Houston Attack

by Randy Wayne White

  Hawker spent five days with the Rigeras under the guise of his truck breaking down. He helped them work around the ranch during the day, and at night he sat outside beside the adobe oven and ate tortillas and beans with the family.

  They were poor but seemed content, and Hawker came to like them very much. Even so, Sancho turned a deaf ear to Hawker’s questions about the men who had tried to force him to sell.

  Finally he hit upon an idea. Sancho Rigera had too much pride to share his problems with a guest. But he might share them with a business partner. Hawker got the name of a corporate attorney from Gas Blakely. He had papers drawn up for a company called Chicago Fossil Fuels Ltd. He made Sancho Rigera president, and himself vice-president.

  “You see, Sancho,” he said one night as they sat beneath the stars with two cold bottles of Dos Equis beer. “You sell a one-year option on your property’s mineral rights to our corporation. You might also speak with your neighbors and see if they wish to become a part of the corporation.”

  “I do not understand,” said Sancho Rigera, his ever-present smile white in the light of the adobe fire. “We already own the mineral rights.”

  “Don’t you see, Sancho? People cannot force you to turn them over if they have already been acquired by another company. These men who attacked you and threatened you will not know that you and your neighbors own the corporation.”

  Sancho nodded at the wisdom in that. “But what do you get from this, my friend?” he asked simply.

  Hawker had smiled. “Has oil ever been found in this area?”

  The little Mexican shook his head. “Never. Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then I will get what you get—nothing. And, if oil ever is discovered, the contract will read that as vice-president of the corporation I am entitled to a yearly salary of one dollar. Nothing more.”

  “That is unfair. But we will not discuss it now. It is enough that you have had this idea. It will help us, and I thank you for that. Please, allow my beautiful daughter, Juanita, to fetch us another beer from the well.” The Mexican nodded and moved closer to Hawker. “There is another matter I wish to discuss with you. It is about these men you seek. These evil men who steal and sell human beings. Are you still interested in them”—his smile broadened—“or perhaps you wish to remain and search for the oil with us?”

  Hawker tried not to show how very anxious he was. “Please understand that I do not think you should look for oil, Sancho. You will only waste your time. But, yes, I am still interested in these men. Do you think they are associated with the men who tried to force you into selling your mineral rights?”

  Sancho used one finger to push his straw cowboy hat back. Now he whispered, “It is not a wise thing to speak of such matters to strangers, but you are no longer a stranger. We are business partners, is that not true? And now we are also friends.”

  Hawker accepted the beer from the pretty teenage Mexican girl and said nothing. Sancho continued. “I cannot say if the two are related. I know who harassed us for our mineral rights, and he is a man of such great wealth and power that it would be madness for us ever to think of revenge. But the slavery is another matter. It must be stopped. That is why I will tell you this thing. There is a bar beyond Rio Bravo, fifty miles south of the Mexican border. I have heard that it is the most evil place in all of Mexico. It is called the Bar of the Unknown Souls. These men you seek, these men who kidnap and sell people, you may find there. But I warn you, my friend, be careful. You have only one arm, and these are dangerous men. You must take a weapon with you. In the house I have such a thing. A shotgun with two barrels …”

  Hawker patted the little man’s shoulder fondly. “I will find my own weapon, friend Sancho. You must keep your shotgun.” And the teenage girl blushed when he added, “With so many beautiful daughters around, a father may find some use for it.”

  Sancho Rigera nodded importantly. “Yes, this is true. Especially now that we are going into the oil business. The oil will bring us great wealth, and my daughters must be protected.”

  James Hawker smiled and said nothing.

  The next morning he left for Mexico.

  six

  As the men from Las Almas Desconocidas came fanning down the dark road toward him, Hawker let the Ingram submachine gun hang by its sling as he threw up his hands.

  He hoped that would stop them from firing at him. He wanted at least one of them alive, and he could only be sure of doing that if they stopped firing.

