by John Turney
“Mom, you okay?”
She ignored his question. Didn’t want to cause him any more stress. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could barely make out her son’s form. “What …?”
“That jerk-off that punched you. I wanted to rip his heart out, but one of his men knocked me down and put plastic cuffs on me.”
Anger colored over her son’s fear. Good. I’ll need that Dawlsen determination if we’re to survive. “I appreciate it, son. You did good. It takes a real lowlife to hit a kid.”
She opened her arms, and Manny cuddled next to her. She smiled at his nearness, at his smell as she enclosed her arms around him.
“Mom … I think Dad’s coming.”
Dee remembered the Mexican’s words before he punched her. That’s another one who will pay. “We have to warn him. This is a trap. They want to kill him.” Dee wanted to offer her son some comfort. “I love you,” she told him in a quiet whisper.
“Me too. We gotta get out of here,” Manny said. Even in the gloom, she could see his face go stone cold with resolve. He looks just like Rye.
“Wait,” she said. She felt soooo tired. Just give me a comfortable bed with a thick quilt. But not yet. “There is one thing we need to do.”
“What?” That voice is Rye all over.
“Remember at church last week. What did the pastor preach on?”
She sensed more than saw Manny shake his head. “What’s that got to do—”
Dee reached out and touched a finger to his lips to quiet him. “Prayer. We need to pray for your father. That God will protect him.”
CHAPTER 20
SUNDAY MORNING LATE
Johnny Batts crouched under a rocky outcropping behind List’s property. Though rain poured over the overhead ledge, this niche mostly kept him out of the weather and provided decent cover to scout List’s property. Using night binoculars, he witnessed DePute’s antics below him.
“Be careful, kid.” Turning his head sideways, he spat out a stream of chewing tobacco then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
Several three-burst gunshots rang out. Jerking the binoculars in the direction of the gunfire, Johnny spotted a squad of List’s men heading for the ATV. Crouched over like military, they spread out with practiced precision.
“Dang-it. Pros.”
Johnny swung his binoculars back to DePute.
“Get outta there. Now,” Johnny said under his breath. As if Johnny’s words traveled telepathically, DePute jerked the ATV 180 degrees and dashed for the creek bed. Raging roiled waters attacked its banks.
“Don’t do it, kid,” Johnny growled. Them waters’ll sweep you away in a heartbeat.
DePute dodged boulders along the creek’s edge, turned right at the creek’s edge, and drove into a gully out of sight.
“Why’d you do such a fool thing?” He wanted to spit another wad of tobacco but refused to take his eyes off the unfolding scenario.
DePute reappeared among a tumble of large rocks further up the hill. Moments later, the young cop stopped the ATV, gathered some things and vanished into a crack in the rock. Johnny cackled until he began coughing. The kid cop had just compromised the mayor’s escape route.
“Johnny boy,” he addressed himself, “it’s time fer you to enter this hoe-down. Hoo-rah.”
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Tip-toeing down a dark hallway, wood floor cool on her bare feet, Amalia heard footsteps coming her way. Panicked glances unveiled her best option. She ducked into an unlocked room and peered through the crack in the door. Moments later, three men with some kind of rifles turned onto her hallway, so she eased the door closed. She held her breath while they marched past her door.
After their footfalls faded, she stepped into the corridor and peered both directions. She gnawed her lip … hesitant for a moment … then hurried in the opposite direction of the patrol.
The hall ended into a living room. Amalia scanned the area, relieved to find it empty. Her mouth dropped at the display of wealth before her. Several large screen TVs. Entertainment equipment. Paintings of cowboys and Indians. Western-styled furniture. She crinkled her nose. The room smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke.
Americanos are so rich. One of these paintings would feed a Mexican family for a year. And these TVs … the sale would buy medicine to keep a village of niños alive. She shook her head. This Americano dwelt in luxury she knew came from the sweat and blood of her people. Señor List, Dios will make you pay.
