Hunter Athey stared up at him. The glassy-eyed stare of the long-time dead. One side of his face was swollen and bloodied. The wrinkles had smoothed out, making him look younger than in life. That wasn’t the thing that shocked Grant. The body was lying on its stomach in the bottom of the coffin, but the head was turned all the way round, the neck snapped as cleanly as the cat’s.
Grant felt anger boiling inside him.
He pushed the lid another six inches.
He wasn’t surprised to find what he was looking for.
The sleeves of Athey’s shirt were wrinkled just above the elbow. Tight creases where strong hands had held him while Macready had performed his favorite trick. Snapping a man’s neck takes more effort than killing a cat. A man is unlikely to sit still while you do it. Grant knew that if he rolled Athey’s sleeves up, he would find bruises on both arms. Four fingers and a thumb. Like the shake injuries on Sabata’s wife or the bruises on Sarah Hellstrom’s arms.
The anger cranked up a notch. He felt like turning it loose on Sabata for beating his wife despite the extenuating circumstances. He felt like taking it out on Scott Macready for beating Sarah because she’d lent Grant her car. Mostly he wanted to tear Tripp Macready’s head off and shit down his neck. None of those things were going to happen. Not yet.
A shiver of foreboding ran up Grant’s spine. His mind replayed the struggle that had taken place in the front office. The overturned table. The spilled papers. The telephone yanked out of the wall. Who had Athey being trying to warn? Not Eduardo Cruz because there was no phone at Fort Pena Colorado Park. That only left one person.
Sarah Hellstrom.
Chances were that Tripp Macready had come to the same conclusion. The only other person who had helped Grant since he came to Absolution. The only person aside from Doc Cruz who might be hiding him.
“Shit.”
He grabbed the coffin lid to slide it shut. Then he saw the red light blinking in the bottom near Athey’s feet. Not an overturned kettle but a delayed timer tripped by Grant opening the coffin. The gas had cleared slightly but was still thick enough to be dangerous.
“Double shit.”
He turned and pushed Sabata towards the open door. Grant slipped on the smooth floor. He went down hard on one knee. The wound opened again, but he ignored the pain. The red light blinked faster, accompanied by an almost imperceptible beep, beep, beep.
Sabata got through the door first.
Grant didn’t make it.
The light stopped blinking.
thirty-three
The peace and tranquility of Absolution, Texas, was torn apart by the explosion and fireball half a mile west of town. It ripped the silence and shook the ground like a medium-scale earthquake. Half a mile west and three quarters of a mile southwest of the athletics track and Macready’s compound. Everybody in town heard it, including Tripp Macready. The town dictator would have been quicker off the mark if he hadn’t already been knee deep in his own preparations.
Jim Grant didn’t know that.
If he had, he might have made some different choices.
Grant’s back was on fire. Rubble and debris bounced all around him. Shards of broken glass became deadly blades of shrapnel. Grant curled into a fetal position and protected his head with his arms. Shrapnel sliced his jacket and cut his hands. The flames were hot, but he couldn’t risk putting them out until the fallout dissipated. He gritted his teeth and waited until the debris shower stopped. The fireball receded almost immediately, blown out by the force of the explosion and the lack of fuel. The debris took a few moments longer.
Sabata was up and running first. He whipped off his coat and smothered Grant’s back. The flames went out but Grant’s hair continued to smoke, singed down to patches of ugly stubble. As soon as he realized he had survived, he let out a roar of anger. Once he’d got that out of his system, his thoughts turned to the telephone warning.
“Sarah.”
He struggled to his feet but couldn’t get his body moving. He tried to get his bearings. Gilda’s Grill and Diner was at the other end of town. Sabata grabbed his arm.
“That is the first place they will go.”
Grant shook his head clear but didn’t struggle. “This is the first place they’ll go.”
Sabata nodded. “And very soon. Everyone in town will have heard the explosion.”
“Then let’s go to the diner.”
“Straight through town? I don’t think so.”
Grant wasn’t thinking clearly, but he knew where he wanted to go. “Yes. Right now.”
His mouth said it, but his body wouldn’t respond. His head began to spin again. This was too soon after the fever. He hadn’t regained full strength yet. It seemed like he’d spent his entire visit to Absolution being pushed around or treated for injuries and illness. He tried to shake his arm free.
Sabata let go and held up his hands. “Evade and destroy. That’s what you told Eduardo.”
Grant was confused. Had he really said that? Yes, he had. After struggling across the desert while Macready’s men had searched for his body. Well, they could have his body now. Because he was going to find them. And make them pay.
“Destroy. Yes.”
Sabata persisted. “Evade first. Instead of standing here waiting for Macready to come get you.”
Grant nodded. Sabata was right. He was about to agree with the coyote when headlights sped around the back of the mortuary. Two pairs skidded to a halt and caught Grant in the crossfire. He held a hand to his eyes but couldn’t see beyond the glare. Doors slammed shut and footsteps raced towards him.
“Amigo. There is no time to waste.”
