Pardners

by Roy F. Chandler

  Chapter 25

  Hayzoo Christus picked no onions. Nor did he labor in a town. His work lay in executing Don Byrne, and all that he did was in preparation for that single moment.

  It was a long preparation, and his original team of six had been reduced to four because one man had become sick and a second had returned home to attend the birth of a child.

  Hayzoo did not care. His group had tightened and had become more dedicated to their task. Over the many weeks they had learned about each other and had drawn closer. Their pay was excellent, and when Doctor Don Byrne—who had so foully set up the murder of the Santos men Christus had admired—finally returned, they would make quick work of eliminating him.

  Since shortly after his arrival in Byrne's thinly populated neighborhood, Jesus Christus had lived in the forest. He had established a number of camps and moved regularly among them. One of his men remained at his side and acted as a liaison to contact the others who worked at irregular jobs. Those three workers were Hayzoo's eyes and ears.

  One of them served as a janitor's helper at the Byrne Medical clinic. That valued team member had learned that Doctor Byrne was in New York learning more about doctoring—but then, others at the clinic had laughingly claimed that their doctor was more likely in Tibet hunting some sort of mountain sheep.

  Christus did not really care where Byrne had gone. He would return, and the killer team would be waiting.

  Hayzoo had, of course, seen the posters requesting that he stop everything and return. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and more than a few were stapled to trees well into the mountains. For some days he considered the postings, but in his heart he knew they would be ignored.

  Jesus Christus could not know what terrible pressures had turned Dona Santos from her goal of killing those responsible for the deaths of the men of her family. Christus did not suffer those stresses, and at this time, he would not inquire.

  He had been a part of the family in those earlier days, and their fortunes had been his fortune—as their lives had made him all that he had become. His soul had belonged to the Santos, and they had never released him.

  Christus had been paid far more than enough, and he wished, as much as he had ever desired anything, to kill the men responsible for the deaths of his Santos fathers and brothers. Donna Santos had grown old and was probably ill. Someone, perhaps the very man he sought, had persuaded her to draw back from her obvious duty.

  So be it. Donna Santos would no longer hunt or make payment, but Jesus Christus had sworn a powerful personal oath, and he would continue until he succeeded.

  During the first weeks of the hunt, Hayzoo had kept close watch on the Byrne log home. The house was handsome, and Byrne was obviously proud of his casa. Christus was certain of that pride after they had broken in and examined everything they could discover.

  Their entry had been through the backdoor, which had opened outward. In many places doors opened inward, but Hayzoo had grown in warm countries, and there doors often opened outward—some said to drive mosquitoes away during entry and exit.

  He thought little of the arrangement. Within urban strife, he had learned that outward opening doors were harder for SWAT teams to break down. That, he accepted, would be Doctor Byrne's reason for both the direction of swing and his choice of a very heavy door of solid steel. The system's weakness was the exposed hinges. Byrne's hinge pins were considered to be non-reusable and removal required grinding away broadly peened pin ends.

  Hayzoo's most skilled man had ground off and punched upward the four hinge pins. They had lifted the heavy door free. Within, large and unfamiliar animal heads hung from walls, and furnishings were luxurious and obviously expensive—but then, Byrne was a doctor, and such men were always wealthy.

  They found money and guns, but took nothing, and in their searching, they disturbed as little as possible. Nothing indicated where Byrne had gone or when he might return.

  Their departure was as cautious as their entrance. The door was returned to its locked position, and the hinge pins were gently tapped into place. Hayzoo wedged a difficult-to-see bit of leaf into the doorframe. Movement of the leaf would disclose entries after their own.

  By prying with a tree limb against the mine's wooden gates, The Christus team gained entrance to the apparently abandoned silver mine. An old green car, worth little but with a current Virginia license plate was parked inside, but nothing else commentable was discovered. The mine itself was long and deep. One vertical shaft disappeared into darkness, and a dropped stone fell for an eternity before it struck water that made a deep-sounding "kerplunk." Other shafts ran horizontally, but except for electrical cords with occasional bulbs attached, the mine appeared deserted and unused.

  The Byrne sheds were equally uninteresting. Nothing dated Byrne's departure or his imminent return. The team admired a mowing tractor and other handy equipment but did not linger.

