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

by John Turney

  “Ya’ll might want to step back. Pronto.” He loosed the arrow and ducked behind the outside wall.

  Moments later, a fireball erupted. The percussive wave from the blast pounded the house, knocking Rye over in a heap on the floor. A scream ripped from his throat, hands covering his twisted knee.

  Check on Dee. She’s got to be okay.

  He rolled over rubble to reach the window. Searing flames engulfed the closest helicopter. That bird exploded, sending it crashing into the bird beside it. Both crashed into yet a third. Debris rained down on the inferno.

  Below, smoky fires raged in the wreckage of crumpled helicopters. The air stank of oily smoke and charred flesh. Winds caused by those fires tore at his clothes and hair. His hearing returned to the screams of wounded. Bodies lay scattered about.

  The last helicopter—the one with Dee—struggled to make its getaway. Black smoke streamed from its underbelly. Through the heat waves emitted by the flames, Rye spotted Dee leaning out of the opened side of the helicopter. She stared at him in wide-eyed panic. Someone in the copter grabbed her and pulled her back in. He clenched his fists, watching the copter disappear over the ridge.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Manny hid in the SUV. But he had to pee … bad. When that man dressed in wolf skins had kidnapped his mother, twilight allowed him to witness it. Now, it was dark.

  He waited. Time dragged on. With growing curiosity, he risked peering out the car window. He didn’t see anybody, but the dark made that difficult. Manny sank back onto the back seat.

  Now what?

  From the direction of the big house, an explosion shook the ground, rattling the car windows. He watched the sky turn orange. That does it. I’m looking for Mom.

  Manny scrambled into the driver’s seat and moved the seat forward until his toes touched the gas pedal. Strapping on the seat belt, he reviewed the driving lessons his father gave him last summer.

  Keys dangled from the steering column. He fired up the engine and slipped the transmission into drive. He pushed down on the gas pedal with his toes, and the vehicle inched forward followed by a dinging noise. Staring at a red light flashing on the dashboard, he pondered for a few seconds the meaning of that light. He was doing something wrong. Come on, come on, it’s got to mean something.

  Then he remembered. The parking brake. He found it and released it. Giving the SUV gas, he inched towards List’s driveway.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  DePute dared a peek over the waterfall’s fake rocks. The gunmen had boogied out the pool area and headed for the copters. He watched the frenzied scene outside. Helicopters started to lift off the ground. Men scrambled to load the last of the munitions. Two men hefted a crate labeled RPG. That could only mean …

  Gunfire coming from some floor above them shredded the side of the RPG crate.

  Batts raised his head. “What’s happenin’?”

  “Get down!” DePute screamed.

  A massive explosion sent a ball of fire into the glass wall.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Gritting his teeth, Rye spun away from the ruined window. List has Dee. He’s evacuating his personnel, and this building’s primed to detonate.

  “Heilo,” he yelled, “help Sheriff Oakmann.” He pointed to the dead deputy. “Whitewolf, can you handle Tex’s body? We need to locate DePute and Reese. I want everyone out of this building ASAP. No one gets left behind.”

  “Nephew,” said Chee, clamping him on the shoulder. “Get your wife. And Sunflower. We’ll take care of this.” He pointed with his chin toward the stairs. “Go.”

  Rye grabbed the bow and quiver of arrows he’d dropped in the explosions. He limp-ran to the stairs and hobbled down cursing at his knee but grateful the brace offered some support.

  No one moved in the pool area. Wherever he stepped, his boots crunched on shards of glass. Debris floated in the pool’s water, along with bodies of List’s men. Just like Iraq. He heard a moan and saw a hand push through a pile of wreckage. In the dancing light coming from the burning ruins outside, the hand resembled a desperate escape from hell.

  Rye nocked an arrow and aimed at the emerging person. A body followed the hand, and Rye raised his bow and sighted along the arrow, prepared to unloose the bolt.

  “WPD!” Rye yelled. “Put your hands in the air!” The next second would be critical. He took a deep breath and held it.

  “Chief?” replied the figure, scraps of drywall falling off him. “It’s DePute. I got Batts with me. Though it feels like I got pounded by a monster wave, I’m not hurt more’n a few scratches.”

