Hawke's Prey

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  As the image solidified in his mind, the last rear-facing locomotive passed in a bright blur. The noise receded and he beheld the glorious sight stretching in both directions.

  A coal train was sidelined for the other to pass. The unseen engine far to his right changed pitch as the engineer prepared to pull back on the track as soon as the computerized rail command office in Omaha threw the switch.

  DeVaca spread his arms and laughed.

  Chapter 102

  “Sheriff, I’m your Number One.”

  Ethan Armstrong raised an eyebrow at the stocky man with hard gray eyes standing in front of him. “How so?”

  “I did a couple of tours in Afghanistan. I’m still a little more fresh than you. I doubt you’ve cleared a building in a while.”

  “I’m good to go, too.” Short black hair highlighted the woman’s fine features.

  Ethan could have told them he hadn’t cleared a building in longer than that, even though he’d had plenty of tactical training. “Well, I’m not going to argue. Guys, I don’t recall your names. It’s been kinda busy around here.”

  “Perry Hale.” The veteran gave a wry grin and dimples formed under his short beard. “Folks who know me call me Perry Hale.”

  “Yolanda Rodriguez, we met inside.”

  “I know. I’d hug y’all’s necks if we didn’t have all these guns between us.”

  “I’m in, too, but don’t you touch me.” Deputy Malone stepped forward. “I need to see this thing finished.”

  “Fine.” Ethan watched a mix of deputies, civilians, and military veterans step into line behind them. Though they all looked ready to handle whatever was necessary, he swallowed the fear that they were going into a hostile building without any tactical training as a team.

  With a dry swallow, he jerked his head toward the door. Perry Hale put his left hand on Ethan’s shoulder and pulled him back. “You’re Number Two.”

  Yolanda squeezed in between them. “Nope. You’re three.”

  Deputy Malone opened his mouth and Ethan shook his head. “I’m Three. Fall in.” Malone put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder and he knew the others were doing the same up and down the line.

  With Perry Hale leading, they entered the dark building.

  Chapter 103

  In addition to carrying snow, the north wind brought the odor of wood smoke from the burning house back in town. I shifted gears to a slow jog when the guy I’d been following appeared in the whiteout.

  My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him just standing there with his back to me, staring at the passenger train. I thanked God he couldn’t get on board and slid to a stop, bringing the MP5 to my shoulder. My ongoing frustration mounted when I found the red dot wouldn’t penetrate the falling snow.

  The Old Man’s voice spoke in my ear. You can buy a cheap drill to bore one hole, but a smart man’ll spend the money to buy a good one that’ll last a lifetime and drill many holes.

  Inferior weapon, inferior sight. To top it off, there were no iron sights. I had one option and that was to point it and hope for the best.

  The trailing locomotive thundered by and I barely heard my own voice. “Put your hands up! Your hands! Show me your hands!”

  He kinda sorta did by extending both arms out to his sides. I couldn’t tell if he was surrendering or wanting me to walk up closer.

  You talking to Allah right here at the end, before you take us both out?

  “I said show me your hands!”

  He tightened up and pivoted just enough to put his backpack between us. I suspected one of those little canisters I’d seen in the courthouse was in there and he was planning something ungodly with it. His hands were still extended as I angled for a better position, but he swiveled like a kid playing a game.

  He turned his head in my direction and I got a look at him. It didn’t seem right that a terrorist wore horn-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a storekeeper than a bad guy. “Get on the ground! Get on the ground!”

  He reached his right hand to the pack’s shoulder strap to slip it off. The way his left arm bent brought back the conversation with Arturo that morning about left-handers.

  I dropped to one knee half a second before the guy twisted sideways like an eighteenth-century dualist and opened up with a pistol in his left hand. A bullet cracked past, and I cranked off a three-round burst.

  I couldn’t chance staying upright. Hitting the ground gave him what he wanted. He made a break for it, running fast and low toward the train. Through the veil of snow, I caught a glimpse of him crabbing underneath a car and out the other side.

