Hawke's Fury
Page 32
Blue reached the rise’s downward slope that tapered to a dangerously low level, ending his cover. He wondered why the sniper was shooting at the motionless body. Then the realization struck him. “Stay down, Chloe! He’s trying to draw you out! Harmony, don’t move, baby!”
“Why is he shooting at us?”
Blue ignored Chloe’s question that didn’t need an answer. It didn’t matter why they were under fire. Someone was trying to kill them and that was the hard, simple truth. It was unbelievable that four people on a hike in a U.S. national park were the targets of a madman with a rifle.
The numbness of the shot was already wearing off. His arm hung limp and useless. He’d never felt such intense pain before and was swimmy-headed. Afraid he’d pass out from either the pain or shock, he gritted his teeth to keep from puking and focused on a piece of quartz to get hold of himself.
Harmony stripped the pack from her shoulders and crawled toward Chloe at the same time Blue rose just enough to peek through a different cluster of honey mesquite. Movement from above caught his eye and he saw the upper half of a man’s body shift and twist in her direction.
“There you are.” Drawing on hours on the shooting range back home in Dallas, he aimed the 9mm and adjusted for the elevation, hoping that the new technology in Parabellum ammo was true to the manufacturer’s hype. He’d never shot uphill before, and the shooter looked to be at least a hundred yards away, but the trigonometry in his head worked out the angle for the trajectory he’d read about. He cranked off six fast shots from the 15-round magazine, thinking it was odd that his mind would register the empty brass tinkle off the rocks in such an intense situation.
The man on the ridge above threw his hands into the air and a rifle flipped end over end. “Got you, you son-of-a bitch!” Blue started to rise, but his response drew a stunning fusillade from above. The world erupted in mind-numbing noise as more than one fully automatic weapon hosed the area below the ridge.
The tiny geysers of dirt and rock exploding around Blue looked like hailstones falling onto still water. Rounds shredded the leaves off his covering brush and punched through the scant branches and lacy leaves to find flesh. His legs folded and he went down hard.
* * *
Harmony screamed over the rolling man-made thunder and reversed her direction, belly-crawling toward her husband.
Startled by the sudden continuous gunfire, Chloe spun toward Blue’s body and became the next target when she involuntarily straightened into view. The rifle spoke again and Chloe’s hair flew from the round’s impact. Dead before she landed, she fell across Vince’s legs and stilled.
Harmony’s tan shirt and shorts blended well with the landscape. Knowing what would happen if she presented any part of her body above the rise, she kept her head low, grabbed Blue’s shoulder, and rolled him out of sight from the rifle above.
Her husband was already gone. A single tear ran from the corner of his eye. The sight of that clear drop of liquid defined the moment, and Harmony cradled her husband’s body. Trembling with fear and horror, she wept with deep, wracking sobs.
The high desert grew silent. The buzzard narrowed its spiral and circled overhead, waiting.
* * *
The day’s heat rose as the sun reached its peak in the blue-white sky. Dark thunderheads to the west built to 50,000 feet, but refused to bring relief to the only survivor of the ambush. Flies buzzed the corpses and clotted pools of blood. Beyond those insects, there was no movement other than a kettle of buzzards circling in an airborne funeral procession.
No one came down to inspect the carnage. Throughout the day, Harmony had expected the shooters to come check on their victims. She worried that other hikers would stumble onto the massacre and become victims themselves, but she remained the only living human on the sun-blasted trail. The buzzards dropped lower, but wouldn’t approach with one of the figures still moving.
They call them a kettle when they’re flying, she thought, her shocked mind working to overcome the horror of what had happened. They’re a wake when they’re feeding.
She covered her mouth and gagged at the thought of what would soon happen if help didn’t come.
Dusk arrived, bringing relief from the blazing springtime sun that slipped first behind a collapsing thunderstorm, then reappeared momentarily before settling below the bluish mountains in the distance.
Stiff and dehydrated, she released her husband’s body and risked a quick peek at the ridge above. It was as empty as the rest of the park around her. When there was no more gunfire, she gained even more confidence and knew what she had to do. She kissed Blue’s cold forehead and ran a finger along the thin white line of the dried tear.
With a deep, shuddering sigh, she hooked two fingers through her backpack and swung it over one shoulder. Hesitating for a moment, she picked up his Glock that was familiar from shooting at the local outdoor range not far from their house.
A house that’ll be lonely and still from now on.
She gasped at the thought and gagged, but nothing came up but bile.
With an effort, Harmony gritted her teeth until the feelings passed. She didn’t need distractions right then. She needed to escape, to bring help, and tell the authorities what had happened.
Still cautious, she belly-crawled along the edge of the low rise. It was slow, painful work as rocks gouged every part of her body that scraped along the trail. Her elbows, thighs, and knees took the brunt of the abuse and were soon as raw as hamburger. After a hundred yards, her shirt and shorts were cut and torn in a dozen places, her waistband full of sand and pebbles. She paused to dig the rock samples from her pockets and drop them on the trail.
Her crawl resumed, and when her bare legs couldn’t take any more, she decided she’d had enough. Hoping she was finally out of range, Harmony rose and ran in a crouch for another hundred yards without drawing gunfire. There was nothing but a brilliant orange glow over a ragged line of mountains behind her as Harmony straightened, slipped the second pack strap over her other shoulder. Grasping the Glock in a white-knuckled death grip, the only survivor of the attack jogged through the dusk to get help.
* * *
Backlit from her angle against the orange horizon and pinkish clouds, the sniper wearing a shemagh head scarf rose and watched the blond woman’s escape. Acquiring her dim image through the scope, he grunted and asked Allah for the strength not to shoot the fleeing target.
Though the gathering darkness and her bobbing figure would have made it a challenge, he was confident it would have been an easy shot to bring her down. But then there wouldn’t be anyone left alive to tell the story.
Photo by Shana K. Wortham
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
REAVIS Z. WORTHAM is the author of the acclaimed Sonny Hawke thriller series, including Hawke’s Prey, Hawke’s War (winner of the Western Writers of America’s Spur Award), Hawke’s Target, and Hawke’s Fury. He is also the author of the award-winning Red River Mystery series, as well as a member of the Mystery Writers of America, the Writers’ League of Texas, the International Association of Crime Writers, Western Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. Each week Reavis pens a self-syndicated outdoor column for numerous Texas newspapers, writing on everything from fishing to deer hunting. He lives in northeast Texas with his wife. Please visit him on Facebook or at his website, reaviszwortham.com.