  “DePute? You have to evacuate immediately,” Rye ordered. He watched Batts rise from the ruins. “Batts. You need assistance?”

  “Naw,” said DePute, “we’re good.”

  Rye said, “Our people’ll be coming down these stairs in a few. Hook up with them and get out.” Now, where’s Zach?

  Rye skirted the fiery wrecks of helicopters, bypassed the torn and burnt bodies, while ignoring the pleas of the wounded. Pressing his lips together, he gazed at the ridge where the helicopter with Dee had disappeared. He’d heard no crash, so he assumed they were okay.

  If List so much as harms one hair …

  He started toward the ridge. If only he had the means to travel faster. They already had too much of a head start. How was he going to catch up? He snapped his fingers. Oakmann’s horses. Using the stable as a compass, he headed in that direction.

  Not more than a dozen steps later, his knee buckled. On all fours—his injured leg straight out—Rye studied the fence. He’d never make it. Not with his bum knee. He had to come up with another idea pronto, or Dee was in for a world of hurt.

  A car horn blasted. Rye glanced over his shoulder to see a car’s headlights breeching the same ridge List’s helicopter had disappeared over. An SUV followed after the lights and skittered an erratic path across the canyon floor towards him. Tires whined against the mud seeking to suck the vehicle into stopping. The car’s lights played across him, blinding Rye. He pulled a gun out of his waistband.

  “Stop the car,” Rye commanded, gun pointed at a spot above the headlights.

  The vehicle careened to a stop, then slid a few feet in the sodden ground. The driver leaned out the window.

  “Dad!” the driver yelled.

  Manny?

  Slamming his gun back into its holster, Rye limped over to the SUV.

  “The wolf man’s got Mom.” The words poured in a torrent from Manny’s mouth. Wetness welled in his boy’s eyes.

  “Scoot over, partner.” Rye eased into the driver’s seat. “We’re going after Mom.”

  CHAPTER 28

  SUNDAY NIGHT

  Thick, black smoke gushed into the helicopter. Struggling to breathe, Dee cupped her hands over her nose and mouth. Tears blinded her eyes and flooded her cheeks. Despite these discomforts, at least it choked off List’s rampaging curses.

  Her thoughts went to Manny and Rye. The desire to clutch her son and hold him close overwhelmed her heart. The thought she might never see him again brought fresh tears. And Rye. He was trying so hard to gain her approval. To win her heart again. He wasn’t perfect, but no one was. Least of all her. He remembered important dates like birthdays better’n most husbands. Manny still adored him.

  And I keep shoving him away.

  Dee began to pray out loud, though she couldn’t hear her own voice.

  The helicopter’s engine sputtered, and it kicked like a bronco with a bear on its tail. They swiveled back and forth in half circles. Her stomach turned gushy, and she thought she was going to vomit.

  A semi-conscious Sunflower sat next to her on the metal bench. The woman coughed, so Dee, fearing the other would suffer smoke inhalation, cupped a hand over Sunflower’s nose. Unable to brace herself, the helicopter’s rocking repeatedly flung Dee into the metal wall with bruising agony.

  “Sir,” yelled the pilot to List, “I can’t control this thing.”

  “Y
ou’re a pilot. Fly this piece of—” List shouted, his face an ugly sneer.

  “No, sir,” the pilot interrupted calmly. “The oil light’s on. I’m losing fuel quickly. I’ll need to put this bird down in less than a minute, or we’ll crash.”

  Transfixed, Dee gaped at the transformation on List’s face. One second he snarled like a madman, and now he smiled like a kid at Christmas. Like he resolved something in his mind.

  “How far will she go?” List yelled back.

  “Maybe a mile or two.”

  List peered out the open side. Leaning back toward the pilot he pointed and said, “Go about 1000 yards that way and set her down.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the pilot.

  “Just park this baby by those rocks,” he yelled at the pilot.

  List turned to Dee. “Ready to go for an ATV ride?”

  When the helicopter touched down, List pulled out a large black handgun from the back of his waistband and pointed it at the back of the pilot’s head.

  “Look out,” yelled Dee.