  During their investigation of the Byrne premises Christus kept a lookout high in the woods observing the approach road and the fields between the house and the highway. At no time were their explorations disturbed, although a mailman regularly deposited mail in the roadside box, and Hayzoo just as regularly read and discarded some letters while ignoring those unlikely to be helpful.

  In fact, nothing worth reading appeared, and as the box filled, the mail delivery man removed older material to make room for the newer and took the old to some unknown depository—or perhaps to the local land fill, Hayzoo supposed.

  Then, Christus began learning the woods and streams of the area. He began a study of ridges and valleys to familiarize himself in case of pursuit or a wish to disappear without risk of discovery.

  Hayzoo Christus supposed that they would kill Don Byrne, perhaps at his door, or more likely while he worked around his place. If anything did not go as planned, they would retreat to the mountains into prepared hides and wait out the chases that might occur. Then, they would come again and do better, but Christus inwardly doubted the need of those preparations.

  He had acquired good weaponry. There were more modern and fancier pieces, but it was important that he and his men be armed with guns and blades they had carried and used before—weapons they were comfortable with and that they understood. His team had brought their cane knives and personal folding knives. All preferred 9 mm semiautomatic pistols. Two of his team had actually killed with a pistol and had gang tattoos proving it.

  Christus had seen telescopic sights used, but when he sighted through such a tube he most often saw only dark, and he doubted his ability to effectively use the crosshairs he occasionally got in focus.

  Although he, too, carried a pistol, Hayzoo's rifle was his favorite weapon. He chose a used but serviceable Model 94 Winchester 30-30. The 30-30, Christus had heard, had killed more deer and elk than any other cartridge ever made. For a time in the drug wars, Christus had carried such a rifle, and except for its slow reloading, it had proven to be the perfect arm. Jesus Christus held in disdain the full automatic fire of his friends who doted on the Russian and Chinese AK-47 rifles. He believed in shooting little but hitting when he did fire.

  The Winchester was light and handy, and it fired rapidly and accurately. Hazoo practiced with his rifle, and he believed that he might always hit a human solidly at 150 yards and regularly at 200 yards. If he could not get that close, it was not the time to shoot. Over a period of weeks, a Christus man had purchased boxes of ammunition for his leader to use developing skill with his rifle, but Hayzoo expected to need only one shot for Don Byrne.

  Hayzoo liked his rifle so much he decided that when they had finished he would bring it back to the city. He would hang the rifle on his wall as Doctor Byrne did with finer rifles in his log home, and it would remind him of his time in the woods and the perfect shot he intended to make.

  — — —

  Christus had lived many of his younger years in jungles, and he felt at home there. He had crossed Mexico's northern border and settled in greater Los Angel
es where some knew his name, his familiarity with the drug trade, and his willingness to serve. There the Santos had found him, and he became a willing soldier in their organization. His devotion to the family and his duty were noted, and he rose. He learned to speak English with exceptional clarity, and he was rewarded with identity papers that, even if carefully examined, appeared genuine.

  He bought a home and he held jobs. He avoided speaking Mexican except when necessary, and eventually few suspected him of being born beyond his country's southern border. Of course, his ID became legitimate, and he thought of himself as an American citizen. True, he ranged among the criminal societies of southern California, but he felt no guilt. The world was as it was, and he adjusted to his own and his employer's profit.

  The annihilation of the Santos men in 1985 had destroyed Jesus Christus's security. Suddenly, he belonged to nothing and to no one. He was again an outsider struggling to simply get along.

  Then he found MS-13. Criminals all, the gang was newly formed, and Christus became almost a charter member. Violent and willing, the gang prospered and grew until now, in 2008, MS-13 was among the most feared and hated groups in the United States.

  Jesus remained in distant touch with the surviving Santos and prayed that someday, somehow, the family would regain its strength and he could again be one of them. With that direction in mind, Christus, avoided the tattoos and scarring that identified most MS-13 members. Therefore, he was rarely included in law enforcement listings of gang members, and street cops did not immediately recognize Jesus Christus as an enemy of society and their deadly enemy.

  Now, he had become older, and he had learned to blend in. His English was American, if typically little-educated and street-jargoned. His rap sheet charges were ancient,and in these troubled times, they were minor and common to many within the Mexican-American population.

