Grave Promise

by David R Lewis

  Stitch grinned.“Surprised your ass, didn’t I?” he said. “Most a the time I ain’t much sharper than a bag a wet mice, Motherfucker, but when I’m on, I am fucking on.”

  Stitch spent the next few minutes pre-flighting his helicopter, while Crockett watched.

  “Can you find the house and that back gate in the dark?”

  “Darker the better,” Stitch said. “We got a new moon tonight, just right for my goggles. I got some Recon-2 Lomos. Generation III-plus nightvision. Damn near military grade. I was out that way a couple of hours ago. No sweat.”

  He reached into the back of the chopper and retrieved a wide belt that he tossed to Crockett.

  “Put this on,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “So you do not exit the aircraft at an inappropriate time.”

  Crockett wrapped the heavy leather-backed canvas around his waist and secured it with both Velcro and two buckles.

  “Like that?” he said. “What is this thing?”

  “Gunner’s belt. There’s a big ring on the back. When you sit in the door of the helo, snap the strap hanging down from the bulkhead to that ring. If you fall out of my airplane, it’ll ruin my whole night.”

  Crockett voice rose in pitch. “I’m gonna be in the door?” he said.

  Stitch smiled. “Not for the whole trip. Just when we get to the ellzee. Somebody has to make sure the pick up gets in and secure. I’ll be a little busy.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You shoot an M-16?”

  “Not for thirty years.”

  “They still work the same. You’ll be okay.”

  “Why am I going to be shooting an M-16?”

  “Probably won’t, but ya never fuckin’ know. We start takin’ rounds from Charlie, we’re gonna need suppression fire. That’s you, Man.”

  “I see.”

  “So you don’t like guns. Those fuckers that got this girl don’t give a shit if you don’t like guns. The fuckin’ gun don’t give a shit if you don’t like guns. I don’t give a shit, and tonight, Motherfucker, you better not give a shit either! If the ellzee is hot, you better fuckin’ be hot, too! You copy?”

  Crockett knew Stitch was right.

  “Five square,” he said.

  “Ha! I love them inspirational pep talks!” Stitch said. “Use the fuckin’ latrine, go over that M-16 to make sure you know what the fuck you’re doin’, and get your ass ready. We saddle up in about twenty minutes.”

  Stitch was nearly vibrating with adrenalin energy and grinning from ear to ear, his eyes alight.

  “God, I love this shit!” he said.

  When the blades on the helicopter began to turn, Stitch handed Crockett a headset that was different than the first one he’d used. Stitch’s voice was tinny.

  “Wireless,” he said. “No push to talk, nothin’. It’s just for communication between you and me. We’re gonna be going out low and fast to stay under any commercial radar, so I’m gonna be pretty busy tryin’ not to fly this fucker into the ground. When we get a couple of minutes out from the ellzee, I’ll climb to Angels five or six and orbit until the shit starts going down. The Gomers won’t know we’re there until less than thirty seconds before the extraction, if they notice us that soon. When we get to altitude is when you’ll strap in the door. You’ll be able to sit on the floor with your feet on the skid. The M-16 is loaded and will be in a hanger on the right side of the door. Right below it are three more full mags clipped to the bulkhead. They’re all loaded a little light, so you’ll have about a hundred and ten rounds total. All tracers. If you have to shoot, those orange fuckers streakin’ down at them Slopes’ll scare those assholes half to death.”

  Stitch brought the engine up to bone-shaking power, turned the instrument lighting down, dropped his night vision headset over his eyes, and they lurched off the ground. The nose fell away and the ‘copter picked up speed as they crossed the airfield and rattled off into the night.

  Occasionally Crockett could catch a glimpse of bushes or treetops as they flashed beneath him, just below his feet. They rose and fell with the terrain; clawing their way upward to avoid obstacles Crockett couldn’t see and falling back toward invisible earth, only inches away from becoming a scattered fireball of human and mechanical debris. On they thundered, a madman’s roller coaster vibrating through the darkness, with no track to guide their path. Gripping his thighs to the point of pain, Crockett glanced at Stitch. He was grinning.