  Chapter 104

  The wind brought a faint shout to DeVaca. Someone had trailed him through the snow after all. He heard his mother’s voice as he turned to keep the backpack between them, and a corner of his mouth rose as he lifted his right hand toward the shoulder strap.

  “Don’t ever let anyone know that you are mano izquierda. Learn to use your right as well as your left. Our people feel that it is muy malo.”

  “But I am not a bad boy.”

  “Then use your right and be mama’s good boy.”

  DeVaca drew a pistol with his left and whirled. The snow that collected on his frosted glasses obstructed his view, preventing him from acquiring both the target and his sights. The Glock bucked in his palm again and again, but the man with the hat wasn’t there. He’d dropped to one knee.

  DeVaca angled his head to see through a less-obstructed section of one lens, adjusted his aim, and fired again at the flashes coming from the snow-covered ground. A bee stung the little finger on his gun hand and he dropped the weapon. Only when he snatched it up did he see a red splash on the snow and realize his little finger was gone, despite the Demon’s voice in his head that said Wicked couldn’t be hurt.

  Shocked that he was wounded, he fled. The train whistle shrieked and the couplings tightened as the unseen locomotive started forward. DeVaca crawled under one of the cars and paused, fascinated by the sight of blood. He resisted the urge to lick the stub like a dog, forcing himself to concentrate on finding a safe place on the train that was groaning forward at a snail’s pace.

  Getting more than a hundred rail cars full of coal up to speed was a slow process. He considered running in the direction the train was heading to catch the locomotive before it picked up enough speed to move away. It was manned by the conductor and engineer. It would be easy to kill them and ride in comfort until the train reached its next stop.

  The train, however, stretched in both directions, disappearing in a swirl of white, and he had no idea how far away the engine might be. He trotted alongside until he realized the futility of looking at the exact same kind of hopper cars. Each was draped in ribbons of snow caught against the vertical supports.

  He dismissed the possibility of trying to survive the trip under either the sloping front or rear overhang of the cars that funneled the coal downward to the dump doors. It offered a shelter of sorts, but the tracks ran east and west. The north wind sucked underneath the cars and piled snow against everything that jutted out. Staying there would be suicide by freezing to death.

  A burst of fire slapped the steel wheels on the opposite side. Several rounds clipped the rails and more than a few buzzed past DeVaca’s legs. With the realization that he could actually be wounded or killed, he decided he had to escape the incoming fire and gain some distance between himself and his pursuer.

  An icy metal ladder offered the opportunity to swing aboard. He scrambled upward with the intention of riding for a short distance away from his pursuer. It would also give him the opportunity to clear the snow collecting on his glasses.

  Though the stub of his finger ached, he ignored the pain and climbed higher, intending to roll onto the load of coal with the new idea of jumping from car to car until he reached the engine.

  He peeked over the top to survey a scene as barren as a sand dune, with just as many opportunities for shelter. The wind cut across the drifted surface with gale force.
No one could stay up there for any length of time and survive.

  He considered his options at the same time his well-tuned sixth sense kicked in telling him someone was behind him. The Demon cried in frustration as DeVaca twisted toward the following car, at the same time bringing the little Scorpion level with his wounded hand. He held the trigger down, sweeping it in a semicircle.

  The berm in front of DeVaca’s pursuer spurted black dust. The man squeezed off his own burst. The mounded snow beyond the terrorist erupted into gouts of black scars as bullets whizzed past his head. One struck DeVaca with the impact of a sledgehammer, almost knocking him off the ladder. He grunted, and fired again, stitching the snow around the man who fell back, disappearing from view.

  The pain was incredible, and DeVaca knew he couldn’t hang on any longer. He descended as quickly as he could and stepped off the moving train, slipping and falling hard on the rock ballast. The canister in his backpack took most of the fall and ribs cracked on his wounded side with a breathtaking lance of pain.