  Instead his show of weakness only made them run faster and shoot more. Hawker knew what was going through their brains: The gringo was unarmed, so there was nothing to fear. And the man who killed him would probably be rewarded in some small way.

  So they were all anxious for the kill.

  He expected to see the fat bartender with the greasy shoulder-length hair, but he was not among the dozen men. Hawker decided that the bartender must be higher up in the organization than he had thought. More than a field soldier, anyway. But probably not much more.

  The semi truck carrying the beautiful Cristoba de Abella was now little more than a speck of light on the flat empty road to Texas. As Hawker brought the Ingram up to his hip he wondered how badly she had been wounded. The slug she took might have broken her arm—at worst.

  But Hawker knew that her physical wound would not compare with the emotional trauma she would suffer if he did not find her soon.

  What was she? Twenty? Within a year the heroin injections and the forced sex would have her looking forty. After that, they would junk her. Abandon her on the streets to the living hell of a drug addict.

  Hawker’s hand grew tight on the Ingram.

  Yes, he had to find her. And he had to find her soon.

  In the weak light of the new moon, Hawker saw that at least three of the dozen or so men carried rifles.

  When one of the rifle slugs dug the asphalt away from his feet, Hawker dropped to his belly and fired.

  The first burst from the submachine gun cut the legs from beneath his first four attackers. The chain-rattle clatter of the Ingram echoed in Hawker’s ears, mingling with the fresh screams of agony.

  The sharp odor of gunpowder replaced the sagelike odor of cactus and mesquite.

  Two of the men writhed in agony on the asphalt forty yards away. The other two lay still. Deathly still.

  About half of the men who remained turned and ran back toward the bar. Hawker jumped to his feet to pursue them, but an immediate volley of small-weapons fire put him back on his belly.

  Not all of them were cowards. Some of them had chosen to stay and fight.

  Hawker wondered how many of them remained.

  There was a ditch beside the road, and Hawker rolled into it. His attackers were on the west side of the road. Hawker lay in the ditch on the east.

  He began to work his way down the ditch, staying low. He guessed that most of them had retreated fifteen to twenty yards—so that meant they were just under a hundred yards away.

  It crossed Hawker’s mind that if he could work his way past them, he could sneak back to the sleazy bar and beat some information out of the bartender and leave without another confrontation.

  That seemed like the wisest plan. But then Hawker remembered the look of terror on the face of the girl and the others chained inside the truck.

  No, these men who now tried to kill him deserved a confrontation. And they damn well deserved to die.

  Hawker pulled a fresh clip from beneath the serape and held it in his left hand so he could re-arm the Ingram just as quickly as possible.

  He crawled through the ditch for what seemed a very long time. All was quiet save for the agonized groan of one of the men he had shot, and the haunting wail of a coyote.

  When Hawker judged he was almost directly across from his attackers, he drew himself slowly to one knee and looked across the road.

  A voice from behind stopped him in his tracks. “Freeze, gringo. Drop your weapon!”

  Hawker did not
hesitate. He dove to his left as pistol fire plowed the earth behind him. He brought the Ingram up and held it on full fire, spraying in the direction from which he had heard the heavy Spanish voice.

  The man had been standing. He was a squat silhouette against the desert sky. The 9mm slugs smacked through his body, contorting him into a hundred different positions like some weird cartoon character slapping ants.

  When Hawker released the trigger, the man fell heavily into the sand, as if he had fallen from a table. His leg quivered, and then he lay still.

  Voices from across the road yelled hopefully, “Orlando—is the gringo dead? Did you kill him?”

  Hawker punched the empty clip out and slid a fresh thirty-two rounds into the Ingram. The metal barrel was hot against his hands.

  When Orlando did not answer, Hawker could hear them whispering nervously among themselves. He wished his Spanish were better. After a long pause he heard the heavy crunch of men running. For a moment he thought they were running away.

  But then he realized they were charging him.

  The moment Hawker poked his head up above the ditch, they opened fire. There were four of them. Their handguns belched fire in a deafening volley. Hawker flattened himself against the sand and squeezed the trigger. The Ingram was like a living creature in his hands, lunging and jolting as if to escape.

