by Robena Grant
They made their way to where, as Mantis had mentioned, large rocks provided a path across the water. Easy, unless of course those rocks were slimy and covered with moss. Mantis indicated he would cross first. Stanton followed. About to step across, Michael heard a sound.
The guys stood on the other bank urging him over with their hands. He held up one palm, facing them. The creek was narrow enough that he could see their pale faces. They knew enough to trust him. He tilted his head, listening, waiting, almost not breathing.
A thud broke the silence, then a sound like a grunt followed by another thud. It repeated every few minutes. Michael sensed Mantis heard it also. His wiry body had turned in that direction and he seemed to strain toward the sound. It could be a wild animal digging in the ground. It seemed to come from the other side of the water and to Michael’s right. He stepped carefully across the stones and pulled out his gun. He indicated the guys should stay back. He crouched and moved forward in a hunched position to investigate.
Minutes later, the back of the cabin came into view. A glimmer of light shone around the edges of the window, followed by a flicker of blue light. It took a second for him to realize the television was on. He beckoned the guys. About to proceed, he heard the thud again, and this time it was combined with an even deeper grunt. That was no animal rooting around in the underbrush. Michael motioned for the guys to get low, and to stay down. He dropped and inched forward on his belly.
Even though they were low lying mountain ranges, and some denser vegetation closer to the base of the mountains, this was essentially desert. The sandy ground pleased him because it made it easier to traverse. Michael lay still, peering down. He slowly turned his head. A couple of old bar-b-que stands and a rough looking picnic table and benches were nestled beneath several tall shade trees. Beyond that, where the river made a lazy turn, about fifty feet from the back of the cabin that had the lights on, a shadowy figure stood in a hole. He heard the grunting sound again. Then a shovel full of sand upended on the embankment above the long, dark rectangular shape in the ground.
Michael’s mouth went dry. They’ve killed Henry. This is where they plan to bury him.
He eased back to the guys and whispered his find. They couldn’t contact the chief from out here. Not while the guy was a short distance away. Besides, Michael had not yet identified him as one of the Suarez brothers. He needed to get closer. They all moved stealthily forward. The guy climbed out of the hole. He was short and stocky, but too far away to discern any distinguishing marks. He fit the body type of the younger Suarez brother. The man took the shovel back to his car and tossed it into the trunk. Then he went inside the cabin via the front door.
There was something propped against the side of the vehicle. It looked like a large, lumpy sack. A chill ran up his spine and fear tickled the nape of his neck. He shook off the feeling of dread, wriggled his shoulders, and kept his surveillance. His gaze strayed back to the sack. Many of the drug dealers, and their men, held no qualms about dismembering their victim’s bodies, he knew that. Dear God. He grabbed his forehead with one hand, and closed his eyes for a second or two. Do not let that sack contain Henry.
Stanton jabbed him in the ribs, and Michael opened his eyes.
The same stocky guy walked out from a door at the back of the cabin. He pushed another person, with a cloth or a bag over the head, in front of him. Michael noticed the elderly stumbling gait, it looked like a man. It had to be Henry. The man’s hands weren’t tied, and he held them clasped in front of him. This one man firing squad seemed confident, like nobody would stumble upon him. Did that mean the other brother was dead? The old man stumbled. The stocky guy cursed and pushed a gun into the old man’s back and shoved him toward the gravesite.
To hell with orders. “I’m going in. Call the chief,” Michael whispered to Stanton, and tossed him his cell phone. “Then get my back.”
“I’ll do that,” Mantis said, and produced a pistol.
Michael raised his gun, and as fast as his legs could pump, he ran down the slope. He could hear Mantis running along the ridge on his right. Crashing through the underbrush, Michael yelled. “Police. Freeze. Get your hands up.”
When he got close enough, he fired wide, as a warning. The stocky guy fired back. Someone came out of the cabin. Bullets whizzed past Michael’s head. The old guy fell forward then disappeared into the hole in the ground. Shit. Michael continued to run, firing as he went. He had to get to the old man.
