PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  The world around Chip shifted into surreal slow-motion. In almost dreamlike clarity of definition he saw the man at his feet roll and reach for a shiny pistol that hung from a holster under his arm. Even as the realization hit Chip that this was the man he had vowed to hate—the man who had kidnapped Sam—Chip grimly shifted into motion. He couldn’t let the cowboy draw his gun. This wasn’t some innocent who he was reluctant to dispatch. He was an enemy, the remaining symbol of all that had gone wrong on this ill-fated trip. This was a man that Chip wouldn’t hesitate to kill. In fact, he’d vowed to do it. He took two steps forward, wound up like a major league batter and swung as hard as he could for the man’s throat. As the shiny gun came up, the blade connected.

  Chip’s swing was not the death blow that he intended. He felt a shock shiver up his arm as the blade hit the hard metal pistol, numbing his fingers and sending the machete spinning from his grasp. Then the world tilted crazily as his feet flew from under him, and for a pregnant instant all he could see was blazing sun and blue sky. Air whooshed from his body as his back wetly impacted on the muddy ground. Blinded by killing rage, he’d slipped on the bloody earth and lost his footing. He knew he didn’t have time to be stunned or to feel pain. Instead, with all of his energy he embraced an elemental purity of purpose that lived deep within his psyche. He had to survive.

  Chip rolled over and lunged from all fours, landing on the back of the ponytailed man as he scrambled across the bottom of the pit to retrieve his pistol. They rolled across the bottom of the pit soaking up gore and grime as they went. When they bumped against the body of a dead man, Chip was thrown off the cowboy’s back. His eyes roved for the nearest weapon and settled on a machete less than six feet away. He dove for it but was pulled up inches short by a hand wrapped around his ankle. He kicked with his other leg and felt the grip relax as his foot connected a glancing blow. He scrambled to the blade, snatched it up and spun around. He dropped into a wary crouch and then scooted over to put himself between his adversary and the gun. Then, holding the blade up to keep the other man at bay, Chip cautiously backed toward the big silver .45, careful to keep his feet firmly planted on the slippery ground.

  Seeing his opponent’s plan, Héctor knew he had little choice. If the American reached the gun, it was all over. He lowered his head and charged like a raging bull, raising his arms to fend off the inevitable blow. He knew he would bleed, but hopefully he wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die. He’d come too far and worked to hard to wrest control of his new empire to let it slip through his hands like this.

  Chip saw the charge coming and waited it out, wary of swinging too soon. He planted his feet firmly and took a mighty swing, connecting with the arm that was raised to block it. The man’s arm severed cleanly below the elbow, and the momentum of his charge carried him headlong into Chip. Both men sprawled in a tangle against the wall of the pit. They groped for the gun, struggling to grasp the weapon in the smear of blood and mud.

  Chip knew he had the advantage. He had both hands, and his opponent was in bad shape. It wasn’t much of a contest. Chip fended off Héctor’s remaining hand with one hand of his own then felt the fingers of his other hand curl around the wide grip of the heavy gun. He grimly turned and pointed the gaping barrel at his opponent’s face from only inches away. He saw the man’s eyes widen in recognition of his defeat, then they hardened into a grim stare of total hatred. Chip pulled the trigger.

  Harris had taken down eight men before he’d run out of targets, the others having fled into the building or the scrubby brush beyond. He moved to a standing position, careful not to put too much pressure on his injured leg. He slung the AR-15 over his shoulder and held the fully automatic AK-47 ready as he hobbled swiftly toward the pit. When he was about ten feet away he heard the loud concussion of a .45 pistol shot ring from the depths. Was he too late?

  Ignoring the screams of protest from his leg, Harris sprinted the last three steps and trained his rifle over the edge of the pit. What he saw was a horrible mess. There were four bodies in the bottom of the pit, all in various states of ruin. Some were carved wide with grisly wounds, and another was missing an arm and most of its head. With satisfaction, Harris noted that the headless body wore cowboy boots. Then one macabre figure slowly rose and stood from the mess. He was covered in blood from head to toe, but tufts of sandy hair showed on his head. It was Chip. He looked up at Harris with hard, cold eyes.

