyes filled with unlived passions. He lived for his books and cultivated a belly more like a cauldron than a pot.” Robards wiped at sweat. “Shakespeare and Tolstoy in battered paperbacks. Wooden packing crates filled with everything from Dickens to Harold Robbins.”
    â€œIt might have been the same man,” the driver conceded.
    â€œOr maybe just a kindred spirit. The Marines breed a lot of strange characters in the seasons between wars.”
    The driver smirked. “So you were one of those few good men.”
    â€œAt least until I enlisted. Afterward they called me somethingelse.” Robards reached down and tossed his satchel into the car’s backseat. “What is your name?”
    â€œAnatoly. And you?”
    â€œBarton Robards. My friends call me Rogue.”
    â€œYou can afford to pay a driver?”
    â€œPay him well now and promise more later.”
    â€œLater does not often arrive in this country, in this time.”
    â€œIf it doesn’t for me, you’ll hear about it soon enough,” Robards assured him. “My generosity increases in pace with my wealth. It is my greatest failing.”
    â€œNot to me.” Anatoly gave Robards’ face a closer examination. “A hotel, you need?”
    â€œWith more charm than glitz,” Robards agreed. “I have no need of newness, and too much air conditioning gives me the hives.”
    â€œA taste of the old world, perhaps.”
    â€œClean would be a plus. And fresh sheets.”
    â€œFood without gristle,” Anatoly said, walking around the car and climbing in. “I comprehend.”
    â€œAlso a minimum of flies and other winged creatures,” Robards said, joining him in the front seat. “I’ve grown attached to my own