A bullet hit Michael’s upper arm, and he stumbled, grabbing at the pain, feeling the sticky blood, and then a shooting pain ripped up his leg. Had he been hit twice? Somewhere behind more shots were fired. Thank god for Mantis. He looked down, and saw his right foot had twisted against a tree root, and with a searing pain his knee had buckled. Shit, shit, shit. He stayed low for a minute, and scanned the area, gently working his knee cap. He couldn’t see anything, or any movement. Others were firing, but at what, he couldn’t be sure. Stanton had crashed past him minutes before. He could hear the sound of what might be an AK 47 coming from the direction of the cabin.
Jesus, what had they got themselves into? Is Stanton dead?
He thought he heard the sounds of a vehicle approaching, or departing. He squinted into the dim light. There were no headlights. But it could have been imagination. No! He saw the red of taillights. The Suarez brothers were escaping. Exhausted and weak, he pulled himself forward. The gun fire had diminished, and at the same time, everything went hazy and dark around the perimeter of his vision. A couple of choppers roared in over the mountain range, and Mantis yelled something from his right side. Michael felt a tight fabric being wrapped around his upper arm.
“It’ll hurt like a sonafabitch,” Mantis said. “It’s only a bandana, but it might stop the bleeding for a bit.”
Where had he heard that before? He forced his eyes open. Mantis sounded like his father.
He couldn’t recall how many times his father had come to someone’s aid like that, or recounted his gory tales over dinner. The band tightened around his arm, and he clenched, clamped down on his jaw, and stopped the pain-wracked cry from gurgling up his throat and alerting anyone to their position. Just in case he’d been wrong about the taillights.
“I tightened it with a small stick. Remember to loosen it in fifteen minutes or so. Don’t forget, or you’ll lose the arm.” Mantis dug around in a small pouch strapped to his chest.
Michael gave a tight laugh. “Be the least of my worries.” Stars danced before his eyes. A wave of something bitter wafted beneath his nostrils: smelling salts. He gagged at the sensation. That damn Mantis, he thought of everything. Fernando. His name is Fernando.
“Thanks,” he said, and lay on his side, gingerly feeling around his foot. No bones jutted out at perilous angles. It might be a sprain. He stood and tested his weight on it. He’d survive.
“I need to, you know…get out of here before the SWAT guys arrive,” Mantis said, and he pointed over his shoulder toward the low lying mountains. “Less questions, the better.”
“Thanks buddy,” he whispered. “Get going.”
“Yeah, it’s best for my ongoing career.” Mantis laughed, patted Michael on the shoulder, and helped him to stand. Michael leaned against a tree trunk and shook his hand. The injury was to his left arm. He could still shake a hand and make it mean something. And he could still fire his gun.
“I’ll get your back for as long as I can,” Mantis said.
Michael nodded, and limped forward. “Stay safe,” he whispered.
Mantis slipped off into the darkness, his gun raised. It had become eerily quiet, except for the drone of the nearby helicopters. A copter’s spotlight shone through the trees across the other side of the park. It had to be at least a mile away. Had the heat sensors detected escaped men? Had they made a run for it? Or had they driven off in their car, and then been road blocked?
Out in the motor home park, lights had come on. He thought he heard Stanton’s voice coming over
a speaker, urging people to stay inside. He hoped it was Stanton. The back door of the cabin stood open, the car gone. He dropped to the sand. He’d crawl the rest of the way, save energy, be less visible.
A couple of Humvees were parked along the entry road into the motor home park. The SWAT team had fanned out, running in the opposite direction to the cabin. He was out of the line of fire. He inched forward. The guys would get the Suarez brothers. They wouldn’t get too far. Pity. He’d wanted to take the Kingpin himself, but he was glad for the help of the team. Besides, he had to get to Henry’s body. They’d want to give him a proper funeral. That would be the least he could do for Rachel and the old guy. With his injured arm tucked close to his chest, Michael dragged himself on his side—digging his one good heel into the sand and pushing his body forward, stopping, taking a breath and wincing at the pain—and then doing all of it over again.