  Automatic weapons fire rattled through the barn nearby, and Chip wasted no time wondering what Harris was doing here. He hopped up and pulled himself out of the pit. Before Harris could say anything, Chip sprinted headlong into the barn brandishing the big Springfield .45. He had to save Sam. Before he could rest, before he could escape, before he could contemplate the horror that had befallen him, he had to save the girl.

  As he raged into the barn, a large truck full of men was pulling out the other side. The police car roared to life, and Chip emptied his gun into the windshield as it spun around, the large pistol dancing in his hand. Seconds later there was nothing left but floating dust and a ringing in his ears. He looked around. Dead bodies were everywhere—every passenger from the bus had been killed. He knew the truth even before his eyes located Sam sprawled to one side covered with blood, her beatific face framed by a halo of blonde hair and adorned with a blissful smile.

  He stared dumbly at her lying there. His brain was aware of the tragedy he saw, but the message couldn’t break through to his heart. He searched his soul for some cathartic emotion, for pain, or sadness, for fear, or guilt. He wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come. All that stared back from inside him was a torpid shell of logical, mechanical thought. That thought told him that he would kill. Whoever else had a hand in this, they would die as well. It was the only form of grief he had left.

  “Hey!” Harris called from the doorway, startling Chip back to the present. “Come give me a hand.”

  Harris’ eyes and sights roved alertly in every direction, his gun held ready as he covered their return to the pit. Ever the professional, he knew that there was no time for emotion or remorse in their current situation. They had to remain steady to survive.

  Chip finally became aware enough to be confused. What in the hell was Harris doing here? How had the man survived? How could he have possibly gotten all the way here?

  “Hop down and get his keys.” Harris pointed to the dead cowboy in the pit.

  Chip complied, hopping nimbly down into the pit and rifling through the pockets of the dead man’s jeans. He found a set of Chevy keys, an iPhone, and a bulkier phone that looked like one of those satellite things. He stuffed all the booty into the pockets of his dark blue jeans and hauled himself back out of the pit. Both men hurried into the barn where Chip paused to look down at Sam one more time. It wasn’t fair. She looked so young lying there, her head framed by golden hair. He didn’t want to leave her. Then Chip noticed that Harris was hobbling badly as he moved away, and he hurried to catch up and wiggled under his friend’s arm to help him along.

  “You drive,” Harris said as he grabbed the side of the Avalanche’s truck bed for support and made his way around to the passenger side. He was grateful to finally climb into the cab of the truck instead of into the tomb in back. “Give me the phones,” he said to Chip as the truck roared to life. He powered up the sat phone and dialed as the truck bounced away down the dirt road.

  Richard Sutherland scooted his chair back from the table, folded the embroidered napkin from his lap and placed it next to his empty plate, then politely excused himself from his wife, daughter, son-in-law, and two grandchildren, who were gathered at his home for Thanksgiving dinner. He stood from the elegantly-set mahogany table and stepped into the hall before answering the encrypted phone that was vibrating on his belt.

  “Yes?” he answered, giving no name or other identifying information over the line, despite the fact that it was encrypted and only a handful of people had the number.

  “We’ve got a bit of a pro
blem and could use a little help,” Harris said evenly into the line.

  Despite the urgent content of the words, Sutherland was relieved to recognize Harris’ calm voice on the line. Although he had tremendous confidence in the best operative he’d ever managed, three days was a long time to wait for confirmation of a mission’s completion. Despite his faith in the man’s abilities, after several days of silence he was relieved to hear that Harris was still alive. Apparently, there was a good reason for the delay. But first he had to do everything in his power to help his men out.

  “OK. What do you need?”

  “A little help for two at the border. We’re about two and a half hours out from Brownsville. It would be better if we could bypass the normal channels entirely.”