  Gasping for breath, he scuttled away from the dangerous wheels and groaned into the deep snow he hated so much. He raised the Scorpion toward the following car and realized the red dot wouldn’t work through billions of falling flakes. He pointed the muzzle upward and emptied the magazine anyway.

  The man who no longer thought of himself as Wicked rose and did the unexpected. He lumbered alongside the train in the direction of travel, hoping for one more chance at the stubborn Texan who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Teeth clenched in pain, DeVaca watched the cars and offered the Demon anything he wanted as long as he could get one last shot at the guy.

  The Demon laughed, screamed in rage, and urged him on.

  Chapter 105

  A newscaster on the flat-panel television frowned at her audience. “Information from a trusted source tells this station that despite earlier reports of his death, Congressman Don Bright is alive and well, at the same time calls and texts from the West Texas town of Ballard bring us news that a highly trained team, most likely Delta, has ended the hostage takeover in the courthouse.

  “The congressman’s daughter was one of those held by what we’ve learned were Pakistani and Iranian terrorists. This connection between the two is coming to light as reports of shots fired in the congressman’s office earlier in the day seem to have some significance. Again, the terrorist attack in Ballard, Texas, is over.”

  Chavez’s voice rose as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “What’s happening? Wicked! Report! Report! Report!”

  His radio remained silent.

  Lucille finished her wine and slipped into the bedroom to collect her purse and the pink vintage Samsonite overnight bag she called her train case. A little vacation from Chavez and his plans was just the ticket.

  Florida.

  No, Hawaii.

  When she returned, Chavez was muttering to himself and washing his hands in the downstairs bathroom. She settled onto the bar stool and opened a new window on his laptop. Logging in, she accessed Chavez’s offshore account and typed in a complicated series of numbers and letters. At the prompt, she keyed in more numbers and symbols she’d copied months before.

  His voice came down the hall over the sound of running water. “Those damned people in Ballard didn’t surrender. They didn’t panic. They didn’t run. They fought back. How could they, how could this generation rise up?”

  Lucille spoke to the empty room. “Honey, it probably wasn’t this generation that just whipped your ass.” She ignored his repetition as the authorization went through, clearing Chavez’s secret account of the ransom money and then some, and transferring the easiest fifteen million she’d ever made into her own account in the Cayman Islands. Lucille spun the computer back around, aligning the corners with certain irregularities in the granite just as he did every time he used it.

  She walked straight to the front door and left without a word.

  Chavez returned and picked up the remote control to flick from one news station to another.

  “New information now tells us that the takeover in the Ballard courthouse has ended . . .”

  Click.

  “. . . just got word that the terrorists are dead . . .

  Click.

  “. . . breaking news. The standoff between terrorists and local authorities in Ballard is over. It is an historic moment in U.S. history, showing the true American spirit and Texans’ willingness to . . .”

  Click.

  “. . . Congressman Don Bright has been instrumental in bringing the Ballard siege to a halt and telling NBC news that he will work harder to ensure that our southern border is secure . . .”

  Chapter 106

  I didn’t charge forward after our duel beside the tracks because I was afraid he was laying for me. The train was moving steady by the time I decided he was gone. I fired a burst in his direction, to be sure he stayed down, and crept to where I’d seen him last. The snow was stained red. I’d hit him somewhere, and that made me feel a helluva lot better, but any hunter knows that wounded game can be dangerous.

  His footprints stopped at the tracks. I could see he’d crawled under, and knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d caught one of the cars. The train moved at a fast walk. I swung aboard and shinnied up the icy rungs to peek over the rim. The load mounded higher than I expected, but from my vantage point it looked like they were hauling snow instead of coal.

  Everything in sight was trackless. The soughing wind cut like a knife. I crawled onto the snow-covered load at the same instant a dim shadow popped up at the rear of the car ahead. The falling flakes softened his shape.

  I figured he’d be a lot farther ahead, but I guess his wound slowed him down. I rose to my knees, snugged the German machine pistol to my shoulder, and that’s when everything went to hell.

