by John Turney
“No lights in the stable,” Anne said.
While riding down the twisting path of the canyon wall, they heard enough gunshots for a small war. Now, silence hung in the air like an eerie fogbank.
“It’s too quiet,” Tex whispered.
“I agree. Something’s happened. If Chief Dawlsen apprehended List, we would have known.”
Tex pointed toward the door at the rear of the stables. “We should make for that.”
Annie nodded. “Doesn’t look like List owns any horses. There’s no evidence. No tracks. No horse smell. No piles. No feed. No hay.” She studied Tex’s rugged face in the dimming light. She swallowed her smile. He sure was easy on the eyes. “But then … there’s no horses to give away our approach.”
“Let’s do this.” Tex tugged on the brim of his hat.
She drew her handgun and chambered a round, then gave a thumbs-up.
Tex held wide the strands of wire so Anne could step between them without getting caught on the barbs. After she passed through, Tex grabbed the top strand with one hand and leapt the fence.
They sprinted towards the exit at the stables backside. Anne felt chill bumps rise on her skin, the open space triggering her dread of being vulnerable. She waited for the sound of a gunshot, perhaps the last noise she’d ever hear. Fear quickened her pace.
She gained the rear exit of the stables the same time as Tex, and they stood on opposite sides of the door. They waited a few seconds to catch their breath. She nodded when her breathing returned to normal.
This was a routine she and Tex performed many times. She would open the door, and he’d go in first to one side, and she’d follow going to the other. They exchanged signals with their eyes. She took a deep breath, eased it out, and reached for the doorknob.
Just then, the door opened, and she jerked her hand back. A Mexican male dressed in desert fatigues stepped out. He struck a match to light the cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes went wide when he spotted them and swung his Ak-47 in Anne’s direction.
CHAPTER 22
SUNDAY EARLY AFTERNOON
“Doctor!” the nurse screamed.
She sprinted out of the patient’s IC room and raced toward the nurses’ station. Her lanyard of badges and cards bounced against her dark gray Harley Davidson smock. She reached the station, leaning on the counter and gasping the aseptic air. Six months pregnant, and I can’t run a few yards.
“Doctor!” She called out a second time, though not as loud.
A gaggle of nurses and orderlies hurried over to her to see what was wrong. Cries of concern for her baby filled the station. A crowd surrounded her, everyone throwing questions at her. She pushed them aside and attempted to capture the attention of the young doctor seated at a computer in the rear of the station. For several seconds he ignored her, hands poised over the keyboard while downloading his notes into the hospital’s mainframe. With an angry sigh, he rose out of the chair.
Dr. Dollal, you’re a piece of work.
“Nurse—it’s Jamie isn’t it?—why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” The doctor’s monotone voice with its slight roll of Boston accent hinted at irritation. She took a deep breath and turned to survey the faces of the staff surrounding her.
“The Navajo woman in Room 7. The one from the wreck—” she paused and scanned the faces waiting to hear her report. She turned to Dr. Dollal. This is going to sound crazy.
“Go on,” said the doctor.
“She’s missing. I mean, she’s vanished. Her IV, the oxygen tube, all of it, is just lying in her bed. Under the sheets. Her bed is made. It’s like she disappeared in thin air.”
“Patients don’t just disappear.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Someone? Please call security.” He stomped towards the patient’s room. Jamie followed on his heels. “Are you sure she hadn’t died? Or was moved to another floor?”
“She did not code,” Jamie retorted at his hint of her professional incompetence. “And no, she wasn’t moved out of ICU. Not without me knowing.”
They reached Room 7, and the doctor came to an abrupt halt. The bed lay empty with no sign of the patient. Jamie gloated, “Like I said, she’s just vanished.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
“What?” Richard growled into the radio.
He paused outside his hunting room with trophies of animal heads mounted on the walls alongside guns and compound bows. He relished the times he stood at the entrance and stared at the measures of his manhood. With each head, an image flashed of the hunt, the kill. But right now, other business diminished that enjoyment.
“We’ll receive satellite images any moment,” came the reply.
“I’ll be there.” He spun away from the trophy room and headed back to the stairs. Daydreaming about his hunting trips would just have to wait.
“The link is live,” said a security agent. Richard hurried down the hall.
“What do you have?” He flung open the door to the stairwell.
“Okay. I’m getting heat signatures throughout the building. Most I can account for: our people and the prisoners. Looks like we’ve contained the attack. However, I got two large heat sources outside the compound. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re … horses?”
“What the … We don’t have horses,” he shouted. “Can you do one of those zoom things?”
“Yes, sir. Just let me—”
“Anything else?”
“Uh—yeah. There is a fading heat source behind the stables. It’s like a C-shaped mound. I can’t make it out.”
“Zoom in on that first!” Do I have to tell these geniuses everything?
“Okay, hold on a second, is that? It is! That’s a body!”
<><><><><><><><><><>
Zach zipped from room to room, hiding in rooms whenever he heard patrols getting close. Several things didn’t seem right to him. The blueprints of the house indicated this floor had a six-lane bowling alley and an indoor batting cage. But instead, he discovered barrack type rooms. Though the beds had been made with military precision, he found the rooms to be empty. So where was everyone?