Lightning from the storm flashed, illuminating the room like a strobe light, followed by a window rattling roll of thunder. In the silence after the thunder faded, a wolf’s howl shattered the storm. Hairs rose on Amalia’s arms.
The gringo sisters! She had to get them out of here. They knew of Demonio’s smuggling operation. And that equated with being dead.
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Leaning on clenched fists on the desk between his two security agents, Richard List scrutinized the monitors in his control center. He chewed his cigar, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The reek from its acrid smoke filled the chamber.
The cold gray light emanating from the monitors provided the only source of illumination in the room.
A few rain-smeared cameras produced distorted images on some monitors. Curses rolled off his tongue like water from a downspout. The kid on the ATV disappeared from view.
Seconds rolled by.
He punched the table, shaking a couple of monitors.
The security person on his left leaned forward and peered with an intense gaze at one of the monitors. He clicked some keys on the keyboard then grabbed his mouse to control one camera. Scrolling its wheel, he zoomed into a patch of mud.
“There!” he yelled.
“What?” asked Richard.
“In that mud.” The man pointed. “ATV tracks.”
“Where’s that?” Richard put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
Scrolling the wheel to zoom out, the man yelled, “He’s at the emergency exit.”
The image showed the entrance to the square-cut cave.
Curses exploded from Richard’s mouth. “Look at the ATV. That’s no punk kid. That’s one of WPD’s pigs.”
“Wiley’s squad is converging on that spot now,” said the security man. “But the rain’s making things difficult.”
“Send a patrol down the tunnel,” Richard said. “Tell all patrols live ammo. Shoot on sight and shoot to kill.”
“Sir,” said the other security agent, “a satellite will be overhead in about five minutes.”
“How’s that going to help?” snapped Richard.
“It’ll provide live images of heat sources. I will be able to tell where everyone is.”
Richard wheeled about and headed for the door. “When you get that, contact me immediately. I have my Nextel. You guys armed?”
“Yes sir,” they said together.
“Don’t let anyone through those doors unless you hear from me directly.” With that said, he rushed out the door, making sure it locked behind him.
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“No es posible,” Heilo said. “I’m not crossing on that tree.”
Rye couldn’t agree more. The tree that had collapsed on List’s electric fence lay half-submerged in a pool of rainwater with the fence under it. Tree limbs jutted out of the water like skeletal arms. But options, like time, were something they were short on. “Okay. You got something better?”
Everyone stared at the growing puddle.
Heilo snapped her fingers. “Got it.”
Before Rye could say anything, Heilo dashed back toward their vehicles. Rye looked down at his glistening boots. Do I even want to know what she’s going to do? He heard a distant revving of a motor and, intrigued, he stepped over to the street. A moment later, she came barreling up the road in her patrol car headed straight for him.
Surely, she’s gonna stop. When the car didn’t slow, Rye took a step backwards.
She’s gonna kill herself. And me with her. He took another step backwards and waved his arms. Still the car sped towards him and he began to wave frantically. Ready to jump, he swore he could see the whites of her eyes.
She stomped on the brakes and the car squealed to a stop, its back end fish-tailing.
The Crown Vic sat perpendicular to the road, aimed straight for the damaged section of the fence.
She looked out the window with a mischievous grin. The window slid down with an electric whirr. She met Rye’s eyes. “Welcome to Plan B.”
Heilo shifted into drive and stomped down on the accelerator. For a second, tires squealed on the wet road, then caught traction and leapt forward. Before reaching the fence, the car began sliding, missed the puddle, and crashed into the fence. The car finished its errant journey by nose-diving into a tree.
Rye opened his mouth to shout, but said nothing. The car straddled the fence providing a bridge across the electrified barrier.
Heilo opened the driver’s door and raised herself to the roof. “As DePute would say, ‘I got me a killer of an idea.’” Bent over for balance, she scampered off the car roof onto List’s land.
Zach shrugged, climbed on the trunk, and crawled over the car to join Heilo.