  List pulled the trigger.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Rye stopped the SUV after crashing into and running over the barb-wire fence, leaving a gaping hole in the fence line. He flicked on the high beams and scrutinized the scrub trees beyond the fence. Bugs twirled inside the beams, and several pairs of eyes stared at him before the small animals scurried away. Oakmann had hobbled their horses somewhere in this area. Hopefully, the animals hadn’t wandered.

  Opening the car door, Rye tilted his head to listen. He only heard the typical night sounds and the oncoming thunder. But no helicopter. The bird had been in bad shape, so it couldn’t have gone far. Glancing at the glass-enclosed backside of List’s house and the fire reflecting off its remaining windows, Rye figured List wouldn’t wait much longer to detonate the building.

  “Dad, look,” Manny said, pointing.

  Following his son’s gaze, he spotted the flashing lights of the incoming Bell copters. Seconds later, he spotted the white letters under a side window: FBI. ’Bout time.

  “Son,” he shifted in his seat to face Manny, “open that glove box. There should be a handgun in there. I make sure all WPD vehicles keep one. Be careful.”

  Manny reached in, pulled the weapon out, and held it up.

  Rye breathed in deeply and released the air. God, I don’t want to do this. But I really don’t have a choice. “Nope. You take it. I need you to cover my back.”

  “But,” Manny started to protest.

  “I was thinking of making you stay in the car. But I know you’d just get on the horse after I leave and trail behind me. Therefore, I’d rather have you ride with me.”

  “Mom’ll kill me if I get hurt,” Manny said with some hesitancy.

  “She’ll kill me for bringing you along.” Rye gave his son a half grin.

  “She told me to stay in the car.”

  “And you did. Until I said otherwise.” Rye smiled and said with a comical imitation, “I’m the law in this here town. And what I says, goes.” Father and son laughed. “¿Comprende?” Rye studied his son for moment. “Come on,” he said, sliding out of the car. “We got horses to find and a bad guy to chase.”

  “And a mom to rescue.”

  Standing at the front of the SUV, Rye considered which direction to take to look for the horses. Any sign of tracks would have been washed away by the storm. Beyond the beams of light, a horse whinnied. Rye pointed toward the sound, and Manny nodded. With Rye in the lead, they entered the thicket. Moments later, they found Oakmann’s Appaloosa and Piebald munching on some low vegetation. The Appaloosa raised its head while still chomping on grasses and eyed them.

  “They’re probably spooked,” Rye whispered and motioned for Manny to stay put. Speaking in soothing tones, Rye approached them. He reached the closest, the Piebald, grabbed its halter, and rubbed its neck.

  “Good boy,” Rye repeated in soothing tones. He motioned for Manny to take him. Approaching the Appaloosa, Rye repeated his performance. He rubbed the animal’s forehead and spoke silly nothings in soft tones.

  “Check the cinches,” Rye said after wiping the rainwater off the saddle.

  The FBI birds hovered in the background while Rye rushed through a checklist of the horses’ equipment. With leather creaking, he swung up into the saddle of the Appaloosa. Nodding in approval, he heard the copters taking off. Good. Now fly like the Devil’s after you. He patted the horse’s neck, glad to see Manny already seated on his horse.

  The house exploded. A fiery ball gushed skyward like an orange geyser. A shower of debris from the building began to crash down on them. Rye’s horse reared, hooves clawing the air. The Appaloosa twisted in circles, snorting and bucking. Its eyes opened wide, showing white. Rye held tight with his knees and gripped the reins.

  He called out in soothing tones in an attempt to quiet the beast. After half a minute, the horse stopped fighting and began to settle. Rye continued talking in a relaxing tone. The horse shook his head up and down a few times and then calmed.

  “That was soooo cool, dad,” Manny said, hands resting on the saddle horn. “Just like in the movies.”

  “How’d your horse do?” he said gasping.

  Manny shrugged. “He flinched some.”

  I’m just one happy horned lizard that Manny didn’t get this crazy beast.

  Rye gazed at the blinking lights of the FBI’s helicopters disappearing into the night. Fire raged at the former List home, filling the canyon with garish smoke and hellfire light.

