Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets.

by John Turney

  With her forehead propped on her knees, she listened to the whispers of the girls sitting close to her. They spoke of leaving tonight. Or staying. From the panic in their voices, they had no plans beyond getting down the mountain. No idea of where they were. No idea of how to avoid the border patrol.

  If they left and the coyote came back, he’d hunt them down. All of them. She figured if he returned and found them gone, his ego would force him to hunt them down like dogs.

  Or the bajaderos would get them. Predators that would rape and kill them.

  That’s all we are. Esclavos. Slaves.

  One of the girls rocketed to her feet and pointed a finger at another girl’s nose.

  “I say we go tonight. All of us. No one stays.”

  “No,” said the other. “Each must make her own decision.”

  “If any stay,” said the first, “then they can reveal our escape.”

  “And you don’t think,” said the second girl, waving her hands with darting gestures, “an empty cave won’t?”

  The argument grew more heated, and other girls joined in the argument. The two girls started shoving each other.

  Amalia sprang to her feet. “Càllate!” Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! The echoes from her shout died as all eyes turned in her direction. “We are in a bad situation, no? We stay, we die of thirst. We go, evil men kill us. If we argue among ourselves? They win.”

  The first girl who started the fight wheeled upon her. “How dare you! You sit back there sobbing like my little sister. Now you yell at us. How—”

  A man’s voice cut through the crowd. “Perhaps you should listen to your hermanita.” Little sister.

  A hot breeze ruffled their clothing. Silence choked the cave. This was not the voice of their coyote, nor of one of the Americanos. Amalia turned to see the speaker.

  A man dressed in black blocked the exit of the cave. Dust coated his clothes. He removed his black Stetson, lightly brushing it with his fingers to remove the offending dirt. The yellowing sky framed his black silhouette and hid his face. He stank of evil. The newcomer donned his hat, precise in its placement.

  “Okay, ladies, your plans have changed. Your miserable little guide won’t be returning. He—shall we say—dug himself into a hole.” The man laughed at his own joke, but Amalia clenched her jaw. She cared little for the coyote, but he was not born evil.

  The man pointed out the cave. “Take the trail down to the base of the mountain. I have some compañernos waiting for you. They have water and food for you.” A grin, cold like winter snow, snaked across his face. “Afterwards, we will talk about what you can do for me.”

  The first girl who started the argument wheeled to face the man. “Who are you,” she said, “to tell us what to do?”

  Like a striking rattlesnake, he drew a handgun from a shoulder holster. He aimed it at the girl, and Amalia realized she stood in the line of fire. Her skin goose-fleshed. The man in black shrugged.

  “Who am I?” he returned the question. “I am your executioner.”

  The gunshot roared in the confined space. The girl’s head jerked back. Amalia screamed as the body dropped, twitched once, and went still. The smell of gore and gun-smoke filled the cave.

  “Any other questions?” He pointed his gun at the crowd of girls. Amalia closed her eyes, hoping he would go away. Next to her, a girl sobbed. Amalia smelled the ammonia of someone wetting herself.

  “No?” said the man with a self-congratulatory tone. “Bueno. Now get to your feet and follow my instructions. Except for you.”

  Amalia opened her eyes, fearing the worst. The enormous crater of the gun’s barrel pointed her way, commanding her attention.

  “I have special plans for you.”

  He lowered the gun, and Amalia felt her skin go cold despite the heat. What had her uncle gotten her into?

  CHAPTER 10

  THURSDAY EVENING

  Rye leaned back in his office chair, feet propped on the desk. He stared out into the darkened hallway, relishing the quiet. Gabby, gone for the day. Noah and Zach, reports done and on his desk. DePute, on patrol now. Later, Heilo would take the graveyard shift. That left him alone at the station.

  He took a swig of beer and set the can atop the same water ring forming on the chair’s arm. Five more beers, cold and wet, waited for him in the break room fridge. He would need them tonight. Weariness set in like drying concrete, and his eyelids drooped. His mind drifted in darkness until a white spot rolled his way. No. Not one, but two, and growing larger as they approached. When the dots bumped into his feet, he recognized the Arches’ heads, sightless eyes staring accusations at him. Helen’s blue lips moved when she said, “Never a cop around when you need ’em.”