“Eye,” Rye said into his microphone, “this is Crawler One. We are entering List’s property.”
Whitewolf swung his rifle on his shoulder, “Crazy Cuban chick.” He went up and over the car like a mountain cat. The three moved out into woods, blending into their surroundings.
“Roger that, Crawler One,” said Clark. “Be careful. Our intel says he’s got a sophisticated security system.”
“Yeah,” grumbled Rye, “I’ve been here—” Rye took a deep breath and clambered across on the car. He leaned against a tree and pulled a compass out of his jacket pocket. Hang on, Dee.
With two fingers extended, Rye motioned them forward. Whitewolf and Reese snapped their rifles to their shoulders, studying their approach through their scopes. Heilo leveled her HK21E machine gun at her waist. Step-by-cautious-step, they moved ghost-like through the sodden pine-oaks, walking in a tight v-shaped line.
When they reached the edge of the wild growth, Rye held up a fist. Everyone stopped. He motioned downward with the flat of his hand.
“This is Crawler Three,” Heilo whispered over the headset. “Don’t anyone move. There are two men approaching. I’ve got ’em.”
“Crawler Three, stand down. Do not engage.” Rye did not want to risk exposing their positions with gunplay this soon. “I repeat, do not engage.”
Silence. Come on, Heilo, say something. Rye held his breath in anticipation of the gunfire. Was she going off the reservation? He needed her to be clearheaded, not driven by her grief to seek revenge, thereby exposing their mission to failure.
“Crawler Three? Come back.”
Silence.
“Crawler Three, where the—”
“This is Crawler Three. Two perps are down and will not be attending this dance. We can proceed.”
“Crawler Three,” Rye’s voice sounded like a whispering tornado. “I told you to stand down.”
“They were right on top of my position, I had to do something … and you did want us to bring knives.”
“Roger that,” Whitewolf and Reese said together.
Rye rolled his eyes. “Advance on my three,” he said and counted.
As one, they emerged from their hiding places and marched to the roundabout in front of List’s house. The house lingered in quiet. No lights. No movement. Rye held up a fist.
They all dropped to their knees.
A white pickup sat parked off to one side of the turnaround. One taillight was broken. That fits the description of the truck leaving the scene of the ME’s murder.
“It’s too quiet,” Rye whispered into the mic. “Proceed with caution. Crawler Three, be ready with your HK.”
“Roger that,” came her hushed reply.
“Crawlers, this is Eye.” Clark coughed. “I … umm … believe that List has advanced knowledge of your position. We suspect he may have a satellite feed and has the capacity to receive heat signatures.”
Great. Just freaking great.
“There’s movement behind the wall!” shouted Clark into his earpiece. “Get down. NOW!”
Rye dropped to the wet ground—the cold moisture soaking into his shirt and pants—when several guns opened fire upon them. Bullets whistled overhead, cutting through the vegetation. Leafy debris showered him. Lifting his head slightly, Rye spotted gunfire coming from the wall and openings in the garage door.
“Crawler Three,” Rye said. His heart pounded. His mouth went dry. Time snailed. “Respond to our rude hosts. The wall and the garage door.”
“With pleasure,” Heilo said, her voice a snarl.
A moment later, a wall of sound erupted from her weapon. The 51mm caliber rounds tore into the adobe wall, creating a shower of dust. Holes in the partition evolved into expansive gaps. She turned the weapon on the steel garage doors, punching gaping holes into them with ringing punishment. Hidden cameras sparked out of existence. Wounded men screamed.
And still she poured on the firepower. Expended shells landed on other shells with a musical note. Bullets struck the house behind the ruined fence. Tiled shingles disappeared into dust. Windows exploded. The outside walls morphed into a bullet riddled fresco. The garage door collapsed with a metallic ring.
She stopped, and the silence roared louder than the gunfire. Seconds ticked by with numb ringing in his ears before Rye regained his hearing. Rainfall and screams of wounded men replaced the dreadful racket of hot lead.