  Despite the wave of concern that overcame him at hearing that there were only two men needing help, Sutherland’s tone remained even and calm. After the long delay in hearing from the men, he had half expected to receive this kind of call. In fact, he’d been dreading it. There was no use worrying about what had gone wrong until after they had cleaned up the mess.

  “I’ll see what I can do and call you back. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Yeah.” Then the line went dead. There would be time for more explanation later.

  Sutherland walked down the hallway to his study and closed the door. He turned on his computer, entered the password to access his encrypted hard drive, and scrolled through his phone list. There would be no nap to sleep off his turkey dinner this year.

  *

  Juan Ortiz felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and fished it out, noticing that he had received a text message from his cousin. He excused himself from the conversation he was shouting over the din of a blues band. He wasn’t particularly a fan of this bar, but it was the best place within a few blocks of his apartment to cruise for women. Single ladies in here on Thanksgiving night were almost certain to be easy pickings, and Ortiz definitely needed to blow off some steam. He was mildly gratified that the woman he had been chatting with for the last thirty minutes gave him a pouty, disappointed look as he walked away. Her ample bust bulged suggestively from a slinky black dress that fairly shouted that she was here on the prowl. Ortiz was two drinks into his conquest but figured it was no great loss. The dress was an obvious ploy to distract potential prey from a forgettable face that was several years past its prime. Still, it had almost worked on him. As he shouldered his way through the crowded bar to the door, he was grateful for the interruption. It might have saved him from a big mistake.

  As he looked at the display on his Blackberry to read the text message, he was pissed to realize that his cousin had once again used the mobile phone number that was registered in his name. It was growing progressively more impossible for Ortiz to avoid being implicated if their plan was ever discovered. His dismay at receiving the message on this phone was offset by the content of the text. His cousin had somehow recaptured Senator Moore’s daughter, and he had even attached a photo of her to one of the text messages. This was certainly something for him to be thankful for. It was all he would need to convince Senator Moore to carry on with the plan and make sure the bill passed. After three days of rampant stress that Moore would learn of his daughter’s disappearance and change his mind about the trucking bill, this news brought a sigh of relief and a wide smile to Ortiz’s face. Everything might work out after all. He turned and headed back into the noisy bar, scanning the room to relocate his busty cougar in her slinky black dress. He’d decided to buy her a third drink after all.

  21

  Friday, November 25th

  MOORE SAT IN a green painted Adirondack chair on the wooden deck of his Alabama home, looking out over the Little River Canyon and trying to enjoy the brisk southern fall morning. The tops of the gray, leafless trees thrust upwards like an arboreal pincushion from the steep slopes hundreds of feet below him at the base of the cliff on which his house was perched. He was hoping that the setting would calm him, but he hadn’t been able to relax or sit still for more than five or six continuous minutes this morning. He stood from the chair and opened the sliding glass door into his living room, then he walked over to the bar to pour his first bourbon of the day. He took a long sip and moved to his easy chair, hoping perhaps this would help him to relax.

  He pulled the cell phone from the chest pocket of his crimson-and-white-striped button-up shirt and flipped it open, scrolling through the call history to find the number for the US consulate in Matamoros again. He was soon speaking with the same employee with whom he had spoken several times the day before and once already this morning. There was still no sign of Sam. He gruffly asked for the number to the consulate in Monterrey and tried there as well. No luck. After her call on Wednesday night, there had been no further contact. Nobody had seen her at any of the consulates, either, and Sheldon was beside himself with worry. He had skipped his morning deer hunt in order to wait for word from his daughter. He’d been awake since 6 this morning, and now that it was 10 o’clock he feared the stress might soon cause him to lose his mind. It certainly wasn’t doing his heart any good, and part of him feared the stress might kill him if he didn’t hear from her soon.