The sky had lightened enough that he could see the mounds of sand clearly. They hovered above the gravesite, a dark rectangle only twenty feet away. He pushed on, making slow but steady progress. The gaping hole in the earth drew closer. He tried not to think of the old man dying there. And then his gaze narrowed as he caught a glimpse of wispy gray hair. The guy must have landed on his ass. He must be sitting in the shallow grave, sitting up and dead.
“Awww, Henry,” he said.
A head popped up out of the hole. Michael stared at the old gray-haired guy, and he stared back. He pushed himself a foot closer. Who’d have believed it? The old guy’s survival revived his lagging energy, and he stretched out a hand toward the edge of the hole.
“I’m Michael.”
Henry put a finger to his lips, and indicated he should get in the hole too. “Quick,” he whispered. “No time.”
Michael looked down, didn’t know if he could, but when he saw the fear and concern on Henry’s face he knew it was imperative to move fast. Only a shallow grave, it would be cramped quarters. Henry helped him, but even then the pain pierced his body as it made impact with the harder sand floor. He sucked in a breath as he pulled his knees tight to his chest. Henry pushed him down, using only signals, and pulled his skinny legs up tight to make more room. They were both small men, not huge like Jack Fischer, which was a hell of a plus. He’d often thought his slighter body worked against him. Not this time.
Henry cupped one ear and leaned forward. Michael held his breath and listened.
The sound of someone running through the water hit him. He nodded at Henry and raised his gun. The old guy nodded back. The sound came straight toward them.
Chapter Seventeen
Rachel, Jack, and Manuel pulled up behind Stanton’s car. Jack got out and checked it.
“It’s empty,” he said as he slid back into the back seat.
Stanton’s car was parked back a bit from the entrance into the trailer park. Down the highway, Rachel could see another car. A dark blue Honda. The same vehicle that had cruised through the parking lot at the Rabbit Ranch on Tuesday night, full of young Latino males. She looked over at Manuel.
“That’s Arturo’s car,” he said. “They call themselves the Suarez gang.”
Rachel nodded and shivered. She put her window down. No sense dwelling on things like that. “I’m guessing Michael and the guys crossed over this way. They’d have been going to the cabins that are scattered along the edge of the river.” She looked around. “We used to stop here quite often. Grandpa liked to photograph the wildlife.” Rachel got out of the car and shouldered her backpack.
“You could get caught in cross-fire. You and Ralph stay here,” Jack said.
Rachel glared at him.
“I’ll go and check things out. The gang might have had the same idea. It’s too dangerous, and what about Ralph?”
“Do you have an extra gun?” she asked, closing the door and sticking her head back through the window. “Ralph will be fine.” She put him inside her jacket and zipped it up.
Manuel reached over and opened the glove compartment and pulled out a gun. Then he grimaced. “I’m going with you.”
“You don’t have to,” Jack said.
“I do.” Manny got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side.
Rachel pushed her way through the double strands of wire that were slung loosely between the post stumps. Gunshots rang out, and the sounds of helicopters coming in over the low lying mountain range had her heart pounding. She prayed they weren’t too late.
“Wait up,” Jack said. “Let’s think this through. We need a plan.”
“No time for that,” Rachel said. “We’ll get to the river and see what’s going on, and then decide on a plan of action.”
****
Henry put a hand on Michael’s gun and shook his head, then he slowly raised himself up and looked over the area. They were like two soldiers in a bunker: Michael the injured, and Henry the spotter, waiting for the enemy. Only they had no idea who the enemy was. Could it be one of the SWAT team? Michael had two rounds left and one more magazine. He didn’t want to start firing at a wild animal, or worse, one of his own guys.
His head pounded, and he felt woozy from pain and blood loss. If it was a wild animal it would smell the blood, follow the trail, and it might end up doing them both in. He felt light-headed again, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes he saw Henry peeping over the sand. He wondered about Mantis, and Stanton.
The sloshing water sound had stopped. When Henry sank back down, a slow smile creased his already creased old face. “Just like I figured,” he whispered.