  But for the men who charged him, there was no escape. Even in the darkness Hawker could see them fold and tumble backward, as if hit all at once by some gigantic club.

  A moment later there was an eerie silence, broken only by the heated ticking of the Ingram.

  Hawker got quickly to his feet. Carefully he approached the bodies and checked them one by one.

  Dead. All dead.

  Hawker listened carefully for the distant sound of a siren. He heard nothing.

  Obviously, the men who operated from the bar had more to lose than to gain from calling the Mexican police.

  Something they had hidden away in the bar?

  Hawker wondered.

  He punched out the empty clip and slid in his last fresh load.

  He adjusted the serape and his hat, then headed off at a steady jog for the dim lights of the Bar of the Unknown Souls.

  How long had it been since the slavers’ truck had pulled away from the bar?

  Half an hour? Maybe longer.

  However long, it was enough time for the fat bartender to chase away his customers and lock the doors.

  The gravel parking lot was nearly empty. But the weary neon light still advertised Las Almas Desconocidas over the doorway. Hawker tested the door, then banged on it with his fist.

  Immediately he jumped back—and just in time. Slugs punched through the door as the muffled sputter of an automatic weapon roared from inside.

  Hawker tried to give the scream the right pitch of terror and desperation: “I’m shot. Shit! Get a doctor, somebody, please.…”

  The moment the door cracked open, Hawker stuck his foot in it, then yanked it wide with his left hand.

  The guy inside had an old Thompson. Hawker had used and admired the World War II classic, but it had its drawbacks. It was too long and heavy for close work, and now Hawker was thankful.

  It took the man a long, awkward moment to get the Thompson up to fire. Hawker grabbed the barrel, swung it away, and, at the same moment, clubbed the man in the face with the butt of the Ingram.

  The man—a husky black man—back pedaled against the wall, then charged Hawker, hitting him waist-high. Hawker kneed him in the chest. When the black man jolted backward, Hawker cracked him hard on the temple with his left elbow.

  The blow sent him to the floor. Hawker was immediately on him, his nose only inches from the nose of the black man.

  “Where is he?” Hawker hissed. “Where’s the fat bartender?”

  The man’s eyes were glazed and slightly crossed from the beating he had just taken. “Back room,” he whispered. His head motioned beyond the bar.

  “Is he alone?”

  The man hesitated just long enough for Hawker to know it was a lie. “Yes,” he said. “Hernando is alone, yes.”

  As Hawker stood, the black man made a quick motion toward the Thompson, which lay just out of his reach. Hawker swung the Ingram toward his face. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “If you’re really feeling lucky.” He kicked the Thompson toward him.

  The man shook his head quickly, as if he were being wrongly accused. But the moment Hawker turned his back, he heard the quick scrape of metal. Hawker whirled and squeezed off two quick shots.

  The black man’s head exploded, and the Thompson was thrown against the wall as his arms convulsed upward.

  “Bad choice,” Hawker whispered.

  Most of the lights in the bar had been switched off. The place stank of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Hawker noticed that the table on the stage had not been removed.

  Hawker knew that the mirror behind the bar was a two-way mirror. He pretended to ignore it.

  He walked softly, carefully, his ears tuned for any noise.

  From some unknown source there came a muted, metallic click.

  The sound registered immediately: It was the noise of a shotgun being snapped closed.

  Hawker dropped instantly to his belly. As he did there was a deafening roar, and the mirror jumped outward, away from the bar. Glass rained down on Hawker.

  On his knees, he crawled quickly to the end of the bar and popped up, the Ingram vectoring. A head materialized behind the row of liquor bottles where the mirror had once been. For a microsecond Hawker had the strange impression he was at a shooting gallery.

  He squeezed off a shattering burst of fire. The 9mm slugs tore through the man in the next room, spinning him around. In the same instant another man jumped up, and an automatic pistol threw a flame toward Hawker’s head. There was a sudden vacuum of air near Hawker’s ear, which told him the slug had narrowly missed him.

