That was a bad move, because I’ve always preached attack when in a conflict. Most bad guys waving guns around expect folks to do whatever they say, and untrained civilians do just that.
I’ll never know why he didn’t pull the trigger, but I kept the pressure on and it became a struggle for possession of the weapon. I stomped his foot with the heel of my boot, and he grunted in pain, giving just enough for me to plant both feet and twist the weapon again, using it and my momentum to sling him off balance.
I felt him relax enough for me to let go of his gun hand and slam him with an uppercut. Adrenaline charged by fear and worry put everything I had behind it. The man’s jaw shattered under my fist like glass, snapping his face toward the ceiling. I was surprised at how easily I could cause so much damage.
I still had hold of the machine pistol’s forend and wouldn’t let go. My granddad used to say snapping turtles bite and hold on until it thunders, and that’s how I felt right then. I wasn’t turning loose, but neither was he.
We struggled for a few more seconds until I got a foot behind him. He went over backwards with me on top and we hit the floor hard, knocking the air out of him in a whoosh. His body armor under my chest was like falling on a boulder.
Despite a broken face, bad foot, and no air, the guy wasn’t giving up. He kneed me hard in the thigh. It hurt like the devil, and he tried again. I drove my own knee into his nuts. You want to take the wind out of a guy, you hurt him there, but he was a tough bastard. Bracing myself upright with my other knee, I pushed hard on the gun, pinning the muzzle against the floor.
I’ll be damned if he didn’t keep fighting. He let go of the weapon and grabbed for the pistol strapped to his thigh in one of those military gunslinger rigs. I threw my weight to the left, pinning his arm, but the guy still wouldn’t quit. I felt like I was in one of those nightmares when you’re hitting someone and they won’t stop what they’re doing and none of the strikes seem to faze them.
A separate part of me saw our little rasslin’ match going on for days. I didn’t have that kind of time or stamina, so I did something I never thought would work. I head-butted his nose. Any other time it might have split my own forehead, but my hat acted as a cushion. It didn’t work both ways, though. The force was enough to pop his nose like a rotten tomato. I’ve known that feeling, and it should have taken him out of the fight, but he was tough as boot leather.
He grabbed the tie around my neck with his left hand to choke me as the slipknot tightened. Red pressure built in my face and sparks flickered in front of my eyes. I kept hearing a strange, high-pitched sound in that offstage kind of way where you see and hear things without thinking about them, and realized the sound was coming from me.
There was nothin’ else to do but let go and drive my fist into his Adam’s apple as fast and hard as I could, doing my level best to punch through the man’s neck and into the floor. I both felt and heard the cartilage shatter in his throat. He filled the room with a horrible gargle, legs drumming on the wooden floor.
I hit him a second time in the same place, just to be sure.
Then again for good measure.
Chapter 21
The storm dropped the temperature at an astounding rate. North winds drove the heavy snow sideways, reminding the old-timers of what it was like when they were kids.
Finished with checking his cows, Sonny Hawke’s daddy steered his truck through the pasture along what he hoped was still the snow-covered two-track road as the storm raged over the peaceful ranch country north of the Big Bend. Herman grinned at a memory of his own dad, gone many years, who always said every time it came a blue norther there was nothing between Texas and Canada to stop the wind except for a couple of bob-wire fences.
Gabriel Nakai grabbed the dash as they drifted off the twin tracks and scraped over a greasewood bush. “Damn. Ass.”
Herman was used to Gabe’s odd speech. Despite his years in Texas, Gabe still had a few difficulties with the English language and never learned to cuss right, no matter how hard he tried.
Herman rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “Turn the defroster up, Gabe. The windshield’s icin’ up.”
Gabe came from a dusty little town outside of Par-ral, Mexico. After his wife died in childbirth, he towed his infant daughter across the Rio Grande and into the United States, hoping for a better life. Since then, he’d seen a lot of weather in his time in the U.S., but Gabriel had never seen so much snow fall at one time.