Henry was close enough to Michael’s face that he felt the warmth of his breath, and the stale smell of food and coffee. He didn’t mind. It felt good to have another human being close by. The guy beckoned him even closer, and pressed his mouth almost to Michael’s ear. “They run. They circle back. Always the same plan.”
Michael nodded. He figured Henry wasn’t talking about wild animals. He must mean the brothers. “They think they’re safe that way.”
Henry nodded, and then nestled closer. “I call them Younger Brother and Big Brother, not sure of their names. Anyway, Younger drove Big away in the car, allowing him to escape on foot and double back. Younger used himself as a decoy.”
Michael winced against the throb in his arm, and then widened his eyes. “Big returned?”
Henry grinned broader. “It’s all about family loyalty. Big gets saved at any cost.”
Michael watched the old guy, and almost shook his head in wonder. He’d been through so much, yet still thought logically. He’d obviously watched the whole thing. Seen the guys escape, then a few of the SWAT team members do a sweep of the cabin, while the other hummers and the copters gave chase. But why didn’t Henry give himself over to the care of the good guys?
“I’m going in,” Michael said.
“He’ll see you coming. Windows face this way. They were well armed. Stash of ammo that filled a large sized duffle bag. Scopes, AK 47’s, didn’t take that with them in the car.”
“But didn’t the SWAT team take the duffle?”
“Nope. They ran in and out.”
“Okay,” Michael whispered, his gaze never leaving the back of the cabin. “Go on with your story.”
“When Younger walked me down here, I knew where we were. I’d suspected, but wasn’t certain until then. I’ve been camping out in these parts for years. Know the river. Know the scents. I could see beneath the hood, and he hadn’t bothered to tie my wrists or anything.”
Michael nodded but didn’t interrupt. He’d seen Henry fall into the hole, and had assumed he’d taken a bullet.
“Heard the water and deliberately stumbled.” Henry emitted a soft laugh. “Did that, so I could get a better sense of exactly where we were. Saw the grave. When I heard you, and the firing started, I was a foot or two from it. I took a roll and a dive, and bided my time.”
Michael smiled through his pain. Smart man. “What was in the sack next to the car?”
>
Henry frowned as he thought that over. “Oh. Laundry.” He chuckled softly. “Younger liked everything clean and neat. Big is a useless piece of shit. Spoiled rotten.”
Michael almost laughed out loud.
“Here’s what I think,” Henry whispered. “He gets more ammo, coupla guns, food, straps on a backpack and follows the river back to the highway. Makes a cell phone call. Maybe has to wait for a final say so, for a hook up. The cousin from Almagro picks him up.”
“The cousin?”
“Arturo. Don’t know the last name, but he’s got a nasty gang of brothers. Younger called them the Suarez gang. Heard that a few times when he got cell phone calls, and there’s an Arturo works for my granddaughter. I saw all the guys once, and I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy. Most of the time I was blindfolded when they came, but…”
“And Manuel?”
“Nope. Not him. Clean as a whistle. Very protective of my girl. Never did like Arturo.”
Michael nodded. Relief flooded him. For some reason he wanted Rachel to have someone she could turn to, someone who would protect her. He doubted he’d make it out of here alive. Not if the old guy had been right, and Big was heavily armed. He turned toward Henry. “So what do you think happens next?”
Henry shrugged. “We wait. Got anything to eat?”
Food? That sounded good. “Inside the vest, right pocket, couple of chocolate covered protein bars. Left pocket a couple of juice boxes, small but—”
“Chocolate?” Henry almost pounced on him.
“Easy there old guy. You’re going to do me in.”
Henry chuckled, retrieved the two bars and peeled off the wrapper, handing the first one to Michael. Then he eased back onto one elbow, and tore back the wrapper on his own bar, and with eyes half closed, he nibbled at it, savoring and murmuring over every bite. They drank the kiddie juice boxes, knowing this might be the last liquid they’d have for a while. Still, the river wasn’t too far off. If Michael could get a clean shot, Ricardo Suarez wouldn’t make it as far as the river. And then they’d find water and food in the cabin.
