Wild Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 6)

by Dustin Stevens

  Somehow the humidity rose even higher, flies buzzing about.

  Using the uniform grid of the trees around me, the cover of darkness beyond the reach of the lights of the house, I made my way across the back. Chewing up yards in short, choppy steps, I paused every few seconds. MP5 trained at the ready, I listened hard, hearing nothing more than the occasional rustle of leaves.

  Two minutes passed, and then a third, as I steadily worked my way inward. Keeping the position of the back patio fixed in my mind, I moved in a small arc, bearing down on it.

  By the time I drew even, five minutes – a full half of what I’d been allotted – had passed. Lowering myself into a crouch, I duckwalked my way forward, making it to within ten yards of the edge of the forest.

  Dropping back to a knee, I felt water seep up through my jeans, soaking through to the skin. Around me, the smell of stagnant water was apparent, just one more scent of many I’d already encountered throughout the night I could do without.

  Lowering myself so my elbows were only inches above the mud, I found a clear lane to the rear of the house. From such an angle, I was able to get a better fix on the guard’s positions, working through the best way to approach when something caught my attention.

  A quick flash of white, it pulled my focus upward, my grip on the submachine gun tightening as I stared at what appeared before me. Pinpricks of sensation, of animosity, rippled the length of my body, every instinct I had telling me to burst forward.

  For the briefest of instants, every other thought faded to the background, my entire focus on the balcony running the length of the patio on the second floor.

  Pulled just as fast in the opposite direction by an explosion many, many times larger than what had happened on the driveway minutes before.

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  The gun that Arlin Mejia had brought for Junior Ruiz was a Springfield XD. Small and compact, it fit easily within his grip, designed for ease of use.

  Whether on purpose – a nod to his time away – or not, Ruiz didn’t much care.

  Standing on the balcony overlooking the grounds, he had not moved since hearing the front gate get torn away. Not as a few moments later there was a crash on the far end of the mansion, or again a couple of minutes after that when an explosion happened along the front drive.

  But this was too much to ignore.

  The sequence was three distinct parts, happening in such short order it was impossible not to be planned. Far more than just the lone agent that had managed to get away in Montana could pull off, it began with the sound of small arms fire near where the crash had occurred on the western end of the spread.

  Arriving in quick bursts, it was soon met by the familiar pitch of automatic fire, the two sides going back and forth before an explosion infinitely larger than what had happened out front ripped through the night. Forceful enough to send a tremor the length the mansion, Ruiz snatched up his gun.

  Rushing to the far end of the balcony, he clutched the small Springfield in both hands. Extending the front tip out over the railing, he leaned forward, peering down in time to see the outer half of a fireball rising beyond the edge of the house.

  Orange flames encased in black smoke, he was barely able to make out what was happening before another volley of gunfire erupted. Much, much closer in proximity, the harsh crack of the rounds being fired jerked his attention downward, his focus turning to the patio below in time to see the first of his guards fall lifeless.

  An instant later, a second plume of orange sprouted from the tree line just behind the house, a second guard jerking in short spasms. Barely lifting his rifle above his waist, his body pitched to the side, dark sprays of blood striping the stone.

  Gun still squeezed tight in both hands, Ruiz extended the weapon before him. Turning his hips to the side, he walked straight back to the spot he’d been in most of the evening, the tip of the gun never wavering. Aimed at the spot where he’d seen the last bits of muzzle flash, he pulled back on the trigger, the easy pull of the semi-automatic barely kicking in his hand.

  Less than a second later, it was cycled through and ready, Ruiz again pulling back on the trigger.

  Oblivious to his presence, to the rounds he was squeezing off, a third burst sprang up from the tree line. Shifted a few feet to the side, their target was the third guard below, a single round finding flesh.

  Tearing a chunk from his thigh, Ruiz heard the man cry out. Jerking his attention downward, he saw the man go to the ground, his weapon clattering down beside him.

  A renewed bit of venom rising within, Ruiz jerked his weapon up to where the shots had originated. Taking aim again, twice more he fired off shots, bullets ripping into the heavy foliage.

  The first time he had held a gun – much less fired one – in eight years, Ruiz smelled gunpowder rise to his nostrils. His hands absorbed the recoil of the shots, each one sending a tremor up through his arms, the absorbed energy seeming to embolden him.

  Even without a face to look at, a clear view of who was out there, Ruiz kept the gun aimed. In no way did he hold any qualms about what he was doing, knowing this was likely just the first of many that would come for him.

  Which was fine. If his time in prison had instilled anything, it was the need to always be on the offensive. To never ask, but to take.

  That was why Jones and Smith had selected him for this task. Not because of his prior history with Reyes or the organization, but because he got things done.

  Five yards to the west of where he was aiming, another trio of shots appeared. As if circling the wounded prey on the patio below, the shooter finished off the third guard, all three rounds finding center mass.

  Blowing him flat to his back, it pushed blood spatter out across the ground, all three guards lying in twisted heaps, not one so much as getting off a shot.