“It’s doing the best, jefe. The limpiaparabrisas are coming apart, too. The rubber’s too old, I think. You should have bought new ones the last time it rain.”
“Wiper blades cost money, and ’sides, this drought hasn’t called for new ones.”
At seventy, Herman’s vision was still as sharp as it always was, but he was squinting through the foggy glass into the thick curtain of flakes ahead of them. Each time they dipped into a swag, Herman squeezed the steering wheel of his battered 1985 Ford pickup in a death grip, leaning forward as if a couple more inches made a difference.
One of the brittle rubber blades separated from the wiper, guaranteed to disintegrate long before they got to town.
The narrow path winding through the brushy, cactus-filled pasture was the only way to know they were on the track. The storm was a full-blown blizzard by the time they neared the two-lane highway. The snow was already so deep the oil pan left a furrow behind the truck.
The snowdrift caught against cactus beside the wire gate was knee deep when they arrived. Wire gaps, floppy gates made of bob-wire and cedar posts, caused more than one preacher or ranch wife to backslide and use bad language through the years.
Gabe rested his callused hand on the door lever and sighed. “We need a protector de ganado here.”
“Costs money. I don’t believe I’m gonna pay for a cattle guard when I have a sturdy hand to get the gate.”
“Not much of a gate, either.” Gabe left the moist warmth of the cab, talking to himself. “Tighter’n a tick about a protector de ganado and won’t put out money for new limpiaparabrisas. Madre de Dios.”
Gabe set his battered felt hat and waded through the snow to pull the aggravating barrier out of the way. Herman drove through and used the mirrors to watch Gabe wrestle the floppy gate back into position against the thick post and reset it in the bottom loop of wire.
Instead of hurrying back to the truck, Gabe disappeared into the storm. He returned less than a minute later and slammed the door. “Hijo de puta!” Snow sticking to his hat melted, filling the cab with the smell of wet dust and musk. He took it off and slapped it at the snow on his jeans. “There’s a cuerpo between the fence and the road!”
Herman tightened. “You sure it’s a body?”
“Sí. Frozen and almost covered. Creo que es una mujer.”
Herman smoothed his thick gray mustache. “What would a woman be doing out here?”
“No se. Her throat is cut.”
“Good God.” Herman’s eyes flicked past Gabe and into the storm, as if he could see the extent of the woman’s damage. “Well, we better tell somebody.”
Gabe plucked his phone from a jean pocket. “I have dos bares.”
“Try mine.” Herman unsnapped his shirt pocket and passed a scarred flip phone across. Gabe gave it a try while Herman pushed the foot-feed with a gentle touch to keep the back tires from spinning. They did anyway. He let off the gas, shoved the stubby gearshift lever in the floorboard, and felt the four-wheel drive catch. He accelerated again with the same careful nudge and steered onto the snow-covered highway. The tires held. “Sure wish I had my bag phone back. That thing would reach all across the country without a problem. I knew they were making a mistake when they went to these new digital phones. Any more bars on that one?”
“No ’ueno.”
“Must be the storm. We’ll have to tell Ethan. We can stop in the Posada and call from there. He’ll want us to stay close until he checks that body out, and besides, I don’t think we’re go
in’ no further’n Ballard today nohow.”
The truck slid toward the shoulder, and Gabe grabbed the dash. “Shit! Shit . . . from a cow’s ass.”
Herman let off the gas and steered into the skid, getting them back onto the pavement. The motion caused the brim of his Stetson to bump the lever-action Winchester hanging in the gun rack in the back glass. Annoyed, he reset the hat farther back on his forehead and concentrated on his driving.
Chapter 22
I crept across the floor and, getting a good grip, unhooked the latch and lowered the trapdoor into the round room’s floor. Without any other exit or entrance, our floor was the perfect place to defend, but that was the last thing on my mind.