  He took another long sip from the glass of Basil Hayden’s and was about to stand to walk back out on the deck when his phone beeped, indicating that he had received a text message. Moore experienced a charged pulse of fight-or-flight adrenaline when he saw that the text was from his duplicitous chief of staff. This whole thing was his fault, and Sheldon experienced an almost uncontrollable wave of desire to wring the young man’s neck.

  His violent impulse only became more pronounced when he opened the multimedia attachment in the text message to find a photo of his daughter being guarded by a Mexican man with a machine gun. The look of fear and desperation in her eyes almost caused the giant senator to break down. The contents of the text message were clear. “We still have your daughter,” Ortiz had typed. “Vote for the bill if you would like her returned to you safely. Don’t fuck this up.”

  When he was finished reading, Moore flipped the phone shut with a long sigh. He should have known that it was too much to hope for that he would get off so easily and get his daughter back. The anger he felt swirled together with his desperation into a miasma of raw emotion that threatened to undo him, bringing a warm rush to his ears and a sweat to his furrowed brow. He swallowed the rest of the contents of his glass in an effort to dull the edge, then wearily heaved himself from his chair and walked to the bar to refill it..

  *

  Chip winced as he stood from his seat on the plane and slowly filed off with the rest of the crowd. It had taken thirty-seven stitches both inside and out to close the gash in his leg. He was amazed that he’d barely even noticed the cut during the fight. It had been sewn up at the emergency room in Brownsville after Chip had a chance to briefly stop at a hotel and clean up. He had been covered in blood and couldn’t walk into an emergency room looking like that. Machetes made big cuts, and Chip knew this one would hurt for a while. He felt lucky that it was his only injury after all he had been through, if you discounted the purple bruises on his thighs from his trip over the waterfall. The cut wouldn’t even keep him from kayaking if he wore the proper dry gear, and he could live with the pain.

  Crossing the border back into the US had been anticlimactic. He had driven to Matamoros while Harris’ condition steadily worsened. From the shape his friend was in, Chip was amazed that the man had been able to save him from the pit. Harris had been feverish and shaking during the drive and was barely conscious when a US border patrol officer had picked them up on the Mexican side. It was all that Chip and the other man could do to hoist the solidly-built commando into the patrol vehicle. They had crossed into the U.S. lying down in the back seat of the border patrol SUV, flying through the express lane without even pausing. So much for needing passports. Harris had immediately been taken to a hospital, and Chip hadn’t seen him since. He hoped his friend would be ok—he ow
ed the man his life.

  He stepped off the plane into Dulles Airport and hobbled down the concourse to the terminal where a familiar face greeted him. The old suit Sutherland looked as proper and drawn as ever, and his hawk eyes darted cautiously around the crowded space before coming to light on Chip. He walked over and shook the younger man’s hand and then wordlessly led the way through baggage claim and into short-term parking. It wasn’t until they had paid the parking fee and were pulling away from the Airport in Sutherland’s silver Lexus that he finally spoke.

  “I hope the trip was as comfortable as it could be, under the circumstances,” the intelligence officer opened.

  “Yeah, it was ok.” A hint of frustration came through in Chip’s voice. He was still shell-shocked from the experience in Mexico and didn’t feel like making small talk. What was he supposed to say? No Sir, it actually sucked. My team got killed, I was stranded in the jungle then kidnapped by drug lords, my new girlfriend was shot to death, and then I had to fight my way out with a fucking machete. After the thirty-seven stitches, the flight home was smooth as butter. Never felt better. But he just let it ride and waited for whatever Sutherland had for him next.

  He was surprised when they turned south from the airport and soon got onto I-68 heading west. Apparently Sutherland would be his ride all the way to The Woods where his truck was stashed. The thought of going back there gave Chip another pang of lament for his lost friends, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. He was resolved to make things right.

  Once they were on the interstate and Sutherland had the cruise control set at five over the speed limit, he looked to Chip. “What happened?” The suspense was killing him. He knew something had gone horribly wrong, but he still didn’t know what.