  Jesus.

  After about two days of such maniacal abuse, Crockett’s stomach filling his sinuses, Stitch started to climb. Lights began appearing around them as they gained altitude, Crockett’s ears popped, and his entire digestive system fell to its back and began to pant. He got out his cell phone and punched Clete’s number, then wedged the phone under his left headset. He couldn’t hear anything.

  “Clete!” Crockett said. “I hope to hell you’re listening. I can’t hear shit. My watch shows about ten ‘til two. We’ll go in five minutes on my mark!”

  He waited for the second hand to crawl around to the top of the dial.

  “Mark!” Crockett shouted. “We gotta do this on faith, Texican. We’ll be inbound sixty seconds before the charges go off. Be sure and give us a full thirty seconds to get in the shadow of the house before you fire any grenades. Don’t wanna be blind up here. See ya back at Stitch’s place!”

  Crockett put his phone away and turned to Stitch.

  “You hear that?” he said.

  “Yeah. Sounds good to me. Over at your two o’clock low you’ll see some lights. That’s Canyon Drive. Let me know when we got three minutes ‘til the charges are fired.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now get in the back and strap in. Sit down, put your feet outside on the skid, and hold on to the edge of the door. Remember, the M-16 and the extra mags are on your right.”

  Crockett eased out of the co-pilot’s seat and crept into the rear of the compartment. Holding on to everything he could find, he made it to the door and found the dangling strap. Carefully, Crockett latched its big hook to the rear of his belt, sat on the floor, and swung his legs out over the abyss, finally finding the footboards built into the top of the skid. The strap snugged up as he scooted forward, a massive hand encircling his waist, comforting him, assuring Crockett that he wouldn’t fall.

  Empty darkness in front and behind him, Crockett leaned into the belt, enjoying the security of leather, Velcro, and buckles. His right hand felt for, and found, the rifle and the extra magazines clipped below it, confirming what his eyes could barely see in the dim glow of the cabin. Stitch’s voice crackled in his ears.

  “You okay, Man?”

  “Yeah,” Crockett replied, surprising himself, “I am.”

  “How much time we got?”

  “About thirty seconds to three minutes out,” Crockett said.

  Stitch chuckled. “You’re doin’ good, Man. Lemme know.”

  Again Crockett watched the sweep hand crawl toward the top of the dial. With five seconds to go, he gripped the right edge of the door, put some of his weight on his feet, and leaned away from the opening.

  “Time!” he yelled.

  The floor tilted downward behind Crockett at an impossible angle, his feet came up and over, and he was dangling from the strap, facing the dark earth through the doorway that used to be at his back. As if in the distance, Crockett could hear Stitch’s long rolling shout as the helicopter plummeted toward the earth.

  Oh, shit.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  A Stitch in time

  Almost immediately the floor came level and Stitch’s laugh reached Crockett’s ears.

  “Sorry, Man! Just tryin’ to get the ants outa your pants. Wanted you to know that you couldn’t fall outa this sumbitch. Habit a mine with new troops. Now that the shock is over, you’ll be a lot more stable. Thought you were done for, huh?”

  “Asshole,” Crockett muttered, re-positioning himself in the door and swallowing the bile tha
t had risen in his throat.

  “That’s me, Motherfucker. Won’t happen again. My door gunners had such a great kill ratio because I gave ‘em a good delivery platform. How we doin’ on time?”

  “Two minutes-fifteen seconds.”

  “Call it at two.”

  Yet again Crockett watched the second hand click its way to the twelve. With five seconds to go, he braced himself and hung on.

  “Time!”

  The helicopter tilted on its side so quickly Crockett couldn’t even react. In an instant the horizon was gone and his entire doorway was filled with the light scattered darkness of the earth. Crockett was facing nearly straight down, but in such a turn that his seat never shifted. If anything, he was pressed more firmly into the floor. They spiraled downward.

  “How’s that?” Stitch asked, glancing back to Crockett’s position.

  “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? Not bad! Ha! Nobody does it better, Motherfucker!”

  Their fall into darkness continued.