At the far end of the hallway, a rusty errrk warned of the door opening. Zach halted.
“Report in, SG12,” a metallic voice crackled over the radio.
Zach threw glances right and left.
“Beginning to search the third floor,” replied the radioman.
“Hurry up, we need more men to load the weapons.”
The room on the right yawned open with its lights out. Not hesitating, Zach ducked inside, melting into the darkness. He held his breath and aimed his pistol at the open door, finger alongside the trigger guard. Try it, mother. Just come in here.
Two sets of footsteps approached. The men spoke low, the tones of their voices relaxed. Hopefully, they hadn’t seen him. Yet.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t even blink. Movement attracts attention.
He pointed his handgun at what he thought would be their head height. One shot, one kill.
They stopped at the door. One of the guards bragged about doing the Cuban cop, and the other laughed. Real funny. Reach for the light switch, and I’ll make sure you never degrade another woman.
The door opened, and two silhouettes stood in the doorframe. The one reached a hand into the room to feel for the light. Zach moved his finger to the trigger and squinted against the pending flood of light. Enjoy your last breath, you son …
“Hey, amigos.” A new voice from down the hall. A Spanish speaker. “Wha’cha doing to my room, man?”
“We’re searching for cops,” said the guard as he withdrew his weapon. “Wha’cha doing with the girl?”
“Ain’t none of your business,” replied the newcomer. “I was just here a minute ago, and there weren’t no cops in my room.”
The other guard, his voice colored with irritation, said. “List has us checking every room in this freaking house. And when the man speaks …” His voice trailed off.
�
�Okay. I get it,” the newcomer snapped. “I’ll check it out, so me and my girl can spend some time together.”
The two guards laughed, and Zach could tell they were moving down the hall.
One of the guards said, “Don’t take too long, or List’ll have your back end. They’re moving the weapons to the loading area. Let us know if you see anything, you know, out of the ordinary.” More laughter.
A quick search revealed only one hiding place. Zach backed into the closet and eased the doors closed. Watching through the slats, he saw two figures enter the room, silhouetted from the hall’s light. A tall male clutching a small woman against her will. She struggled to free herself, but the male maintained a tight grip on her.
“Say nothing, muchacha, and I might let you live,” said the male.
The female spat back a slew of angry Spanish, of which Zach caught only a smattering. The man only chuckled. He lifted her and dropped the girl on the bed. The springs protested. Before the girl moved, the man fell upon her.
“You make this fun for José. ¿Si?” Then he backhanded her.
He brought something out of his jacket, but Zach couldn’t see what the man had. A moment later, Zach heard the thkkk of duct tape being peeled away and then torn. The man taped her mouth shut.
“To keep you quiet,” the man told the girl.
The girl began to struggle, and the man slapped her again. And chuckled.
“I like your aggression.” He leaned forward and grabbed her left wrist and bound it to the bedpost with the tape. “Zorra,” he added and reached for her other wrist.
Zach moved. He eased open the closet doors and rushed upon the man.
When Zach reached the bed, the man must have sensed his presence, for he turned.
“What the …” the man said, his eyes growing into saucers. Zach raised a fist and pummeled the man’s temple. The man’s head snapped backward, his eyes rolling back. He collapsed on the edge of the bed, and gravity caused him to slide off.
The girl balled a fist with her free hand and punched Zach in the shoulder.
“Hey! Stop hitting me. I won’t hurt you.” Zach held his hands out. “Don’t scream, por favor,” Zach hissed. “No grites.” He raised his hands in a surrender position. “Habla Inglés?”
She nodded like a bobble-head doll.
“I’m going to take the tape off your mouth.” He watched calm begin to take over her countenance. He pointed to his chest. “Good guy. Bién.” He pointed to the unconscious man. “Mal.”
After easing the tape from her mouth, he put a hand flat on his chest. “Me llamo Zach. ¿Te llamas …” he left the question open.
“Amalia,” she replied
He pulled his knife free from its sheath and sliced through the duct tape binding her wrist. A quick flip of his wrist, and the knife returned to its sheath.
“I need to get you out of here,” he said.
“No,” she protested, “I must find the hermanas. And the niñas.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
“Hey! Shut up!” the sentry yelled at his prisoners, leveling his AK-47 at them for emphasis. He tapped his feet, anxious for his companion to get back so he could take his smoke break.
“I don’t want to hear no more complainin’.” He jerked his gun back and forth, aiming at the different stalls.
Rye touched his dog tags under his shirt and felt the square amulet as well. His many bruises ached, his face hurt and his knee throbbed, but he had to get his family out and end this business. This punk’s likely to shoot someone if he doesn’t calm down.
Movement behind the guard caught Rye’s attention.
“Drop your weapon.” Oakmann’s command cut through the stable’s gloom.
The guard began to turn. Rye tensed, expecting the sheriff to fire. A shadow dropped from the hayloft and landed on the guard. They fell into a heap, and a struggle ensued. Curses rang from the two as they kicked up dust. Rye moved to help, but the newcomer pinned the guard and twisted one arm behind the punk’s back.