  Rye bolted upright. “Holy puke,” he gasped.

  He raised the beer can to his lips and downed half of it. He shook his head to clear his mind of Helen’s talking dead head.

  Rye snatched up the top report—Whitewolf’s—and began to read.

  The buzzer to the front door went off, indicating someone entered the building. Rye set the beer on the floor then reached for his gun resting in its holster on the desk.

  “Rye?” The voice echoed in the empty halls.

  His shoulders relaxed. “Iona,” he yelled. “I’m back in my office.”

  Rye holstered his weapon.

  The delicious scent of diner burgers blitzed his nostrils. Seconds later, Iona strolled into his office carrying two takeout bags. She lifted them for Rye to see.

  “Din-ner,” she said in a sing-songy voice. She plopped in a chair across the desk from him. “Garcon drove past when I parked out front.”

  Rye arched a brow at her.

  “DePute. He let me in.”

  “You’re a long distance mind reader.” Rye eyed the bags spotted with grease smears.

  Iona dropped the two sacks of food on the desk. “I saw your light, so I thought I’d grab us a bite. She checked the bags and slid one to Rye. “A double-decker taco burger for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, lifting his meal out of the bag. “Let me get you a beer.”

  He returned moments later with two cans.

  Iona nodded at the reports. “Learn anything new?”

  He grinned. “I like this. Discussing cases with a famous mystery writer is kinda like us being Castle.”

  Iona waved a hand. “Hey, having a Masters in Criminology, a Bachelors in Forensics, and half a dozen years on the force in Phoenix doesn’t hurt.” A flash of pained memory crossed her face.

  Rye understood. “Did they ever find the lowlife that shot you in the hip?”

  She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “And all those months of physical therapy …”

  “Just to walk again. Hoping I’d return to the force.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just like my knee. I wanted to re-up for another tour, but the Army wouldn’t let me.”

  “Phoenix PD offered me a desk job or early retirement.” She stuffed several fries into her mouth. Rye took that to mean she was done talking about her early retirement.

  Halfway finished with his burger and working through a mound of cheesy salsa and fries, Rye asked, “Hip bothering you?”

  “No more ’n your knee.”

  “That’s the reason I like the desert. Hot dry air doesn’t bother it. Not as much as cold rainy weather, anyway.” He left unsaid it also started him on heavy drinking. He had discovered booze numbed the pain that enflamed the joint. He tapped the reports with his index finger. “Read these while you eat.” He rotated the two reports and pushed them across the desk towards her.

  She reached out and drew them closer. After taking a sip of her beer, Iona held up the can. “Go easy on this stuff. Remember last night.”

  The three remaining cans of beer loomed strong in his mind. They waited for him on the right side of the fridge on the second shelf down. The colden golden. Cut the desert dust from his throat. He pursed his lips as guilt ti
nged his conscious. Perhaps two beers would be enough for tonight.

  When Iona finished the reports, she slid them back across to Rye. “Interesting.”

  “What do you think?” Rye tapped on the reports and took a sip of beer.

  “Looks like you got a couple of leads. That’s a start. Forensics uncover anything at the Arches’?”

  “They pulled the usual evidence, and they’ll be processing that. But it takes time. It may be weeks before we hear anything. Nothing jumped out and screamed, ‘Hey! I’m the mac-daddy of clues.’ Except for the bloody boot prints and paw prints.”

  Iona sighed. “It appears someone is trying to play on the Skinwalker fears of us desert folks. What about the guy you got in the slammer?”

  “He won’t talk. Wants to lawyer-up. To do a will. Go figure. I think he wants to stay in the cell. The man’s terrified.”

  “You got any idea why?” Iona leaned back in her chair, munching on some fries.

  Rye looked up at the ceiling then laughed. “He freaked at the arrest when he spotted the black-clad Latino male mentioned in the reports.”

  “Sooo … watch’ya going to do with the prisoner?”