  It took nearly a minute before Stitch leveled off and began traveling horizontally across the broken terrain. In the dim light Crockett caught snatches of the ground zipping by, and it gradually dawned on him that they were actually below the surface of the landscape, twisting along a narrow valley.

  “We’re gonna, like, pop up here in a minute,” Stitch yelled, his focus completely through the windscreen. “When we do, I’ll make a hard right, and the ellzee will be about a half mile in front of us. How’s the time?”

  “Forty-five seconds!”

  “Far out! Right on schedule. If your guy got the message, things are gonna start happening pretty quick. Get a grip ‘til we climb outa this draw, then lock and load and get ready to kick some ass!”

  Things continued as they were for a few seconds, then they banked violently to the right and slid upward and sideways out of the little valley. Stitch leveled off and, through the windshield, Crockett could see distant lights. He braced himself to compensate for the forward tilt of the chopper, unclipped the M-16, cradled it in his right arm, and snicked off the safety.

  The lights got closer and Crockett could make out the roofline of Castaneda’s house as they approached it from the rear. Stitch ripped off his night vision equipment and tossed it on the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Here we go, Man!” he howled.

  From the front of the house, flames and debris shot skyward from several different locations. Distant concussions rippled past the helicopter as shadows deepened in their direction and small fires ignited in a few trees.

  “Artillery is on time,” Stitch yelled, as they closed with the rugged field behind Casa de Corazon.

  As Stitch approached the fence, he slowed the chopper and swung it sideways, actually crossing the fence line a short way, and dropped to within ten feet of the ground standing the helicopter on its rear for an instant. The tail rotor didn’t miss the earth by six inches. Three hundred yards distant Crockett could see the rear of the house, it and the yard around it glowing dimly from the light of several flood lamps.

  “Don’t look at the house!” he shouted, and turned away as brilliant white light seared through the front yard.

  Crockett and Stitch were protected from the intense flash by the shadow of the building, but the surrounding terrain glowed briefly with the blue-white intensity of an arc lamp. A few seconds later it came again, then darkness returned to the scene.

  “Goddam!” roared Stitch. “Anybody that was close to that, ain’t gonna be worth a shit for a while! Jesus!”

  He held their position, hovering just a few feet above the gate, and Crockett saw a figure dart from the rear of the dwelling and begin running in their direction.

  “Here she comes!” he shouted.

  “I got her,” Stitch said. “You keep your eyes on the crib and watch for Zips. We been here long enough to attract the attention of anybody didn’t get blasted by that freakin’ light.”

  For what seemed like endless minutes they held position over the fence, Stitch keeping the ‘copter nearly motionless in the air.

  “She’s about halfway,” Crockett said, and saw three more figures exit the rear of the house and give chase.

  Stitch slipped his goggles on. “Shit!” he said. “She’s down, but she’s movin’. I think she just fell. Didn’t hear no shots. Yeah. She’s up and runnin’. Gooks are less than a hundred yards behind her!”

  Crockett unlimbered the M-16, but couldn’t even see the sights in the darkness. Aiming high, he touched off three rounds and watched the tracers to see where he’d aimed. The bullets all made orange streaks to the rear of the house. In careful short bursts, Crockett walked the fire down the backyard toward Marilee’s pursuers. The magazine emptied and he slapped in a new one.

  “Hundred yards to go!” Stitch yelled. “She’s cheekin’ it for all she’s worth!”

  The figures running behind her began to twinkle with tiny spots of light.

  “Incoming small arms fire, Stitch. Probably at us.”

  “Fuck’em,” Stitch replied, settling a little closer to the ground. “She’s close enough. You got the angle. Suppress them motherfuckers!”

  Crockett burned off an entire thirty round magazine as fast as the M-16 would fire, hammered in a fresh one and did it again. The twinkling stopped and he could no longer see any pursuit. Marilee crossed the last thirty yards and Stitch settled the helicopter to within a foot of the ground just inside the gate.

  Crockett opened his arms and she jumped. He caught her under her right arm and across the small of her back as Stitch roared in his headset.

