Adobe Flats

by Colin Campbell

  Grant tried to wave him back.

  Bond was already moving. Concussion or pain or shock from the loss of blood affected his movement. It reduced his mental capacity. Trying to cross the street was a mistake. With a crowd of a hundred people, it only took one to be glancing over his shoulder for the movement to be spotted. Half the mob must have been looking along the street because there was an immediate cry and a surge.

  Bond realized the danger he’d just brought upon the squad. His eyes locked with Grant’s and he knew what he had to do. He ignored Grant and turned right, away from the squad. The shuffling gait hindered his speed. He only managed to get ten yards before the mob was on him. He turned and fired a short burst with his M16 before machetes rained down. Blood spurted. Body parts flew.

  Grant turned to the others.

  “Out. Across the alley. Not along it.”

  He ignored Cruz.

  “Coop. Lead. While they’re busy. Now.”

  Cruz looked shocked. Grant didn’t have time to worry about her feelings. It would only take a few minutes for the mob to wonder where Bond had been heading and come looking. A rear-guard action was better than a standing fight with a raging mob. Keep moving. Keep them off-guard. Mack and Cooper knew that. They would mourn their losses later. If they survived.

  Cooper was first through the hole in the wall. Cruz followed, shouldering some of Mack’s weight. Grant looked through the window one last time. The crowd was in frenzy. Bloodied machetes flashed and hacked. Grant clenched his teeth, muscles bulging along the sides of his jaw, then he was out through the hole and following the others.

  The day was long and hot and bloody. Moving from house to house as the squad zigzagged through the ruined township. Staying one step ahead of the mob. Just barely. Somehow the crowd had got wind of the survivors’ presence, maybe from Bond’s ill-judged dash across the street or perhaps from something they saw. Whatever it was, they were on the hunt, tracking Grant across town.

  It was a slow chase. A game of cat and mouse. In this game to save the mouse, Grant would have to do more than eat a pussy. He’d have to kill as many cats as he could and keep moving. So far he’d only had to kill three. Lone pursuers who had literally bumped into the squad as they charged round the alleyways. One at a time. Single shot each. Not enough to alert the mob. Nothing louder than the exuberant firing into the sky.

  Despite the constant changes of direction, Grant kept his inner compass on true north, the place where they’d set off. The safe zone. The desert airbase on the edge of town. His sense of direction was unerring. His efforts to reach it weren’t. As much distance as they covered traveling through the maze of back streets, they didn’t seem to be getting any closer to extraction.

  By late afternoon the effort was beginning to show. Grant and Cooper still had plenty of gas in the tank, but Mack and Cruz were flagging. It was time to rest up and take stock. Grant found the perfect place on the northeast corner of a plaza facing back the way they’d come. A street café that hadn’t served customers for years. Good sightlines along two sides through large windows.

  Grant went in first. Dust lay thick on every surface. Nobody had been in here. He signalled the others, and Cruz helped Mack through the door. Cooper brought up the rear, as sharp as ever. Covering their retreat.

  The makeshift counter provided good cover. Grant took up position at one end and Cooper the other. Cruz leaned Mack against the back wall and checked his dressing. Blood had turned the bandage black. Thick and tacky. Still bleeding. Mack’s face was pale under his tan. The medic hadn’t been able to examine the wound, but the fact that Mack had been able to limp across town at least meant the leg wasn’t broken. That was the good news. Everything else was bad. It was still bleeding heavily. The pain was sapping Mack’s energy. Infection was going to be a problem if Cruz didn’t clean and disinfect the wound. She glanced across at Grant. He nodded. They were staying put. She’d have time to change the dressing.

  A complicated silver coffee machine stood above the worktop against the back wall. Chrome boiler. Network of tubes and pipes. Coffee grinder and filter system. Grant took the lid off, but it was empty. The boiler had been dry for a long time. He wondered briefly what the barista was doing now. Part of the mob outside perhaps. The boiler might be dry, but the water tap was working. After a couple of dry coughs, dirty water spurted out before it cleaned up and ran freely. He looked through the window. Still nobody in the street. Cooper knew what to do. He collected everyone’s water bottles and handed them to Grant. Once they were refilled, he dropped to a crouch. He’d been exposed for too long. He felt safer behind the counter.

  Cooper’s eyes hardened.

  “Movement.”

  Grant followed his stare. Across the plaza, coming this way. It hadn’t taken long for the crowd to catch the scent. Like blood in the water, the sharks were gathering. A mass of bodies poured out of the alleyway on the southwest corner. They spilled into the square, then began to mill around aimlessly. They had lost the trail. Bloodstained faces quested around. Putting out feelers.

  Cooper stayed low. There was no avoiding breaking the smooth, flat line of the counter, but at least it was at one end where he could merge with the clutter of discarded cups and saucers. Grant did the same at the opposite end. Two pairs of eyes focused on the threat from outside. Nobody moved in the confines of the coffee shop. The silence became oppressive.

  Cruz shuffled across the floor towards Grant, making sure she stayed below the worktop. Careful that her equipment didn’t knock anything or make a noise. Her voice was a harsh whisper.

  “How long before they send an extraction team?”