  He turned his horse toward the approximate direction of List’s exit tunnel.

  “Manny, let’s ride.” Rye spurred his horse.

  CHAPTER 29

  MONDAY SUNRISE

  Dawn approached like a sniper stalking a target. Black faded into a leaden overcast, remnant from the second storm. Fog hovered over the ground like dirty cotton. During the night, Rye rode in the pounding rain at a slow pace, not willing to risk the horses slipping on the muddy trail along the creek bank. The creek still roared with flash flood waters.

  Stopping to give the horses a breather, he leaned over in his saddle to read the story left by tire tracks and footprints. The extra depth of the tracks indicated the ATV stopped here. A set of small footprints—probably a woman’s—headed off behind a rock and returned. The tracks appeared to be fresh. Definitely after the storm, and most probably, less than an hour.

  He sat up straight in his saddle, the leather creaking. He figured they were nearing I-8 where this creek went under the expressway. Where would they go when they reach the interstate?

  “Dad?” Manny rode up beside him with a quizzical look.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Could they be going down to Goldwater?”

  “The Air Force Range? Why’d they do that?”

  “The Sand Tank Mountains.”

  Rye bit his lower lip and thought a moment. “We’ll check it out when we reach the highway.” Rye held out his fist to his son and they bumped their knuckles together. “This creek heads towards the Sands. Some tough going in there. No real trails to speak of. But there’s catchments with water and caves to hole up in.” He looked off to the south. “Bet he didn’t get a camping permit.”

  “C’mon, dad. Stop with your stupid jokes.”

  “What? I’m not funny?” Rye turned serious. “Let’s see where the trail leads us.”

  Within a half hour, they reached I-8. Standing water submerged sections of the road. Allowing the horses to slurp up some water, Rye studied the mountains rearing up over 2000 feet.

  “Wait here,” Rye said.

  He rode to the other side of 8, the horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the pavement. Ten feet from the road, Rye leaned over in the saddle to discover no tire tracks. That’s odd. He sat upright and looked right and left and back and drew a hand across his mouth. He rode on for another fifty feet and still found nothing. After riding in ever-expanding concentric circles, Rye concluded they never c
ame this way.

  He crossed back over I-8 and rejoined with Manny.

  “Trail’s gone cold,” Rye said. He rushed a hand through his hair.

  “It was boring watching you over there,” Manny said. “So, I kinda looked around over here.” Rye raised an eyebrow. “And I found something.” Rye noted the hint of pride in his son’s voice.

  Manny spurred his horse, moving towards the curb. Rye followed.

  Manny tugged on the reins to stop the horse and pointed to the ground. “This.”

  The ATV’s tire tracks had splashed through a puddle, leaving ruts in the rain-soaked ground.

  “Nice detective work,” Rye complimented his son.

  Without warning, the edges of his sight went dark, and he fought off the vertigo threatening to overtake him. One of his visions. Eyes closed, he licked his lips. An image of Whiskey’s only Baptist church came unbidden into his head.

  “Dad?” Manny’s hesitant voice broke into his dreamscape, and Rye blinked his eyes open. “Dad, you okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s some Navajo thing. But I think I know where Mom is,” Rye said, fiddling with his dog tags under his shirt. “Let’s go get her.” He rotated his horse towards Whiskey and urged his horse into a gallop.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Rye lay on the wet ground atop a small rise, moisture soaking into his uniform. Using binoculars procured from the Appaloosa’s saddlebags, he pressed them gingerly against his battered face and studied the basin below. Nothing moved around the small white-clapboard church. It lay atop the exposed knoll like bleached bones.

  He had to smile in spite of himself. He often cursed his vision-thing, but this time he welcomed it. Parked in the church’s parking lot, the WPD ATV waited by the building’s side door. The opened side door.

  Rye sighed and swung the field glasses to study the ground behind the church. Rocky with evergreen shrubs. A covered patio with a brick grill, which Rye estimated to be seventy-five yards from the church. Seventy-five OPEN yards. It couldn’t be helped. That was the closest protection to the building. He crawled backwards through the thicket. When he cleared the ridge, he stood and headed for Manny waiting with the horses, a plan percolating in his mind.