CHAPTER 20
John stood with Monica at the end of the runway, ready for what came next.
“When do I act?” he whispered to her through the mask.
“You will know when and how. Take the opportunity, as it comes. Is that not the story of your life? Hopefully, your minder is inside.”
“She is here. Somewhere.”
A bear on roller skates glided past him down the runway and into the noisy arena. You did not see that every day. Two more bears came roaring past on motorcycles. The arena dimmed and the colored lights on the bears’ motorcycles came to life as they circled the ring.
No engine noise. Apparently the cycles were electric.
“Time for the clowns,” Monica whispered.
They approached a small, shiny yellow car with brightly colored flowers painted all over it.
A Moskvitch. Four doors. An older model from the Soviet era, parked inside one of the runways.
Four more clowns appeared and joined them wearing outfits identical to his, including masks, bowlers, holsters, and guns.
But he noticed their weapons were not plastic.
All real. The six of them wedged into the car.
Three in front. Three in back. He sat in the center of the front bench seat, Monica’s blunderbuss in his lap, while she drove. She’d donned a mask of her own.
“Here we go,” she said.
And they sped down the ramp and roared into the ring, horn tooting, screeching to a stop near the center.
Monica grabbed the weapon from his lap. “Stay close to the car. Be ready.”
Then she and the other four tumbled out.
He stayed inside, the audience laughing and cheering at all that was happening.
Loud music kept the pace active. With an exaggerated gunslinger’s strut Monica, blunderbuss in hand, flapped over to a makeshift bar that prop men had rolled into the ring and feigned ordering a drink.
John spied Wilhelm and Ingrid enjoying the performance.
They were here for one reason. To keep up appearances.
Not alerting the media, or the public, that something was seriously wrong.
He knew this outing had been planned for some time.
Which Monica had used.
To their advantage.
Cassiopeia was shocked to see the king and queen.
And Westlake was here too? No way that was a coincidence.
A boxy yellow car popped out of the runway.
Five clowns and Cowgirl exited. Westlake was surely one of those, but she noticed that all five were dressed the same and of a similar height, shape, and build.
Impossible to know which was Westlake. Cowgirl stood at a counter with a bartender, a young man with large red freckles pasted on his face who poured a foamy beer into a huge glass, the head overflowing.
She feigned anger and pointed her blunderbuss at the man, who ducked behind the bar, emerging a moment later with a fireplace bellows that he used to blow the foam off the beer.
The audience howled at the gag.
The clowns had fanned out around the ring, except for one who stayed near the car.
Westlake? She eased her way to the end of the runway, mingling among the next group of performers waiting to enter.
A cage full of anxious poodles provided cover.
She had a clear line of sight to the car and the king and queen.
One of the yellow-clad clowns bellied up to the bar in macho style and drew his six-shooter.
Cowgirl shouted something then pointed to the ceiling.
The clown looked up and Cowgirl “shot” him with the blunderbuss.
The blank cartridge in the gun made a loud bang, and a cloud of smoke poured from the muzzle.
Down he went.
One by one the other clowns challenged Cowgirl to a shoot-out and she eliminated each one with more loud shots, the clowns feigning death and collapsing to the dirt floor.
A sixth clown appeared from the right. Dressed the same as the others. Also of a similar height and build.
He called out and grabbed Cowgirl’s attention.
She whirled around and aimed her blunderbuss.
John stayed near the car.
The clown act was playing itself out with Monica winning each of the feigned challenges.
Now a new clown had entered the arena. Standing bowlegged in his yellow overalls, face masked, both hands out and ready to draw his fake six-shooter.
Drums rolled. Lights dimmed. Spotlights focused on the coming gunfight.
The “dead” clowns on the ground began to move, each stuffing a hand into one of his costume’s pockets and removing a small black cylinder, which they rolled out onto the sand.
Smoke began to plume outward. Thick. Gray. Filling the ring in an enveloping fog.
Part of the show?
The four clowns rose from the ground, drew their six-shooters, and began firing into the air.
Monica strutted toward him, then suddenly grabbed his mask and removed it, exposing his face.
“Go for it,” she whispered.
Cassiopeia at first thought the smoke was part of the fun. But when the clowns sprang to their feet and started firing, the situation escalated.
Her senses came to full alert.
Then the new cowboy drew his six-shooter and aimed it not at Cowgirl or even to the ceiling. Through the smoke she watched as he pointed the gun straight toward where the king and queen sat.
She rushed forward.
The distance between her and the cowboy was about ten meters, his back to her.
The soft sand in the ring slowed her gait.
Smoke was everywhere, her vision obscured.
Cowboy fired one shot. Then a second. She glanced past where the clown stood and saw one of the security men rise up.
Another of the protective detail had fallen atop the king and queen from behind, shielding them.
She leaped off her feet and slammed into the cowboy.
Tackling him to the ground.
John watched as the woman who’d been following him appeared from one of the runway entrances and took down the sixth cowboy with the gun.
This was it. All could see him.
The Moskvitch’s engine still idled, the car in park with all four doors wide open.
He slid behind the wheel, jammed his left foot on the clutch, and shifted into first. He loved a manual transmission.
His own Lotus Exige came with a five-speed, 177-horsepower engine that he enjoyed driving around the English countryside.
He floored the accelerator and whipped the steering wheel hard left, tires spitting out sand.
The maneuver caused the doors on one side to slam shut and, on the other, to pop outward then recoil inward.
The rear end came around and smacked one of the clowns off his feet.
The smoke was blinding. He could barely see anything.
He kept turning the wheel. Another clown went down.
The other two managed to get themselves past his reach.
One of them leveled a weapon his way.
And fired.