Adobe Flats

by Colin Campbell

  “Hold it there.”

  The guards stopped. Grant turned to face the Macready pup.

  “Morning, junior.”

  Macready’s eyes twitched. “Ain’t gonna be a good morning for you.”

  “I didn’t say it was good. Just that it’s morning.”

  The Texan tried hard to sound like a badass. “No. It’s payback time.”

  Grant took a deep breath and relaxed his arms. He put all his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move quickly. If the boss’s son was going to make a play it would be now, while he had three mercenaries backing him up. The cowboy hat was so low over his eyes it was almost comical. He glared at Grant through slitted eyes. Grant stared back, his peripheral vision keeping tabs on the guards to either side of him. Macready didn’t move. Grant nodded. A staring contest was all the cowboy was going to engage in. His father was coming home. Seemed like Tripp Macready wanted Grant all to himself.

  Grant looked at the Stetson and then at the storm clouds bruising the sky.

  “I hope that’s an expensive hat, ’cause I’ve seen cheaper ones go soggy in the rain. It’d flop down over your head like a foreskin on a limp dick.”

  There was no sudden lunge, so Grant continued. “And you know what happens to foreskins.”

  He made an upwards zipping motion with one hand.

  “Zzzzip.”

  Macready blinked under the brim of his hat. If he hadn’t been so tanned, Grant reckoned he’d be blushing. To cover his embarrassment, he barked an order to the guards.

  “Take him out.”

  One guard pushed Grant towards the patio steps. All three walked him across the courtyard. The main gates were open. The breeze was strengthening into a wind. Dust swirled in tiny spirals across the parched earth. A broken window shutter banged in one of the derelict houses opposite, and an empty shopping bag tumbled across the road, a tumbleweed in all but name. Grant approached the mouth of the compound. More of the street came into view. Despite the wind he could hear the rumbling of trucks driving through town. He could feel the vibration coming up from the ground. The convoy was here.

  Sixto’s. Anytime now the petrol fumes would be ignited and the gas station was going to explode—a misdirection intended to force the convoy into the crossfire. Trouble was, the crossfire could be deadly for the woman strapped to the front of the truck.

  Grant counted the seconds. He listened to the approaching trucks. He threw a quick glance to the church steeple overlooking the killing ground. Checked the position of the propane tanks strategically placed along Avenue D. Anytime now all hell was going to break loose, and Grant was going to be standing right in the middle of it.

  The convoy turned off First Street and drove up past the Los Pecos Bank and Trust. It passed through the shadow of the church and came straight towards the Macready hacienda. Five heavy trucks with big tires and canvas backs. The canvas flapped in the wind.

  A military jeep pulled out from behind the last truck. The army must have loaned him another one—better this time because it had a fold-down canvas roof across the back. Tripp Macready sped the jeep to the front of the convoy and held up a hand.

  The trucks stopped.

  The swirl of dust was whipped away by the wind.

  Grant stood in the middle of the street in his tattered orange windcheater and waited for the explosion at Sixto’s, already delayed from the original plan. He held out his arms like Jesus on the cross and took a deep breath.

  Nothing exploded. Nobody opened fire at the propane tanks. Grant lowered his arms and looked at Tripp Macready. Seeing him driving an army jeep wasn’t the only surprise. Grant checked the front of the lead truck. Sturdy ropes had been fastened to each corner of the cab, one for each leg and arm. To stretch Sarah Hellstrom like an X across the front of the truck.

  The ropes hung loose.

  Sarah wasn’t fastened to the front of the truck.

  She was sitting beside Tripp Macready in the jeep.

  forty

  The engines were turned off. Five trucks but not the jeep. The jeep’s motor sounded puny after the throaty rumble of the trucks. It was barely audible above the sound of the wind and the flapping window shutter. Sarah Hellstrom looked relaxed in the passenger seat. Not handcuffed or tied up or in any other way restrained. She was a guest, not a prisoner. Grant felt disappointed.

