Free The Piranhas by Harold Robbins Page A

away for almost two weeks with him. Where were you?”
    “I was at my small place in the country,” she said.
    “And you’re going to the States with him? It seems like a quick romance,” he said.
    “Love comes in mysteriously sudden ways,” she said.
    He turned to me. “You know about guns?”
    “I was in Special Forces in Vietnam,” I said.
    “Where did you get the gun?” he asked.
    Alma answered quickly. “I gave it to him. It was given to me by your general.”
    He was silent for a moment, then turned back to the Colombian. He spoke quickly to him in Spanish. Again he wouldn’t answer.
    The captain picked him up and turned him around, pushing his belly into the balcony railing. Holding his revolver against the back of the man’s head, with his other hand he unlocked the handcuffs and pulled them off his prisoner’s hands. Still holding his revolver to the man’s head he again snapped at him in Spanish. The Colombian snapped angrily back. It sounded to me like he was cursing at the captain.
    The captain seemed to be shrugging his shoulders. Then he slammed the revolver against the back of the Colombian’s head. He half slumped over the railing. The captain moved gracefully. He shoved his hand between the man’s legs and lifted him under his groin. As the captain stepped backward, the Colombian flew up over the railing, and, screaming, he fell down toward the street.
    The captain looked over the railing. A faint thump came up from the street. The captain turned to us. His face was expressionless. “Clumsy, stupid son of a bitch,” he said noncommittally. “He landed on the roof of a new car and ruined it.”
    We didn’t say anything.
    The captain replaced his revolver in his holster. “He would have killed all of us,” he said.
    “I know,” I said.
    “Do you want to take a look?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “I saw enough of that in Vietnam.”
    He nodded. “Very well. Let us go back inside. I will call for more men, and while we wait for them, I will check your papers.
    *   *   *
    THERE IS NOTHING like a police escort to take you to the airport. Two motorcycles with sirens wailing in front of a black-and-white police car, then we, in the captain’s car, with another black-and-white behind us. People watched us curiously as we sped through the streets.
    Alma and I were in the back seat, a uniformed policeman drove the car, and Captain Gonzales sat beside him in the passenger seat. The captain turned back to us. “I think we’re okay,” he said. “There’s no sign of the Colombianos.”
    “I wonder where they went,” I said.
    “Who knows?” he answered. “My men lost them in traffic when they took off after the accident.”
    “Accident” was a polite way of expressing it. Especially since he had pushed the bastard over the railing. He checked his watch. “You missed the Braniff flight already,” he said. “It took off at two o’clock and their next flight won’t be until tomorrow.”
    “Shit,” I said.
    “Nothing to worry about,” he said comfortably. “Air Peru takes off for New York at four o’clock. I can get you on that.”
    I looked at Alma. She nodded. “It’s a good flight. They have a first-class section. I’ve taken it a number of times.”
    “Okay,” I said to the captain. “We’ll take it.”
    “You’ll have to buy a ticket,” he said. He reached his hand back to me. “Give me the money and your papers. I’ll arrange everything.”
    I took my hand out of my inside jacket pocket. I laid two one-thousand dollar bills on him, and with it I gave him my passport and exit visa. “Get a ticket for Alma while you’re at it.”
    “Of course,” he said and shoved it into his pocket. “It’s three o’clock now. I’ll set you up in the VIP lounge.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    He looked at Alma. “When are you expecting to come back?”
    “I haven’t thought about it,” she answered. “I might go over to Paris for a quick