  Rye shook his head. “I can’t get over the idea he wants to stay in jail. Most folks can’t wait to get away.”

  “Perhaps you ought to charge him room and board. Can’t imag—”

  “What the—” Rye blurted and half stood.

  Gunshots, from outside, mixed with screeching tires.

  “Stay put,” he told Iona as he grabbed his holster.

  When Rye reached the front door, more gunshots ripped apart the dusk’s calm.

  Burnt rubber fouled the air.

  People screamed.

  Standing on the sidewalk and strapping on his holster, Rye watched as a half dozen trucks and a rusty El Camino squealed tires in demonic clatter while they drove in crazed circles at the three-way intersection of Yuma Street and Whiskey Drive, the town’s major intersection.

  Rye absorbed the commotion within heartbeats of exiting the police HQ. The evening’s twilight had settled upon the town. It’d be dark soon.

  He dashed between the vehicles parked in front of the Police Department and peeked over the hood of Iona’s Land Rover as people scrambled to flee the chaos.

  Gunmen stood in the beds of the trucks, pointing rifles in the air and firing. The traffic light at the intersection had been shot out, pieces left to swing on sparking wires.

  He raced over to the Tahoe, threw open the back hatch, and grabbed the first weapon he had ever learned to use—his bow. Opening a secret compartment, Rye withdrew the quiver hidden there and slipped the strap over his head. He yanked his cell phone from its belt.

  Come on, pick up.

  “Depute here.”

  “We have a situation in town,” Rye said. “I need you here now. Rápido.”

  “Chief, me and Heilo are investigating a report of approximately twenty female mules crossing Tucker’s ranch out on 8. We’re here searching for them.”

  A sudden burst from about a dozen weapons erupted at the intersection.

  “Dude! What’s that?”

  “Gunfire. Someone’s shooting up the plaza.”

  “We’re—”

  “Getting here ASAP.” Rye spotted Zach sprinting up the side street towards him. “I see Reese. But we need your backup.”

  “Roger that,” Depute said. “Our TOA is fifteen minutes.”

  Rye disconnected the call and sped two blocks to the first intersection. At the corner, in front of the Cowboy’s Cyber Café—a yuppy coffee bar—he hunkered down behind a square adobe column supporting the awning over the sidewalk. He counted some fifteen Latino males in the truck beds firing various weapons. Their drivers circled the plaza like Indians set to attack a wagon train.

  Zach knelt next to him. He wore a black wife-beater shirt, jeans, and moccasins. He carried a Glock.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a real mess, huh, Chief?” His words rushed over each other, a half octave higher than normal.

  One of the shooters leveled his weapon and fired. Windows from several stores exploded in showers of glass.

  “Can you shoot with that eye patch?”

  “No problema.” Zach nodded to Rye’s weapon. “So what, you bring a bow and arrow to a gunfight?”

  Rye shot him a dirty look. “You a freaking comedian now, or what?”

  Zach cleared his throat. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “Let’s walk down the street. Maybe a show of force will scare them off.”

  “Say what?” Zach said, his voice rising even higher in pitch.

  “Maybe with an aggressive police presence, they will cease their firing at innocent civilians.” Rye glanced again at Reese, who stared back, speechless. “Let’s do this.”

  “Roger that.”

  As they stepped out onto Yuma Street and started walking towards the violence at the intersection, Rye figured this had to be one of the dumbest ideas he ever had. He was about to say something when Zach raised his handgun and aimed at targets down the street. Determined to stay the course, Rye nocked an arrow and pulled the string taut.

  “Now what, Chief?”

  “You take the twelve guys on the left, and I’ll take the twelve guys on the right. DePute and Heilo are on their way. They can have what’s remaining.”

  “Now, who’s the comedian?”

  They passed by stores, small businesses, bars and restaurants, all familiar to Rye. He knew the owners. Faces full of worry and fear peered out from behind drawn curtains. Several shop owners lifted rifles or handguns and mouthed, “Need help?”

  Rye shook his head at each in turn, mouthing, “No.”