  “Hang on to her, Man. It’s time to dust off!”

  As Crockett locked his hands behind Marilee’s back, crushing her to him as tightly as he could, Stitch turned the ‘copter on its side and powered out across the ragged field the way they’d come. Marilee and Crockett slid across the deck only to be jerked up short by his waist harness. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on. Two minutes later he had her belted into the seat. In the dim light Crockett could see smears of black on her chest and arm. Blood.

  “Are you hurt?” he shouted against the engine noise.

  Marilee held up her hands. “No!” she yelled. “Skinned my hands!”

  Crockett grinned at her and sagged against the side of her seat from his position on the floor. She leaned over, draped an arm across his shoulder, and put the side of her face against the top on his head. They didn’t move for the entire twenty-minute flight back. Stitch chuckled in Crockett’s headset.

  When they landed back at the hangar, Stitch clambered into the back and released Marilee’s seat belt as Crockett struggled to pry his fingers loose from the M-16 and unsnap the lifeline. Bouncing to the tarmac, Stitch took the rifle from Crockett and extended a hand to Marilee.

  “Well now, Baby Sister,” he said, “that was some fine runnin’ you did back there, getting’ away from them assholes. Took a lotta guts. Let’s get your hands cleaned up a little before your ride gets here.”

  Inside, Crockett watched him open a first aid kit, wash her hands with hydrogen peroxide, remove a few small stones with tweezers, slather on some antibiotic cream, and field dress both her palms with gauze and athletic tape. His movements were quick and tender, and the absence of a left thumb didn’t seem to hinder him a bit.

  “There’s a cot back by the john,” Stitch said. “Why don’t you go back and stretch out for a while. You been through a lot. Don’t want you getting the shakes.”

  Marilee looked at Crockett and he nodded. He and Stitch watched her walk back to the cot, remove a fanny pack from around the waist of her gray jogging suit, and lie down. They walked to the front of the hangar.

  “Damn!” Stitch said. “I believe that is the best lookin’ woman I ever seen in my life! She could be a fuckin’ movie star! No wonder that asshole didn’t wanna let her go.”

  “Looks just like her grandma,” Crockett said.

  Stitch peered at him for a mom
ent. “Ya done good out there tonight, Man. You hit at least two a those three fuckers that were chasin’ her.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. You, like, didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Christ, Man! You’d be hell on wheels with a fucking M-60. You tore ‘em up!”

  “I couldn’t see shit over the sights of that M-16. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to shoot anybody.”

  Stitch grinned. “You sure as hell did,” he said. “Another drug-related gun battle. You guys getting’ outa Dodge?”

  “Tonight. Can’t thank you enough, Stitch. Nice to work with a pro. How much do I owe you?”

  “Aw, shit. See? That’s the bad thing about savin’ sweet young things from a fate worse than death. You put a price tag on somethin’ like that and you’re a big asshole. Just send me a check when you get home.”

  “How ‘bout cash?” Crockett said.

  “Cash would be good.”

  “Ten grand?”

  “You serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah, sure!”

  “Great. Ruby has the money with her.”

  Stitch looked over Crockett’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” he said.

  The Explorer pulled up in front of the hangar.

  Forty-five minutes later, after a tearful reunion, assorted expressions of gratitude, a payment of funds, a round of cactus wine, and some heartfelt goodbyes, Ruby and Marilee got in the backseat, Clete took the wheel, Crockett rode shotgun, and they began the road trip back to Kansas City. Ms. LaCost was pumped, Ms. Walker was numb, Mister Marshal was happy, and Mister Crockett was asleep before they got to the super highway.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  On the road

  Crockett almost woke up when they stopped in Barstow for gas. Foggy, he staggered inside the 7-11, or whatever it was, used the john, grabbed a Snickers, a pint of orange juice, a small aerosol can of Solarcaine, and limped back out to the Explorer. Clete was washing the windshield, Marilee was sitting in the back seat staring blankly out of the window, and Ruby was grinning as she nearly skipped to the building. Crockett leaned against the fender and took a long pull on the juice. Clete looked at him and furrowed his brow.