The concern in Doc Cruz’s voice snapped Grant out of his daze. The doctor and the Mexican from Sixto’s took Grant by the arm and urged him towards the car. Two other Mexicans shouted for Sabata to do the same. The pickup spun in a tight arc and headed back out of the motel. Cruz’s car followed. The convoy crossed the road again and bounced over the railroad tracks. Headlights were turned off. The convoy disappeared into the darkness from whence it had come, heading south at the edge of town.
Grant looked out of the rear window at the smoldering ruin. He’d had enough of running and hiding. It was time to take the fight to Macready. But first he needed to make sure Sarah was safe.
“The diner.”
Doc Cruz squinted in the dark to follow the pickup. He indicated the old Mexican sitting in the back seat.
“Sixto’s. Use the friends that you’ve got.”
The Mexican was nodding. The pickup took a left. Cruz followed.
“But not yet.”
He indicated the Mexican again.
“Javier lives down here. We need to regroup.”
Grant settled in his seat. “You hear that from Pilar?”
“I heard many things from Pilar. Enough to know you are a man to be trusted. Form your plan. Decide your tactics. After I have put out the fire in your back and treated your burns at Javier’s house.”
Javier’s house was on South Fifth Street, just off Avenue D. The low-rent houses Grant had seen across the railroad crossing on his way south. The bottom edge of town. In the opposite direction to Macready’s and Sixto’s. The pickup knew where it was going. Cruz pulled in behind it. In the yard of a ramshackle bungalow with torn curtains and a rusty children’s swing.
Ten minutes later Doc Cruz was applying soothing balm to Grant’s burns. Just like the first time Grant had seen him with Sabata’s wife. The orange windcheater had taken most of the blast and protected his back, but he was still bruised and sore. The coat was scorched and tattered but was still hanging together, a bit like Grant himself. It was time to stop being the target and turn his fury on Macready. Cruz was right, though. Not yet. Not until he’d reconnoitred the enemy positions and not until he’d got Sarah Hellstrom out of the firing line.
That meant using the old Mexican’s connections at Sixto’s.
Grant hated waiting, but the Mexican had already set off while Grant was being treated. The band of desperados waited in the kitchen for Javier to return. Sabata and his friends. Doc Cruz. Jim Grant. The father and the Yorkshireman who had only come to Absolution to return the daughter’s stethoscope. They didn’t have to wait long.
The kitchen door creaked as Javier slipped inside. It was the first sound the group had heard. The Mexican might be old, but he moved like a cat. It gave Grant hope that the news would be good. It wasn’t.
“Miss Sarah is gone.”
No surprise there. Grant clutched at straws.
“She left?”
Javier stood with his back to the door.
“Taken. By the pup.”
Nobody asked who the pup was. If Tripp Macready was the top dog in town, then his son was still wet behind the ears. Grant had hoped Hunter Athey had got through with his last phone call, but it had always been a forlorn hope. Sarah was the only other person in Absolution who had helped Grant. Scott Macready was the jealous type. Those two things added up to a world of trouble for the woman who refused to sell out.
“Adobe Flats?”
Javier shook his head.
“The hacienda.”
The old Mexican came to the table and pulled up a chair. He sat heavily, with slumped shoulders and a troubled brow. There was more, and it didn’t look like good news. Doc Cruz waited patiently. Sabata leaned his elbows on the table. Grant looked from one to the other, than back at Javier.
“What?”
“The boy does not like you, and his father wants you dead. Miss Sarah is the bait. A trade—you for her.”
Doc Cruz huffed and stood up from the table. Sabata interlaced his fingers and flexed them until the knuckles popped. Grant kept his voice calm even though anger was building inside him.
“And if I trade?”
Javier lowered his eyes.
Doc Cruz let out a sigh.
Sabata answered. “He will kill you both. As a message.”
Grant let the rage subside, holding it ready for when he could set it loose. “Then it’s time I sent a message to him.”
Javier held up a hand of warning. “He is ready for you. The soldiers—they are gathering.”
“The mercenaries?”
“Si, señor.”
Grant looked at Sabata. “Convoy?”
Sabata shrugged. “Not so soon. Unless, after the factory explosion…”
“That wasn’t me.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
“Then why the mercenaries?”
Sabata nodded at Grant. “You are a dangerous man.”
Grant glared into space. “He doesn’t know the half of it.”
He looked at Javier. “No sign of the trucks?”
“No.”
Grant fed all the information into his strategy computer. Professional soldiers. A walled, defensive position on the outskirts of town. An angry man out for revenge. He doubted Macready would underestimate Grant again after he’d slipped away from the mountain convoy. This would have to be a frontal assault unless he could think of something else.
“Is there a phone here?”
Javier shook his head. Grant thought about cell phone coverage nearer town. He hated mobile phones and had always told the young coppers in Yorkshire that he’d never have one as long as he had a hole in his arse. He wished his arse was sewn up now.
“Anybody got a cell?”
Sabata raised his eyebrows. “You gonna call him?”
“I’m going to call the cavalry.”
Doc Cruz waved the idea away. “No coverage.”
“Even in town?”
“There used to be two cell phone masts. Macready had them destroyed. He wants all calls going through the exchange.”
“And he controls the exchange?”