I always thought that room was a helluva fire hazard, because there were no fire escapes on the outside. We used to laugh over at the café, thinking that if the building ever caught fire, the people in the upper floors would have to jump onto one of those round Browder Life Nets the Three Stooges always used in their movies. We thought it’d be funny to see our out-of-shape volunteer firefighters run around with one of those canvas antiques in their hands, yelling for people to jump.
It wasn’t funny anymore.
We weren’t safe with the door down, but it made me feel better. “Boy, what part of stay up there and keep quiet did you not understand?”
My voice was low. Still on the steps, Arturo bent to better hear what I was saying. I yanked off my tie and stripped the corpse of weapons, wishing I had time to strap on his body armor. The idea sounded good, but rolling a body around on the floor was out of the question. The vest was secured with wide belts of Velcro, and I didn’t need those loud ripping sounds without knowing who was close and how many of them there were.
My one pistol and two spare magazines were no match for all the firepower I expected to find below. I struggled to yank the machine gun’s strap free and saw it was an H&K MP5 machine pistol. The three-point sling was a pain in the ass to get off, but leaving the ugly little gun behind was a bad idea.
I never did like weapons like that, though a number of military and law-enforcement agencies once thought they were great. The sub guns fell from favor when those guys went to M4 rifles that fired heavier rounds. The selection switch was set on top of a string of bulletlike icons, automatic fire.
I took his Glock 17 and pulled the slide back. Seeing the brass casing, I released it and slipped the pistol inside the waistband at the small of my back, thankful for the extra seventeen rounds. “Hand me my pistol but be careful.” I turned to see Arturo with my .45 in his hand.
Someone had taught him about firearms, because he handed it to me butt-first with Granddad’s sepia-toned photo in the grip angled so I could see it. “Whose picture is that?”
In World War II, my granddaddy found some time on his hands and replaced the original grips on the 1911 with pieces of what then was a new material from airplane canopies, Lucite. Prior to putting the grips on, he placed a picture of us under the clear material. A lot of soldiers were doing that, and the replacements became known as Sweetheart grips.
“Grandma holding my dad when he was a baby. We don’t have time to talk about it right now.” I stuffed the Colt back in its holster.
In all the fighting, rolling, and tugging, the dead guy’s headset came loose and dangled from its cord. I traced it to a pocket-sized radio unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was damaged in the fight, and I didn’t have time to fiddle-fart around with it.
I scooped my hat up and slapped it back on my head. “Get that satchel and follow me.” Arturo slung it over his shoulder and we heard the snarl of a two-cycle engine.
What’n hell are they doing down there. Weed eater? Limb trimmer?
Motioning to Arturo, I pointed at the troll-sized door beside the stairs leading to the dome. I was right, the open lock hung on the hasp. I pulled it free and twisted the knob. An electric hum filled the dark void.
Without heat, the uninsulated attic was like a refrigerator. I flicked the light switch and the fluorescent tubes flickered and buzzed to life. “Inside.”
Arturo stepped through and onto a wooden platform. Glad to see he was functioning, I followed and closed the door. If nothing else, the kid was resilient. Most teenagers would have already been catatonic after what he’d just seen. I relaxed for the first time since we heard the gunshots.
Arturo vibrated in the cold air like a Chihuahua. “Are you all right??
My hands were shaking, too, but for a different reason. “Fine. Hang on.” I took the iPhone from my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. The infuriating sound of a busy signal filled my ear before the words Call Failed appeared. I hung up and dialed again with the same results.
He leaned into me to see my screen. “You got bars?”
I checked the screen. “Full bars. Everybody with a cell phone’s calling nine one one.”
I scrolled through my list of contacts and hit an unlisted number for the sheriff’s office. I hung up after Call Failed popped up again. I tried Ethan’s private number. It rang half a dozen times. Grinding my teeth, I was about to punch the disconnect button when Ethan’s voice came through.
“Sonny? Where are you? We’re in a situation here . . .”
His voice was so loud and clear I put my hand over the little microphone and pushed the button to lower the volume. I spoke softly, cracking the door to peek out and praying the trapdoor didn’t rise. “It’s a little tense in the courthouse, too.”