  Jerking his attention down, seeing what had happened, Ruiz felt another jolt of animosity rise within him. From deep in his core, a guttural cry rose up, rolling through his chest as he directed the gun to the spot of the last shots.

  Tugging back on the trigger one time after another, he made it through four more rounds before one final pulse ignited from the darkened trees.

  Of them, the first two drew the side of the house. Bits of stucco dust rose upward, spraying across his face, pelting the jacket of his linen suit.

  The third managed to hit home.

  Mashing into the soft tissue above his right hip, it was like a hot poker driving into his flesh, jerking his body backward. Under the force of it, his grip loosened on the handle of the Springfield, the weapon sliding from his fingers, tumbling over the edge of the railing to the ground below.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  The first time I’d seen Junior Ruiz standing at the top of the balcony, the sight had been so unexpected I was barely able to move. The singular goal I’d had for days on end, my senses had been preoccupied, focused on the trio of guards on the patio below.

  Dressed all in white, he’d had almost an ethereal glow, adding to the shock of his sudden arrival.

  When we’d rolled up on the place, I’d had reasonable certainty he’d be here. Twelve hours had passed since Pally had gotten a hard fix on his location, but we’d also been able to couple it with the cellphone Arlin Mejia was using.

  And match it to the Fruit of the Desert Winery, and Ramon Reyes, and a host of other things.

  Still, never would I have thought he would merely stride out of the back door of the second floor into view.

  If I were to have bet money, I would have figured him to have learned from what happened eight years ago in Baja. I would assume he’d be tucked away in a bunker somewhere, the door fortified with a team of guards and wired explosives and a host of other things that would make getting to him a suicide run.

  Instead, his ego had seemed to be every bit as intact as the last time we encountered him.

  Seeing him standing there, even for the briefest of moments, I had allowed my animosity for him to
get the best of me. To pull my focus his way, forgetting about the guards below or Diggs nearby or anything else.

  All I could think about was Kaylan hanging suspended in the air on the front porch of our guide business. And Serra Martin hugging me in the foyer of the Snoqualmie Police Department.

  And the damn bullet and peso still wedged down in my pocket.

  Very nearly rising from my post and aiming every round I had his way, fortunately I was drawn back to the task at hand by Diggs on the far end of the house.

  The same location I was now running toward with everything I had, working my way down the back end of the mansion. Abandoning the cover of trees for the open expanse along the side of the structure, I lowered the submachine gun from my shoulder, pounding straight ahead.

  Free from the dense cover of the forest, the ground beneath my feet was much firmer. My boots barely made any indent as I sprinted along, thick smoke lying close to the ground, a thin haze drifting through the beams of light extending from the windows beside me.

  Making no effort to take cover, trusting that for the time being all attention would be aimed at the massive explosion that had just set the ground to quivering, I ran as hard as I could.

  I ignored the rasp in my lungs and the burn of lactic acid in my thighs, my singular goal getting to the side of the house.

  For twenty seconds, I ran as fast as I could, swinging out to my left and coming in tight on the southwest corner. Using the building for cover, I lowered myself into a crouch, raising the submachine gun back into place and peering out.

  Serving as the end of the driveway, the entire western end of the place was cordoned into a parking lot. Lined across it was a handful of vehicles, the exact number indiscernible.

  Directly in front of me sat a pair of trucks much like the one we’d encountered on the driveway. Next to it was a mid-sized SUV, an all-terrain model designed to move over the sand with minimal ease.

  That much was easy to see.

  It was after that that things got a bit tough to decipher.

  From where I was standing, it looked like Pally had aimed the rental at the first vehicle in order. T-boning into the side of it, he had managed to push it up against the next car in order, some sort of small sedan.

  A three-car melee that had been an optimal place for Diggs to drop a couple of grenades, all three of the rigs burning brightly. Most of the glass had been blown from each one, shards spread across the ground like fine diamonds, flames sparkling off them.

  What remained of the vehicles were already black and charred, myriad chemical scents rising into the air, smoke biting at my nose and eyes.

  Despite the vivid nature of the scene before me, all of that I was able to see and process in just a matter of moments. One quick sweep told me what I needed to know about the explosion, my gaze instead rising to the cluster of shadows just beyond them.

  From where I was, it looked like Diggs had taken quarter in the forest on the far side of the drive. Every few moments, I could see a cluster of muzzle bursts flash from the dense cover.

  Opposite him, there looked to be at least a handful of guards in black all inching forward.

  Interspersed between them, at least as many lay prone on the driveway, their twisted positioning telling me they weren’t a threat to rise again.

  Scanning twice in both directions, I kept myself lowered into a crouch. Checking back the length of the house, I ensured nobody had come up behind me, that Ruiz hadn’t reappeared along the balcony.

  Turning to face forward, I pushed off my back foot, driving myself straight ahead, covering the short expanse between the corner of the house and the remaining vehicles parked in a row. Ducking between the last two, I rose onto my toes, making sure my footfalls were silent as I made my way to the rear bumper of the closest truck.

  Returning the submachine gun to my shoulder, I waited for one more burst from the woods to check Diggs’s position, making sure not to catch him in a crossfire.