“Who …?” the guard croaked.
“Your judge and jury,” Tex said, his voice a growl. “Don’t move. Or I’ll rip your arm outta its socket and shove it up the first orifice I find. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent …”
Holstering her weapon, Oakmann raced over to Tex. They gagged and handcuffed the guard. Tex dragged him over to a stall and bound him to a pole.
For the next several moments, questions and answers flew among them. Rye let loose with a whistle, and the stable went quiet.
“Time for warm fuzzies later …” He hobbled on one leg, turning about to see everyone. “This is an ongoing police raid. List and some Mexican drug lord are shipping weapons southward, and we need to stop them.”
“But, Rye, you’re hurt,” said Dee, clutching Manny to her. “Your knee. Your face.”
“I appreciate your concern. But this is my fight, and I plan on taking it to List.”
A chorus of complaints erupted from the group. Rye waved his hands to quiet everyone, but to no avail. He remained rooted to his spot, eyes closed, waiting for the wall of voices to wear down.
“Dad?” Manny asked.
Everyone turned to the boy.
“Yes.”
“I’m scared.”
Rye stared everyone down, taking control with just his good eye. “We all are. Bravery is all about being scared but kicking butt anyway.” He cleared his throat. “So … here’s how this is going to play out. Oakmann, this cowboy—” he pointed to Tex “—and I are going back into the house. Reese and DePute are still in there. Whitewolf and Heilo, take Dee and Manny back to the cars. Iona and Chee will go with you.”
Heilo frowned and gave the briefest of nods. Whitewolf stared at the ground, offering no reply or even a hint to his thoughts.
Iona spoke up, “Do you think just the three of you can take on List? He’s got at least three dozen men stationed here.”
Rye shrugged. “No problem. That’s only twelve apiece.” He said that with much more bravado than he felt. “Whitewolf. Heilo. I want you to watch the front entrance. If any of List’s people tries to escape, stop ’em anyway you can. No one escapes.” He stared each in turn. “One way or other, this ends tonight.”
Manny ran over to Rye and grabbed him around the waist.
“Dad, be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”
Rye wrapped his arms around the boy as he stuffed back the tears starting to wet his eyes.
“And I prefer you not lose me either.”
“Mommy and I prayed for you.”
The boy’s statement surprised him, but it also filled Rye with a warmth he’d not felt in a long time. His vision went watery. He smiled. They had prayed for him. Even after everything he had put them through.
“Take care of your mother, you hear?” He ruffled his son’s hair. “You’re her protector until I can come get you. And, Manny …” He peered into his son’s Hershey’s-chocolate eyes, seeing his son’s love for him. “Whatever you do, don’t stop praying. I’m really going to need it.”
Manny’s face lit up. The kid should hate me. But somehow, the boy didn’t, and Rye found that amazing.
Rye leaned into Manny and whispered. “I love you … and Mom.”
“People,” Oakmann said, “if you exit by the rear door, head straight for the thickets beyond the fence. The stables will prevent anyone in the house from seeing you. Careful crossing the barbed wire. There’s two horses out there. I’d take it kindly if you let ’em be.”
Rye released Manny when Chee and Iona slid over to him. The Navajo said, “We can fight, too.”
Rye studied the two of them. I don’t want to be responsible for any civilians, but … Iona is an ex-cop, and Uncle Chee’s been around guns all his life. He saw the pleading in Iona’s eyes and decided.
“Heilo, Whitewolf, when you return to the cars, rearm yourselves. And give Chee and Iona each a handgun and ammo. We’re going to need all the help w
e can get.”
Iona winked at Rye. He looked away as his face heated.
Heilo nodded and took over the group, “Time to mount up, girls. Single file. Whitewolf, you lead. The rest follow the nice officer.” She bee-lined to Rye and gave him a light hug. “Take care of yourself, Chief.”
Surprised by Heilo’s unexpected affection, he hesitated before returning the hug. “You take care of yourself. Listen, my family is in your hands. I’m counting on you.”
“Me and Whitewolf will take good care of them. Just get that fat SOB mayor.” She smiled without humor. “I never cared for the man. He smells like snake oil.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
He prowled the grounds, the strength of the wolf spirit surging through him. He felt powerful and wild. A hunter. Deadly. A predator clad in the skins of a wolf that hunted the weak gringos as if they were long-eared prey.
Sounds alerted him to nearby creatures: winged, four-legs, and two-legs. He sensed the storm moving off, and his skin detected the downward shift in temperature. Despite his awkward gait, nature fused with the supernatural in his soul.
He trailed the escaping humans. His animal spirit had alerted him to their presence when they exited the stables. So, he hid and waited for them; watched them hurry out of the stables into the wild land. After the last one had reached the thicket, he glided in behind them.
Each escapee carried their own scent of hope, fear, worry, alertness. Their individual heartbeats informed him of their location like pinging radar. Whenever one of them brushed past foliage, he heard the scuff of plant against cloth.
They will not escape me.
He drew closer to the fleeing group. The anticipation of the kill flowed through his veins. He saw them now, splashes of color in the drab thicket. The group had reached the driveway and raced for the exit. Their labored breathing filled his ears.