  Grant didn’t take his eyes off the street. He kept his head still. Cooper glanced across from his end of the counter. Mack stretched his leg out across the floor. The lack of an answer prompted Cruz to carry on.

  “We’re overdue. The chopper went down. How long?”

  Grant slowly lowered his face below the counter, then turned to the medic.

  “Chopper crash will be floated as mechanical failure during an aid drop.”

  “But they will be coming. Right?”

  Cooper kept his eyes straight ahead. Mack lowered his head. Grant was matter-of-fact about their situation. No point sugaring the pill.

  “Secret.”

  Realization flooded Cruz’s face.

  “To the outside world, yes. But not to—”

  Grant held up a hand to stop her.

  “Secret. Doesn’t matter what our people know. Can’t admit this mission.”

  His tone softened.

  “Mechanical failure. Tragic loss of life.”

  He wanted to touch her. Reassure her. But he couldn’t.

  “Nobody’s coming for us. We’re on our own.”

  “Shit.”

  “It is.”

  Cruz realized something else, and it showed in her face. Grant nodded his agreement without speaking. Mack’s leg was getting worse. There’d be no more chasing along the back streets for him. Cruz’s Texan heritage played in Grant’s mind. This was going to be their last stand. Their Alamo. The street café was going to be their mission that became a fortress. He hoped it wasn’t going to be a fortress that became a shrine.

  Mack broke the tension.

  “So just for the record, Sarge. James Bond: Connery or Craig?”

  Grant knew where Mack was going with this. Bringing up Bond’s sacrifice in the street near the crash site without having to mention it.

  “No question. Connery’s the man.”

  Mack nodded.

  “Yeah. I’m with Wheeler on that. Bond didn’t know shit.”

  Cooper caught the vibe but kept his eyes on the crowd. Cruz was beginning to understand. Grant kept quiet, letting Mack play it his way.

  “Apart from one thing. He got that right.”

  Mack lean
ed his M16 against the wall and unclipped the webbing belt of spare clips. He handed the .45 to Cruz, then pushed himself upright. The leg could barely carry his weight. Cooper looked from Mack to Grant, then jerked a thumb towards the rear of the café.

  “Jim. Back door. Can’t be seen from the street.”

  Grant didn’t speak. In combat these were the hardest moments. Cooper and Mack had been together since training. Their bond was forged in combat. Their friendship was a thing of legend. Their minds were in agreement now. Mack walked as straight as his bad leg allowed, but he was veering towards his right. Cooper came from around the counter.

  “You go left. I’ll go right.”

  Mack slapped his good leg and shook his head. “I’m faster to my right.”

  “What the fuck? You aren’t gonna outrun ’em.”

  “Who says?”

  Agreement was reached. They went through the door side by side, then separated. Mack lunged to his right and kept on lunging. Cooper went left, firing from the hip as they opened a gap. The crowd split, half surging towards Mack while the other half took cover and fired at Cooper. Machetes were raised. Angry voices shouted defiance.

  Grant didn’t wait to see the inevitable. He guided Cruz towards the back door, and they disappeared into the shadows.

  the present

  I always thought Mexicans were short fellas.

  —Jim Grant

  fifteen

  Dirt and gravel crunched under the tires as Grant slowed the hearse to a stop. Ghost Town Road had given up on tarmac half a mile back. Now it was only the width of the road that stopped it becoming a dirt track. Even minor roads in America seemed to be as wide as the M1.

  Grant turned the engine off. The hot metal didn’t tick as it cooled because it didn’t cool. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky and baked everything it touched. The roof of the hearse was as hot as the hood. The leather seat burned into Grant’s back. The Terlingua Trading Company forecourt shimmered in the late afternoon heat, a long, low storefront with a covered walkway out front and the Starlight Theatre restaurant and saloon at one side. A bleached square block of a building stood guard across the forecourt, a historical remnant of days gone by. The words terlingua jail were carved into the lintel above the door.

  The medical center hardly warranted a mention—an unnamed afterthought at the far end of the Trading Company premises. A small green cross was the only sign that it had anything to do with doctors and medicines.

  Doc Cruz’s hideaway. In plain sight but almost invisible.

  Grant studied the storefront but didn’t get out. His heart was pounding. Over the years he’d faced angry men, pissed-off women, and armed insurgents, but this was proving to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. One hand stroked the soft velvet of the stethoscope case. He took a deep breath. He’d come a long way to do this. After a few minutes to gather himself, he grabbed the case and got out of the hearse.

  “Have a seat. This won’t take long.”

  The gray-haired Mexican looked younger than Grant had expected. Lined and weathered but with a youthful face. Maybe it was the grin lines around his mouth or the crow’s feet that crinkled when he smiled. The Mexican didn’t wave Grant to a seat because both hands were busy applying a dressing to a woman’s arm. On the floor next to her chair a small child clung to her legs, fear and doubt filling his eyes.