  The instant it appeared, I tugged on the trigger, keeping it pinned back until every remaining round I had was expended.

  Chapter Ninety

  “Longest damn ten minutes I ever saw,” Carl Diggs said. Emerging on the far side of the twisted wreckage of the vehicles lining the side of the house, he had cast aside the nylon sack with the explosives and his submachine gun.

  Most likely having expended both, he drew out his sidearm from the holster on his thigh, racking the slide before him.

  “I saw Ruiz.”

  Tossing my MP5 into the vehicles burning bright beside us, I drew my own handgun, the much smaller weapon infinitely smaller and lighter in my hands.

  “Ruiz?” Diggs said, jerking his attention up from the gun in his hand. “Where?”

  Standing on the northwest corner of the house at the front of the driveway, I jerked my head back over my shoulder. “Second floor. Big ass balcony in the middle of the house, looks like an office or something.

  “I put one in him, but don’t think it was a kill shot.”

  Flicking his eyes in the direction I had motioned, Diggs returned his gaze to the scene before us.

  In total, there looked to be just shy of a dozen men strewn across the blacktop. Coupled with those out by the gate, on the driveway, and that I had nabbed on the rear patio, I couldn’t imagine there being many more on the grounds.

  At most, Ruiz and a couple of personal protectors. Maybe one or two in some of the outbuildings.

  “I only saw one entrance coming down the front,” Diggs said. “Big central door, lots of stairs and columns and shit leading up to it.”

  Based on what I’d seen, the patio was a ground level entrance feeding straight into the house. Where it entered, there was no way to know, though I had to guess the front would be better for getting up to the office.

  “Guessing anybody that’s left will be coming from one of these buildings,” I said.

  Picking up on the insinuation, Diggs gave a nod. Scanning the area around us, he checked each of the bodies lying inert before spinning out in the opposite direction.

  Falling in beside him, the two of us jogged in double time for the front. Free of having to run with two hands on our weapons and the extra weight of the MP5s and the explosives, not needing to be on such a constant vigil for guards, we moved easily.

  Sticking to the narrow lane feeding from the main drive to front door, our boots slapped against the pavement, the two of us covering the short distance in under a minute.

  As we reached the front steps, we each pulled our guns into two-handed shooting stances, Diggs focused on the area before us as I watched our rear. Panting slightly, my heart rate and adrenaline were both still redlined as we ascended the few stairs onto the front porch.

  In the wake of the multiple explosions and without the staccato of automatic rifles, the world carried an almost eerie silence as we moved. In the air hung the assorted scents of battle, mixed signals that had my body jumping at every false start.

  Backing our way across the porch, we both reached the front door at the same time. Accepting that the woods behind us was quiet, that we had stripped away any remaining threat, we turned in unison.

  Extending a hand, I tugged on the handle of it just slightly. Feeling it pull back without opposition, I glanced to Diggs, nodding once.

  Seeing him nod in return, I jerked the door open and stepped to the side, letting him push through first. Arms extended before him, he moved sideways to the right as I came in close behind him.

  Matching his pose, I jerked my attention to the left.

  Both of us finding nothing but silence.

  Standing just inside the front door, we found ourselves on the largest foyer I had ever seen in my life. Rising two full floors above, a gigantic crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, bright light casting a glow over a marble floor and a sweeping staircase. Rising from either side of the space, it wrapped around in one unending arc, a wrought iron railing running the full length of it.

>   On the walls were massive paintings in gold frames and various tables and vases, the single room we were in alone easily costing more than the entire building that comprised my office.

  “I see the wine business is paying pretty well these days,” Diggs whispered.

  One corner of my mouth curled back at the crack, though nothing more. There would be a time for plenty of that in the very near future, but for the time being my focus was on Ruiz.

  Once already I had seen him, been close enough to draw blood from him.

  I was now into the fourth calendar day of chasing his ass.

  It was time for it all to end.

  “Layout would mean the office has to be at the top of those stairs,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Diggs replied, “along with whoever he has waiting with him.”

  In the best of circumstances, we would still have a couple of those grenades left. Or a fully automatic weapon. Or a damned drone we could use to provide an image of whatever was at the top of the steps.

  But we didn’t.

  All we had were a pair of handguns, each other, and twin staircases.

  It would have to do.

  Each nodding in agreement, we set off together. Fanning out in either direction, we both took one side of the stairwell.

  Rising a single step at a time, we moved in complete silence, every stair heightening the anticipation I felt, bringing us closer to the guards I was certain were waiting for us at the top.

  The higher we ascended, the slower our pace became. Pressing a shoulder into the wall, I peered up as far as I could, ready for whatever might be up ahead.

  Not once did either one of us consider that it might come from behind.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Never before had I seen Arlin Mejia. Prior to earlier in the day, I’d never even heard of him. But based on everything Juana Salinas had said about her father, about the unflinching loyalty he had to Ruiz and the role he played in the organization, I had not a single doubt that the fifty-something man in slacks and a dress shirt carrying a shotgun across the foyer floor below was Mejia.