  The mercenaries disembarked and formed a loose circle around Grant. Tripp Macready swung his legs sideways and got out of the jeep. He looked at Grant, threw a glance towards Sarah, then focused on the Yorkshireman again.

  “Don’t look so surprised. It’s a small town. We all have to get along.”

  Grant nodded. “And I’m a rodent. I get it.”

  Macready stood in front of Grant. “A lizard. Isn’t that what you said?”

  Grant smiled.

  “Rango. The Johnny Depp lizard Western. Yes.”

  “The stranger in town.”

  Grant finished the line.

  “And strangers don’t last long.”

  Macready tilted his head as if considering Grant.

  “Except you ain’t a stranger no more.”

  He held his arms out like Jesus on a cross. “You’re the Resurrection Man.”

  He lowered his arms. “I remember you now. From the TV news. Boston, wasn’t it?”

  “Jamaica Plain.”

  “You’re a long way from home. Yorkshire or Massachusetts.”

  “It’s a small world.”

  “And this is a small town.”

  “You’ve said that already.”

  “Just wanted to emphasize the point so you’d understand. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the guy that provides for the good folk of Absolution.”

  Grant nodded in the general direction of town. “Doesn’t seem like everyone agrees with you.”

  Macready nodded. “And that’s exactly why I need to set an example.”

  He made a come-hither motion with both hands, and two mercenaries broke off from the circle.

  “Send them a message.” The mercenaries stood on either side of Grant. “That strangers aren’t welcome.”

  Macready put his hands in his pockets. “They don’t last long. Me, I’m here to stay.”

  Grant glanced across the street, then looked Macready in the eye. “You said I wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Play on words. You’re a rolling stone that gathers no moss.”

  Grant looked at Sarah. She flinched at the ferocity of his stare. Macready ignored the interplay.

  “Passing through. Only you aren’t. Not anymore.”

  He leaned forward for emphasis.

  “You should never have got off the train.”

  Grant weighed up time and numbers. Time was running out and the numbers didn’t add up. There should be more mercenaries than the few forming the circle around him. He glanced across the street again at the derelict buildings that looked so much like another desert township fallen on hard times. The shutter banged again. Loose canvas on one of the trucks flapped in the wind. Nobody opened fire from the cover of the buildings. Nobody set off the explosions around the killing ground.

  Macready followed Grant’s gaze, then shook his head.

  “Don’t go getting your hopes up.”

  He held a hand above his head and gave a curt wave.

  “There ain’t no resurrecting you from this.”

  There was movement in two of the derelict buildings. Hunched figures shuffled into the open with their hands behind their heads. Bigger men herded the figures towards the trucks. The missing mercenaries.

  “Your friends chose the wrong side.”

  Sabata, Doc Cruz, and three others crossed the street, betrayed and captured. Grant looked at Sarah and let out a sigh of defeat. How could she do this to her own kind? Fellow citizens of Abso
lution. She lowered her head.

  The prisoners were corralled between the first and second truck, out of the wind and away from Grant. The mercenaries holstered their weapons. The threat had been neutralized. Grant ignored them. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sarah, the first helpful face he’d seen after he’d arrived and the last person he expected to stand up for the Macready clan. She rubbed her wrists. The tiny movement caught Grant’s eye. He focused on the rawness just above the joints. Rope burns. Then he looked at the ropes still dangling from the cab of the lead truck.

  Macready saw the look and nodded.

  “I’m not stupid. Leaving her strapped across the truck wouldn’t look good coming through town. I cut her down at Sixto’s—where you planned on starting your little welcome party.”

  Grant snapped his eyes back to Macready. Sarah Hellstrom didn’t know about the welcome party. How could she? She’d been taken long before he’d discussed it at Javier’s house on the edge of town. The old Mexican who was supposed to have set off the first explosion at the gas station.

  Grant saw Macready’s eyes turn towards the main gates. Grant turned around. Javier walked through the gates with hunched shoulders and a protective arm around his daughter—the waitress from the barbecue. The girl in Scott Macready’s bed. He walked her down the street without meeting anyone’s eyes.