  The guy must’ve had eyes in the back of his head. He spun, sweeping a burst of lead toward me. I thought the MP5 I had was fast, but that machine in his hands threw a swarm of rounds in my direction before I could blink. The mound of coal between us absorbed most of them.

  Any other time I could have made the shot, but without a sight, it was damn near impossible to hit the indistinct target in an icy cloud. I showered down on him, but I was fast becoming hypothermic and not thinking clearly. I had no reason to believe I hit a thing but the train and air.

  He dropped out of sight between the cars.

  I stayed down for a good long minute, then swung my legs over the edge. My boots slipped on the ladder’s icy rungs. I strained to catch myself with nearly frozen hands that didn’t react as quick as I wanted. My chin cracked on the top rung. I bit my tongue and tasted blood.

  Automatic fire ripped the quiet to shreds, and rounds rang off the steel car. For the second time that day, my feet pedaled like a cartoon character to gain some traction.

  Goddammit!

  I got a better grip and hung there like a monkey until the wave of pain passed.

  The guy was maddening! He was pacing the train, hunting me, instead of running like the wounded striped-ass baboon I thought he was. I grabbed the pistol grip of my own piece-of-crap machine gun and pointed it down under my left arm at where I figured he’d pop out again between the cars.

  My left hand was freezing on the metal rung, but I hung tight. There was nothing but thick blowing snow between the ground and me. I was just about to give up and turn loose to drop off the opposite side when he popped up farther out than I expected. I pressed the trigger to squeeze out six fast shots.

  He rolled once and regained his feet to shoot again! The rounds missed and whanged the steel close enough for fragments of metal to sting my face.

  I become my old man when I get angry, and let me tell you, when he got mad, us boys always hunted a hole. “By God, that is enough!”

  I was out of patience and time, because I didn’t want to ride that coal car all the way to El Paso. Spitting blood, I turned loose and hit the ground with the moving train between us, surprised at how fast
we were going.

  My feet went out from under me like the first time I stood up on roller skates. I hit like a rag doll, plowing a deep furrow in the snow. My head slammed hard enough on the frozen ground to see stars again.

  Somebody wearing my coat yelled, and I was pretty sure it was me, but I couldn’t just lay there thinking about how I’d bitten my tongue again, or that my back was on fire, again.

  I dropped the mag, reloaded, and tucked the MP5’s collapsible stock against my shoulder like I’d practiced it every day of my life. When I stuck my numb index finger alongside the snow-covered trigger guard, I remembered I had gloves in my pocket.

  Chapter 107

  Dressed in HAZMAT gear from head to toe and equipped with SCBA breathing apparatus from the volunteer fire department, Sheriff Ethan Armstrong’s volunteers met in the destroyed rotunda. The smoke billowing from the floor, the bloody bodies, body parts, dusty canisters, boxes and crates, weapons, scattered equipment, and shell casings all served to illustrate an image of war.

  Ethan settled the wide straps on his shoulders and surveyed the wreckage through the full-face mask, surrounded by a forest of weapons aimed at the silent upper floors. “My God.”

  He edged close and peered into the hole chainsawed in the oak floors. Thick smoke boiled up, slipping through the building and out the south entrance.

  “Here’s what I want to do. Frank, take and put some guys here to keep an eye on the upper floors while we clear those offices on the southern entrance. Herman, I guess it won’t do no good to tell you and the Mayos to leave and take Gabe with you.”

  They’d arrived and put on SCBA gear after Ethan pulled them from the destroyed south entrance. “Nope.”

  “All right. Just hold what we have here. When we come back, we’re going up. Masks tight, boys.”

  They froze at the sound of a soft cough coming from the smoky southern hallway. As if choreographed, the deputies and experienced tactical veterans kept their rifles pointed upward. The Mayo brothers, Herman, and Gabe reacted, covering the direction of the cough. Ethan slapped Perry Hale on the shoulder. “Perry, on me.”