  Grant moved slow and gentle. He lowered himself onto a faded wooden chair near the door. The boy’s eyes followed Grant’s every move. Grant had seen it before on the council estates of Bradford. Children who had witnessed domestic abuse were as much victims as their mothers. The doctor used soft hands to fasten the bandage over cooling cream and cling film. A burns dressing. Either from scalding water or being held against a hot stove. Bullies were universal. Apart from the derelict jail across the forecourt, Terlingua didn’t look like it had much in the way of law enforcement. In Texas Grant doubted if Mexican women were high on the priority list.

  The doctor soothed. The boy relaxed. Words were exchanged in Spanish. The woman took money from her purse, but the doctor pushed it away. The boy cowered until gentle words coaxed him out of his shell—gentle words and a jar of sweets the doctor took from his desk. The woman thanked him profusely. Even without an interpreter, there was no mistaking that. The boy took a sweet. The woman smiled through her pain. Eduardo Cruz walked her to the door and out onto the porch.

  Grant waited nervously on the chair. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since his last visit to the headmaster’s office at Moor Grange School for Boys. Just after he’d cracked one bully’s skull and broken the other’s nose. This felt worse. This felt like shame.

  When Eduardo Cruz came back in, his demeanor had changed. He looked at the stranger with careful eyes. Worry creased his brow. The smile had gone.

  “I wondered how long it would be before you came for me.”

  Grant felt as if he were being admonished. He had no excuses. “I’m sorry.”

  Cruz looked out through the window. “Stealing a hearse is as low as you can get.”

  Apology turned to confusion.

  “What?”

  Cruz’s shoulders sagged. “Please tell me you left Hunter alone. He has nothing to do with this.”

  Then Grant understood. He tried to wave Cruz’s concerns away. “Hunter Athey told me where to find you. He loaned me the hearse.”

  Cruz was cautious with his response. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because Sarah couldn’t lend me her car again.”

  “Hunter and Sarah know you are here?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor’s façade began to crumble. Being strong in the face of his enemies. His hands were shaking as relief flooded his body. The aftermath of an adrenaline dump that was as much induced by fear as the fight or flight instinct. He waved a hand towards the hearse.

  “I thought Macready was being symbolic. Bringing me back in a coffin.”

  “I’m not here from Macready.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  This was going to be the hard part. Getting started. Grant felt the words stick in his throat. A pulse thumped at the side of his head. He tried to take a deep breath but his nose felt blocked. He picked the velvet case up from the chair next to him and cradled it in his lap. He paused for a moment, then clicked it open and held the stethoscope out to Pilar Cruz’s father.

  sixteen

  “I don’t understand. It wasn’t an accident?”

  Eduardo Cruz left the stethoscope in its case, his fingers tracing the curves as if they could feel his daughter’s neck. He looked at the Englishman who had come all this way to return it. Grant forced himself not to lower his eyes.

  “That’s the story they put out. Mechanical failure during an aid drop.”

  “But that wasn’t true.”

  “No.”

  Silence. Both men were lost for words. Grant because he felt ashamed at leaving it so long before fulfilling his lover’s dying wish. Doc Cruz because he was overwhelmed by memories of his daughter. Moisture threatened to leak from his eyes, but he held it in check. For Grant, the best way forward was to tell it the way it was, army regulations be damned.

  “It was a snatch squad—in and out to grab a tribal leader under cover of the aid drop. Pilar was our medic. Helicopter was brought down in the township. Mission was secret. So they went with mechanical failure.”

  Cruz continued to stroke the smooth lines of the tubing. “So she died in combat.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a grieving father coming to terms with a change in circumstance. He had already put this behind him once. Now it was an open wound, the past dredged up by this stranger from across the pond. It was hard to tell from the old man’s face whether this was good news or bad. Grant kept quiet. In the end, what difference did it make how a person died? You were still dead.
But he’d made a promise.

  Grant nodded at the velvet case. “She said you gave her that.”

  Cruz smiled a sad little smile. “When she graduated medical school. Her ticket out of Absolution.”

  Grant put added warmth into his voice. “She was the best medic I ever worked with.”

  Cruz looked up from the stethoscope. “But she was more than that to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim Grant. From her letters. I never thought I would meet you.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to.”

  “Because if she had lived, you would have drifted apart.”

  “My fault, not hers. She deserved better.”

  “She chose you.”

  Grant shrugged and kept quiet.

  Doc Cruz nodded. “Nobody could make Pilar’s choices for her. She was like her mother in that way. If she chose you, that is good enough for me.”

  Grant wondered if the doctor would think the same if he knew the whole truth—something Grant would keep to himself. There was no point piling Grant’s guilt on top of the doctor’s grief. On a need-to-know basis, there were some things a father didn’t need to know about his daughter’s death. Grant stuck with the safe path. “She should have got a medal and a folded flag.”

  Cruz indicated a glass display frame on the office wall. “I got the folded flag.”

  Grant ignored the interruption.

  “She showed more courage than I could have. I always felt guilty that the army couldn’t tell you that. Medals are only a piece of metal on a ribbon. What’s important is what’s behind them.”

  Cruz slowly closed the velvet case. “And you thought giving me this would bring you peace?”

  “There is no peace. Only acceptance. Then you move on.”

  “Absolution, then.”

  “I’m past being absolved.”

  Cruz caressed the scarred velvet. “Nobody is beyond Absolution.”