  Macready broke the spell.

  “It’s amazing what a man will do to protect his daughter.”

  Grant saw Doc Cruz shudder but wasn’t thinking about the irony in that remark. He was wondering how much Javier knew of the overall plan they’d discussed in the old Mexican’s kitchen. Not all of it but enough. He knew who would be helping and where. He had helped place the gas bottles around the ambush site. Grant didn’t check to see if they were still there. They either were or they weren’t. He doubted if Macready had had time to remove them. He’d been on the road all night, and his son had been bed hopping.

  Josiah Hooper. Grant tried to remember if Joe had been mentioned in any detail. He didn’t think he had. The sniper was Grant’s ace in the hole. The sniper and the cloud of dust racing south along Iron Mountain Road. Grant forced himself not to look up at the bell tower to see if the rifle was still pointing in his direction.

  Macready pulled out his own ace in the hole.

  “And don’t go thinking your call to Boston will do you any good.”

  Grant felt a chill run down his spine.

  Macready smiled.

  “That’s a long drive across big country. This ain’t like the movies. Cavalry don’t always get here in time.”

  Grant relaxed. That last remark told him Macready might know about the call but not what was said. The cavalry wouldn’t be coming from Boston. If John Cornejo had convinced the authorities, it would be coming from a lot closer, bringing thunder from the north just as the storm front was bringing it from the south. The meeting point would be Absolution, Texas.

  Macready did that double wave thing again, and two mercenaries stepped towards Grant, weapons holstered to free their hands.

  “Now it’s time for that example I was talking about.”

  He indicated the front of the lead truck—“Shame to waste a good rope”—then reached into the jeep and pulled out a machete.

  Grant flinched. Not at the prospect of being cut but at the confluence of memories and reality. Derelict buildings and a dusty street. Local militia and a man with a long knife. If he was angry before, he was furious now. He relaxed his arms so the men wouldn’t have anything solid to grab hold of. He flexed his knees.

  A sudden gust of wind whipped sand around his feet. The flapping canvas went into frenzy. Something blew over in the nearest building across the street. The circle of mercenaries threw their hands over their eyes. The two nearest Grant were too late. Sand and grit stung like tiny needles. They turned away from the wind.

  Macready stepped back, head down.

  Grant slitted his eyes.

  Nobody heard the engines breach the edge of town from North Eighth Street.

  Everybody saw the compound wall explode in a ball of gas and flame.

  forty-one

  The rule of threes. The storm. The sniper. The cavalry. The perfect trifecta. The wall of rain entered Absolution from the south. The cavalry came in from the north. The old-timer who spent his days splatting rats took aim again, and another gas bottle exploded. In the building nearest the trucks this time.

  Grant thought he heard a raised voice shouting in the wind. “Don’t like that, d’ya? Yer little fucker.” That last bit might have been his imagination.

  The first part of the trifecta to arrive fired again: a third gas bottle blew a hole in the sports stand, triangulating the convoy’s position between balls of fire and clouds of smoke. The rain wasn’t here yet. The cavalry hadn’t arrived. For now it was Joe Hooper and a handful of prisoners. The distraction gave the prisoners room to maneuver.

  Grant was first to move. While the two guards were still shielding their eyes, he stamped down hard on the back of the nearest leg. The knee buckled and the man went down. Before he hit the ground, Grant snatched the gun from his holster and shot the second man point-blank. Two guns now. Then everybody was moving.

  The crippled guard tried to unsling the shotgun from his shoulder. Grant stamped on the broken leg and grabbed the straps. The shotgun came loose but the rifle was tangled in the fallen man’s arm. The circle of mercenaries broke and darted for cover. Sabata elbowed one of the ex-soldiers in the face, and Grant fired at the other two guarding the captives. They scattered. Doc Cruz dropped to his knees. Sabata took the guard’s gun. Three guns and a shotgun between six. Still outgunned and surrounded.

