by John Turney
Iona came over to the bed and leaned over to whisper into Rye’s ear, “I love you, Rye Dawlsen. But I’ve never been one to go after another woman’s man. You take good care of her, you hear me. She loves you, you know.”
Rye smiled. “Thanks, Iona. You’re one special woman.”
“But if you two don’t work out …” She kissed him on the forehead. “Get some rest,” she said after standing upright.
Rye closed his eyes for a moment and felt the mattress settle. He cracked open one eye to see Dee sitting on the bed. She reached out and took his hand. She smiled. How long had he waited to see that smile? He squeezed her hand, and she returned the squeeze.
“I called my story into the paper,” she said. “My editor wants me here a few more weeks. You know … reporting on the loose ends. I’d like to spend …” Her voice trailed away to an awkward silence.
“I’d like that,” he mumbled. He struggled to keep his thoughts from fading into the sleep he desired. Just a few more minutes with her.
“I didn’t tell you. The pastor of that Baptist church came by while you were asleep.”
“Okay? Why? Was he looking to preach to me?”
“No. He said he appreciates your efforts to keep Whiskey safe. He heard you were in need of living quarters. It seems one of his parishioners has an empty rental house he’s offering to you. Says you can use it rent free until you get another trailer.”
“That’s nice of him,” Rye mumbled, his eyelids drooping. “Tell … him … thanks.”
“Good night, Dad,” Manny said, his voice sounding far away.
“Thanks,” Rye replied, his voice hovering above inaudible. He reached up and touched his dog tags.
“One last thing,” Dee said. “The President called to wish you well.”
“Tell him …” He succumbed to the realm of sleep.
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Demonio reached the tunnel just after midnight. High clouds partially hid the moon. Shrubs and rocks hid in the dark. Looming overhead like a sheer black mountain, the border wall blocked further travel overland. No problemo, I got my own way across. He scanned the dark desert, glad to be returning home to Mexico. But, he’d be returning real soon to the US of stinking A. Unfinished business.
A creaking noise interrupted the desert quiet. A few feet away, the ground shook, and a square piece of land swung upward. Issuing from below, a soft blue light hinted at the tunnel opening. A featureless head-shaped oval raised above the lip of the entrance.
“¿Filino?” The head whispered the soft question in the breeze.
“No. Canino.” Demonio replied, moving towards the tunnel.
“Demonio,” the man said, “Good to see you, mi amigo. I hear you had some tough times in Whiskey. I have news. Bueno and mal.”
Demonio stood on the edge of the tunnel. The light from the tunnel revealed a yawning pit.
“Tell me,” Demonio snapped.
“The bad news …” the man paused. “Your wife has disappeared. We had her detained. But she vanished last night.”
Demonio spat a string of curses.
“Good news?” said the man in a rush to appease his boss. “The shipments arrived. We received many guns. And the radioactive material.”
“Bueno. Forget mi espousa. Plans for the revolution move forward. But I have one thing I need to do before that. A man I need to kill with a very ugly death.”
“And who is this unfortunate hombre?”
“Rye Dawlsen.”