“You’re inside?” His voice pulled away from the phone. “Y’all shut the hell up! Sonny Hawke’s on the phone, and he’s in the courthouse. What’s going on in there?”
“I’d like to know that myself.” I told him everything that had happened, and what I suspected.
His voice faded and I thought I’d lost him. He came back with an echo. “Those guys have already killed at least three people that we know of. We’re pulling a response team together, what there is of it, but this storm’s playing hell with everything we do.
“Most of the guys are out right now, so there’s only a handful of us here. It’s already paralyzed El Paso. Midland and Odessa are socked in. I got through to Ft. Stockton, but they say the roads are already so bad they can’t move.”
“Did you talk to Major Spence?” He was my immediate supervisor in El Paso.
“Yep, and he’s cussin’ a blue streak, but he’s not sure when they can get through. Everything that flies is grounded, and the weather service says it’ll stay that way through tonight. Hell, even the media can’t get here, and if they can’t make it, no one can.”
“All right. We’re one up on these guys, because they don’t know I’m here, but that won’t last long. I killed one of ’em who came too close.” My stomach flipped when it soaked in that I’d killed another man. It should have bothered me more, but he intended to kill me first, and that changed things.
“Jesus. Didn’t they hear the shots?”
“No shots, but I was lucky because these guys are pros. They’re dressed for war and armed to the teeth. Fully automatic weapons. This guy had an H&K MP5.”
“Jesus. You ain’t-a kiddin’. They shredded the sheriff’s office with something bigger’n that, and we barely got out of there alive. Well, not all of us made it. Todd Calvert and Tommy Pelham’s dead, and Eric Goodlett’s down and probably dead, too. A couple of the boys tried to get to him and Todd, but they couldn’t get close without getting shot themselves. Them boys are still laying out there in the snow.”
The phone went haywire, and Ethan’s voice sounded like a robot. A stutter of electronic sounds took over before he came back on, weaker, but still talking.
“. . . we’re setting up a command center here at the Posada, and I had the courthouse sealed off—Hey, you said we?”
“Yeah. I’m in the attic with one of Kelly’s students.” My voice broke. The mental image of her and the twins was all it took to bring my emotions to the surface.
I pushed ahead. “She’s downstairs with her class. Fro
m what I heard, I think they’ve rounded everyone up. I have a kid named Arturo with me right now.”
“Gillian’s in there.”
Ethan’s daughter. The flat statement carried a lot of the weight that rested on his shoulders, and mine, too.
“I saw her with the twins and Kelly.”
“Hell.” His voice broke, too, and I knew what he was feeling. “Hang on. We’ll get ’em out.”
A trickle of sweat rolled down my cheek despite the cold. My breath fogged when I exhaled. “Hey, you have any idea why they’d take over the courthouse?”
“Nary one, but this’s been coming for years. I’ve expected them radicals to take over a school somewhere first. The whole world’s a target for these Muslim terrorists.”
“I got news for you, bub. I don’t think all these old boys are that kind of terrorists. Especially the one that tangled with me.”
“You get anything out of him?”
“Well, he had a Mexican accent, but it wasn’t much of an extended conversation. He wanted to order me around, but that didn’t last long.”
“I bet. Is this some kind of gang stuff that’s come up over the border?”
“Can’t say, but I doubt it. He looked too military.”
“All right. Stay put right where you are and wait for me to call back, if I can get through. The phone lines are already jammed. The kids got some calls out at the outset and then the parents went to dialing.
“We’ll get something together here, and I’ll let you know what. They’ve already sealed the building off, and with their firepower, there’s no way I can get in right now with a handful of men. They’ll probably call pretty soon with their demands, so hang tight until I find out what they want.”
“Right.” I mashed the icon that looked like a receiver, ending the call.
Chapter 23
At the sound of the first gunshot, one of Kelly Hawke’s girls screamed, and a couple of the boys started toward the municipal courtroom door.
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