  The man never got the chance to try a second time. Hawker held the Ingram on steady burst, and the man was thrown into oblivion, his face drenched with gore.

  Hawker swung around the bar and hesitated by the door, listening. He sensed more than heard that someone stood just beyond, waiting for him. Holding the submachine gun at hip level, the vigilante shot through the door, then kicked the door open. As he entered, the heavy shadow of the fat bartender disappeared down the hall. Hawker turned the Ingram to squeeze off a quick shot—but the weapon clicked empty.

  Hawker cursed himself softly for not carrying more ammunition. But he had come expecting trouble—not a war.

  Quickly he bent over one of the corpses. It was the man with the little automatic pistol. A Walther PPK with a stainless body.

  Not a cheap weapon.

  Hanker wondered who was financing them.

  As he tried to pry it from the dead man’s hands, a deep voice laughed. “So the one-armed gringo is really a two-armed cop?” The laughter thickened. “And now he is out of bullets. And now he is going to die.”

  Hawker turned to see the fat bartender, Hernando, his greasy hair like a towel over his shoulders. He was holding a Winchester 97 12-gauge pump gun leveled at Hawker’s face.

  The bartender walked toward him, stopping so the barrel of the Winchester was just out of Hawker’s reach. “You have killed many men tonight, gringo. Many of my best men. You have caused me great inconvenience. Our Mexican police are not as fussy about details as you Americano cops—but even so, it will not be easy explaining so many dead bodies to them.”

  Hawker stood easily on the balls of his feet. He took two slow steps backward, hoping it would bring the fat bartender closer to him.

  It did.

  “Kill me if you want to,” Hawker said easily. “But don’t kill me as a cop. I’m down here because a friend of mine was murdered. A man named Jonathan Flischmann. Know anything about it?”

  The Mexican’s grin never left his face. “I know that he was a lawyer, and like all lawyers he asked too many questions.
I know that he was a threat to my employer.” His grin broadened. “I did not know that he had been killed. But now that I know, I am glad.”

  “Yeah,” said Hawker, taking another step backward. “I guess he found out about your rich Texan boss, huh? About how he uses this bar as a front for a slave ring. Right now some other friends of mine are following that slave truck of yours into Texas. And when it gets to its destination, everyone involved is going to be arrested.”

  Hernando gave a noncommittal shrug. “Is that so? Then I am surprised you did not run when you had the chance.”

  As the bartender took another half-step toward him, Hawker faked an arcing overhand right at the Mexican’s face, then dropped to his knees as the shotgun gouged a hole in the wall behind him. As he dropped, Hawker’s hand disappeared beneath his serape, and then he was driving upward; upward with all his strength, driving the seven-and-a-half-inch blade of his Randall Attack/Survival knife deep into the fat Mexican’s groin.

  The Randall Model 18, with its hand-sharpened carbon-steel body and saw-toothed upper blade slid through the flesh and gristle, then ripped its way out when Hawker jerked away.

  The Mexican screamed terribly, his legs slashing in agony. Hawker pounced on him immediately, holding the knife at his throat. “Tell me,” he yelled. “Tell me the name of your partner in Texas. Tell me, and I’ll get you a doctor.”

  The fat bartender gave Hawker a burning look of fear and desperation. “Sister … Sister Star Ranch. Will … Williams. Oh, the pain!”

  Hawker stood up quickly, his head swinging back and forth in search of a phone. He had promised the man a doctor—and he would try to get him one.

  But he wouldn’t stick around to help.

  There was a side door off the back office, and Hawker opened it and switched on the light.

  The woman who had appeared on stage earlier lay naked upon a bed. The blond wig she wore sat crookedly on her head. Her eyes sagged open for a moment, trying to focus on Hawker.

  “Is it time?” she moaned. “Do I have to go back on already, Hernando? Give me a fix, or I won’t be able to. Please, just one more, and I’ll go, Hernando. I promise.”