“He controls everything.”
“But he can’t block calls.”
“He’ll know where you’re calling from.”
Grant thought about the only place he’d heard a phone being dialed: the Los Pecos Bank and Trust. Just down Avenue D from Macready’s compound. Too close for comfort. Then he thought about where the call had been placed.
“Sixto’s.”
This time nobody objected.
thirty-four
Fresh meat and tranquilizers. Grant wasn’t looking for car spares and didn’t plan on entering the fenced compound at Sixto’s, but he couldn’t trust old Pedro not to bark. The guard dog might have wagged its tail and smiled at him before, but dogs have a way of changing their allegiance after dark. It was after dark now. Quarter to eleven. A cloudless sky. The moon was finally up.
Grant padded across the road and bypassed the gas pumps. Sixto’s was locked and dark. Gilda’s Grill stood empty; that thought spurred him on. The roller shutter doors of the mechanics’ bays were closed. Moonlight glinted off the scrapped cars in the compound. Bright spots and shadows.
The dog was hiding in the shadows.
Grant heard the low growl off to his right. He waved the drugged meat in one hand and made soothing noises. He’d never owned a dog. He wasn’t sure what sounds would calm old Pedro. In the end it was the meat that made the difference more than the low whistles and soft clucking noises. The dog wagged its tail as it came towards the fence.
The meat didn’t last five minutes. Grant hoped Doc Cruz hadn’t overdone it with the tranquilizers. The dog hadn’t hurt anyone. The others waited across the road. Grant didn’t want them reminding it to bark at strangers. He supposed that meant he wasn’t a stranger anymore.
Ten minutes later, Pedro curled up and went to sleep. Grant signaled the others and turned away from the fence, then stopped. He looked through the wire at the scrapped cars. A junkyard for motor spares. He thought about the other junkyard—the Absolution town dump. The old-timer with a keen eye and an arsenal of weapons. A sniper’s rifle would be perfect if Grant had to take that shot again.
He brushed the thought aside and went to the sales kiosk. The office was dark, the only light coming from the electronic bug fryer above the door. Purple light drew flies towards it like moths to a flame. Another thought crossed his mind. Even with the guns he could get from the old-timer, a frontal assault was a high-risk strategy. If he could draw them out, it would be better. Draw them to the flame. Make them easy targets.
He glanced over his shoulder at the gas pumps. There were no fumes hanging around like a hazy mirage, but that was an easy fix. The pumps weren’t locked. Like Scott Macready had said, nobody steals from him. He wondered if that attitude applied to the security of the office. He checked. The door was locked. Ah, well. Nothing worth doing came easy. He scanned the front of the building for CCTV cameras. None. Then he checked the door for alarm sensors. None. This was a trusting town. Nobody wanted to go up against Macready.
Doc Cruz jogged across the forecourt and stood wheezing next to Grant. It was the second time the doctor had been out of breath by the time he’d joined the English cop. The two stood looking at each other for a moment, twinned by sadness and a sense of purpose. This was the beginning of payback time.
Grant kicked the door open.
Then he heard the low rumble that changed everything.
“Damn. We should have come straight to Sarah’s.”
Grant closed the door and moved into the shadows, away from the window. Moonlight meant the shadows were towards the back of the office. That was good. The telephone was towards the back of the office. The bad thing was his assumption that Macready would have gone straight over to the motel after the explosion. The dull, rumbling vibration meant Macready was busy, and not just preparing to defend against Jim Grant.
Doc Cruz crouched behind the glass-top counter
. “You might still have been too late.”
“I might not have.”
He took Cruz’s hand and laid it on the countertop.
“Feel that?”
The vibration hummed through the glass. Cruz nodded.
“Trucks.”
Doc Cruz slumped into a chair behind the cash register. “Tony said it was too soon.”
Grant went to the phone and waited. He scanned the forecourt. There was no movement. Sabata was waiting in the pickup with the others. Lights out, hidden among the scrub and cacti across the road. He thought about Sabata’s analysis. It held water given the limited information available. Under normal circumstances it was too soon for another convoy. The factory explosion and Grant on the loose meant these weren’t normal circumstances. The smuggling operation was exposed at the moment. That situation was time sensitive. Capture Grant and kill the witnesses, and it could be business as usual. Until then…
“Macready’s closing it down. One last shipment to keep the partners up north off his back. They must carry a lot of clout.”
“What?”
“Power. I mean, he thought they sent me as a hit man.”
Doc Cruz laid a hand on Grant’s forearm. “You are a hit man.”
Grant let out a sigh. “I was a typist.”
“In the army? After the shot?”
“For the rest of my service. I never fired a gun again.”
“Ever?”
Grant thought about Snake Pass in Yorkshire. Boston and Los Angeles since he’d come to America. He held out a hand, palm down, and quivered it.
“Not much.”
Cruz leaned forward and locked eyes with Grant.
“This would be a good time. There are still good people in Absolution. People who would help. People who can get weapons.”
Grant shook his head. “People who could get killed.”
“They are getting killed now.”
“Not most of them. Most of them are getting by. Dying is forever.”
Adobe Flats Page 19