  Other citizens hid behind cars, pickups, and SUVs parked along the street. Mothers with children. An elderly couple. A teenager had removed a rifle—a Remington, Rye noted—from the back of a pickup, and, though scared, appeared ready to begin returning fire. Rye shot him a glance and said, “Stay put.”

  A bullet pinged the street a dozen yards in front of them and ricocheted away with a whining noise. Another window crashed, shot out from the sound of it.

  They reached the next intersection. The shooting stopped, and the trucks came to a halt, facing them like an offensive line. Their Spanish and laughter filled the void left by the silent guns.

  From the bed of a blue ’63 Ford with black fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, a man wearing a straw cowboy hat pointed a rifle at them. Rye tensed. Straw Hat fired a shot, striking a car parked nearby.

  Zach squeezed off a round, striking the center of the grill. Steam swarmed over the truck’s front. A steamy green puddle formed under its front bumper. The expended shell clinked on the pavement. Straw Hat and his friends ducked.

  “You missed the shooter,” Rye said.

  “No way. I aimed for the radiator. Consider it a warning shot.”

  “Shooting the gunman would’ve been better.”

  “There’s a critic in every crowd.”

  The driver of the Ford sprang out of the truck when the cloud of heated antifreeze flowed over the windshield. He raced to the front of the truck and stared down at the expanding pool of antifreeze before hurling hot curses in Spanish in their direction.

  “Sir, lay down on the ground,” Rye yelled back. “NOW!”

  The driver gave Rye the finger and scurried back into his Ford.

  “Now, that’s one impolite hombre,” Rye said.

  A dozen guns from the men in the truck beds pointed at them.

  “Time for cover?” Zach’s voice shook.

  “Noooo,” Rye said, drawing the bowstring taut. “Tell them to stand down.”

  Zach shot him a questioning glance. Several shots rang out from the trucks. Bullets hit the pavement or struck cars. The way these morons shoot, maybe standing in the middle of the street IS the safest place.

  “Whatever you say, Chief.” Aiming his gun at the Ford driver, he bellowed, “This is the police! Lay
down your weapons! NOW!”

  They laughed, elbowing each other as if they shared a big joke. They sounded drunk.

  With a tremor in his voice, Zach said, “I don’t think I persuaded them.”

  “I’d say you gave them ample warning to lay down their weapons.” Rye sighted down the arrow.

  “Yeeeeah?”

  “They’ve broken several laws, wouldn’t you say?” Rye aimed the arrow at a truck.

  “We got enough to hold them until Armageddon.”

  “And they most certainly have put our citizens and guests at risk.” Rye compensated his aim for the heavy, odd-shaped arrowhead.

  “No doubt.”

  “They damaged property?” Rye asked. He took a deep breath.

  “Sure, Chief. But …”

  “And I believe they gave the wrong response to your command,” Rye said. “Let’s see if they think this is funny.”

  “What kind of arrowhead is that?”

  “Watch.”

  Rye loosed the arrow. It struck the front right fender on a pee yellow ’69 Toyota Hilux truck. The Hilux exploded in a ball of fire and flipped, sending men sailing from its bed. The truck slammed into the ’63 Ford next to it. Rye resumed walking toward the line of trucks. Orange tongues of flames crawled along the torn metal, and thick black smoke billowed into the sky.

  Zoned in on the scene unfolding before him, Rye observed the minutiae, the shooters scrambling from the trucks, the drivers grinding the transmissions to get their vehicles in gear, a passenger struggling to get his handgun from his shoulder holster. A horseman galloped towards town, cutting across open land. Whitewolf. Zach trailed a step behind.

  “The! Officer! Said!” Rye shouted while he withdrew another arrow. “Lay! Down! Your! Weapons!” He nocked the arrow and lifted the bow. “DO IT NOW!”

  When one of the gunmen in the bed of the El Camino aimed a rifle at him, Rye sent the arrow into the vehicle’s headlight. The front on the car exploded in a shower of fire and metal. Flames licked at the ruined car, the twin stacks of black smoke joining together. Rye readied another arrow should the shooters want to engage further.