  Another gas bottle exploded among the wooden barrels and water trough at the gates. One of the barrels disintegrated into a shower of whirling splinters, and the bottom hinge dropped one gate at an angle.

  Grant dashed across open ground towards Cruz and Sabata just as the mercenaries regrouped and opened fire. Bullets stitched a line of dusty explosions behind Grant’s feet until he dived between the first and second trucks. Ricochets echoed from the heavy wheels and punctured one tire. The truck sagged to one side, and the loaded crates shifted inside.

  The final gas bottle punched a hole in the compound wall and blasted masonry across the forecourt. Dust and smoke obscured the battlefield just like any battle in any war. Bullets dinged off the side of the trucks. Sabata returned fire, but the mercenaries had taken up good defensive positions. The freed captives couldn’t take good aim.

  Grant offered the second gun to Doc Cruz, who held up his hands. “I can’t shoot for shit.”

  Grant handed him the shotgun instead. “When they get close.”

  Cruz nodded. Grant crouched beside the rear axle and surveyed the scene. The street had become a cacophony of sound and gunfire. Constant movement distracted the eye. Constant danger kept his head down. The resurrection man might have avoided being crucified on the front of a truck, but Grant reckoned he’d only exchanged one death for another. The ramshackle band was outnumbered and pinned down. There was too much open ground to the nearest cover among the derelict buildings, and the mercenaries were moving around to cut off that line of retreat.

  The gunshots became more sporadic. Grant risked sticking his head out for a better look. A bullet dinged off the mudguard just below the filler cap. Grant ducked back behind the wheel. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Anybody got a light?”

  One of Sabata’s men tossed Grant a Zippo. Grant nodded his thanks and reached inside the tattered windcheater. The lining came away easily. A long strip of beige cotton fabric with snatches of orange trim. The wind was getting stronger. Grant hoped that diesel fumes would overcome its attempts to snuff the candle. He jabbed a finger towards the gunmen and everyone understood.

  Grant twisted the strip of cloth into a fuse.
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  Sabata, Cruz, and the other man took up positions near the wheel.

  Grant nodded.

  All three opened fire at once. Not aiming. One general direction.

  Grant dashed out from cover and unscrewed the filler cap. It was tight and wouldn’t move. He gripped with all his strength and it turned a fraction, then a fraction more, then all the way off. Returning fire kicked up dust around the truck, and he dived for cover again. First half done.

  He paused for breath, then nodded again.

  The trio opened fire, and Grant squirreled the twist of cloth down the filler tube until it soaked up diesel. He pulled it out and reversed it so he’d have a soaked portion to light. The Zippo sparked, but the wind blew it out. He sheltered the lighter with one hand and rasped the flint again. This time the flame held firm enough to ignite the diesel-soaked rag. The shotgun went off close to his ear, and the world descended into muffled silence. His ears were ringing. Gunshots were distant thumps on a woolly drum. Voices sounded like they were underwater.

  The rag became a flaming torch. Bullets punched silent holes in the side of the truck. Grant signaled retreat with a wave of the hand. Nobody needed telling twice. Under a muffled barrage of covering fire, the defenders moved back two truck lengths, between trucks three and four.

  Grant looked up at the church tower. Muzzle flashes showed that Joe Hooper was still firing into the mercenaries despite having no more propane to aim at. Silent gunshots blasted chunks of stucco near the bell tower. Then Grant’s hearing came back full power when the lead truck exploded. The rear axle jumped off the ground. The wooden cargo bed spat planks and rivets. Gold medallions and dented goblets showered the street. The canvas covering was torn apart, and the cab flipped forward in a twist of flame and shattered glass.

  The gunfire fell silent—for a few seconds. Then it returned with full force and anger. The defenders were forced deeper behind the truck. Bullets hit all around them, coming from all directions. All Grant had done was exchange a defensive position at the front of the convoy for one at the rear. Either way they were still surrounded. Still outgunned.