“Cover me,” Rye said and sprang from the ground. He raced across the open driveway and huddled by a piece of adobe wall still standing. He risked a quick look into the compound. He spotted several forms lying in puddles of red. Most remained still. A few writhed in wounded agony.
One of the wounded men struggled to a kneeling position. Heilo’s firing had torn his left shoulder to shreds and blood soaked his shirt. Their eyes met at the same time. Pain and hatred flowed from the man’s stare like hot lava. The man glanced down. Rye’s gaze followed his. A 9mm pistol lay at the man’s knees.
Don’t do it, Rye pleaded. Just be still and survive.
They exchanged stares again, and Rye shook his head “no.” The man grabbed for the pistol, and Rye fired a three-shot burst into him. The man stared gap-mouthed at the bloody holes in his shirt. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed. Why couldn’t you have just remained still?
Rye waved for the others to join him. In a hunched-over line, they double-timed towards the remnants of the adobe wall.
“Everyone okay?” Rye asked.
The three officers nodded.
He pointed at Heilo, and Whitewolf then motioned for them to check out the garage. She loaded another box of ammo on her HK and nodded. Crouched over, they hightailed it for the garage.
“It’s probably too late to ring the doorbell and ask nicely if we can come in,” Rye said.
“As if that really would’ve worked,” Zach said.
Rye peeked around the adobe barrier. The large front window with its glass shot out appeared to be the best way in. The bottom of the frame sat even with the ground. From his previous visit, Rye recalled the sunken living room. Careful, any number of people can be hiding in there. Just when he made the determination to enter, a face appeared and fired a shot at him.
The bullet struck his rifle and drove the scope into his face. He cursed at the eruption of pain. Stars circled his head. He heard movement at the window, and he pulled the trigger.
Nothing. Piss! He tried a couple more useless pulls of the trigger.
A burst of gunfire erupted next to him.
“Guy started to climb outta the window,” Zach said in a low shout.
Muttering, Rye ducked behind the wall. His eye socket throbbed worse than a three-day hangover. Blood blinded him and dripped off his chin. He tossed the we
apon as far as he could.
“You’re hurt, Chief,” Zach said. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. Pulling out a medic packet, he tore it open. The scent of medication blew into Rye’s nostrils.
Zach dabbed at the wound then pressed the gauze against it before applying tape. Rye turned his face upward to allow the rain to wash the blood from his face.
“That’s going to look bad,” Zach said. “Don’t try out for any beauty contests. You might need stitches.”
“Maybe when this shindig is over. You got a flash-bang?”
“Wouldn’t leave home without one.” Zach grinned, pulling one out of the thigh-pocket of his tactical-pants. He held it up for Rye to see it with his good eye. Rye drew one of his SIG P226s. He checked the magazine and slammed it back into the butt-end of the grip. Cocking the gun, he nodded his readiness. Zach pulled the pin and lobbed the flash-bang through the window. Seconds later, a bright white explosion enveloped the front room.
“Go! Go! Go!” Rye sprang to his feet and raced for the window. “WPD! WPD!” Rye yelled as he dropped into the sunken living room. His boots crunched upon the broken glass. Kneeling, he searched the room down the barrel of his handgun. What he wouldn’t give for some aspirin.
Dirt from overturned planters covered the floor. Pillow feathers floated in the still air. The painting of some western mountain range hung in shreds. Bullets had chewed up a cedar column. The room stank from the flash-bang explosion, human sweat, blood, and death.
“Police!” Zach yelled, joining Rye.
A couple of groans came from behind an overturned couch across the room. Rye pointed in that direction. Zach nodded. With guns raised, they converged on the couch.
Two men rolled on the wood floor behind the couch, hands to their ears and tears flowing from their eyes. A third lay still on the floor, blood pooling around his head.
Rye read them their Miranda rights, even though they looked to be Mexican nationals and not US citizens. With the courts these days, you can’t be too careful.