  Still, Christus took no chances while in unfamiliar Idaho. He lived in the open forests and sought to understand their differences from his familiar jungles. He created possible ambushes and planned escape routes that could hurry him unseen from the immediate vicinity and eventually from the state. With time to fill, he studied valleys and open savannahs until he believed he knew them as well as Byrne the big game hunter would have. He stashed supplies where he might need them, and after a full month in the Idaho forests, he believed he was as ready for Don Byrne's return as he could be.

  So where was the doctor? Christus could not find out because no one, even at the clinic, seemed to know. When would the doctor return? There was no information and opinions were merely guesses.

  Christus settled in to watch. He waited like one of the spiders he saw with webs strung and interminable patience. He ate well at his fires and slept in comfort under his serape or within his small tent. His mind wandered through the past and at times he wondered why Donna Santos had lost her fire—old age, he suspected.

  After he killed Byrne, he would seek the rest of his payment. If it were not forthcoming, he would not object. He had been asked to cease and desist, so he could not in good faith complain.

  He would also ask why he had been told to stop his search, but his question would be only curiosity. Killing Doctor Don Byrne was a satisfaction to be built and swirled in his mind. No one would owe him for completing his task. Jesus Christus considered it his duty and his pleasure.

  Chapter 26

  Idaho, September 2008

  Pasco, the lookout, roused as a strong-looking pickup carrying an all-terrain vehicle turned from the highway into the long approach to the doctor's log house. The powerful Ford towed a dusty sport camper. Other vehicles had appeared over the many weeks of watching. Most occupants had dismounted, looked around, knocked, received no answers, and drove away.

  Perhaps this one would be different. Pasco hoped it was. Watching was the most boring of tasks, but each had to take his turn, days at a time—except Esteban who worked daily at the clinic and might first receive useful information.

  The pickup swung behind the log house and parked. Two men left the truck. They looked around as had others, and they talked together. Then they entered the house through the backdoor. Pasco believed the long-hunted Doctor Byrne had come home.

  Pasco had binoculars, and he used them. The men removed items from the camper, and one of them examined a newer section of lawn as if checking on its growth during his absence.

  The men studied the woods line and the rising hills beyond them. Although already well concealed, Pasco, the watcher, felt himself sink deeper behind his mask of brush. These were alert hombres, and they were expecting intrusions.

  Were they expecting Jesus Christus and his team? That would not be because no one who thought clearly would simply walk into their leader's grasp.

  Jesus Christus had planned carefully, and the team had grown familiar with the mountains and valleys. From such hills they could fight or they could silently flee. The doctor and his friend would be no challenge to them.

  Pasco's first problem was that he could not be certain which, if either man, was the doctor. Gringos mostly looked alike, and either of the new arrivals could be the man they sought. Too bad for the other. They would leave no witnesses. They would also leave no bodies. Jesus had done this sort of thing before, and he knew the best ways.

  Pasco used his cell phone. He could see the telephone tower only a mile or so away. Reception at the doctor's home was excellent, and he could contact Esteban at the medical clinic at will. The weakness in their communication system was their inability to use the radios to contact Jesus when he was deep in the mountains—where he spent most of his time.

  Well, there was no hurry. They had waited weeks, and a few more hours would mean nothing. Esteban would leave the clinic at the end of his workday. He would drive his ratty old car into the woods then hike to where he might meet with Raul, who would know where Jesus Christus and Jose, the one ear, were camping. They would gather and kill the doctor.

  Perhaps the second man, in whom they had no interest, would be gone before that time. It was Christus' plan to bury the doctor's body far away where it might never be found. Esteban would return to work at the clinic as usual, and he would remain in that work for weeks to make certain that no interest pointed in their directions. The rest of the team would be separated and gone from Idaho forever.

  Esteban answered his phone, and Pasco described what he was seeing. There was excitement in Estaben's voice when he explained how he would relay the information to Christus. He would leave his work and hurry to their meeting place before Doctor Don Byrne again departed for places unknown.

  Jesus Christus might arrive before dark. Esteban supposed that they might complete their task that very evening. Perhaps everyone but he might leave in the fine pickup with the excellent camper trailer that Pasco described. The dead doctor would go along for his last ride—to wherever Jesus planned on leaving him.

  Pasco doubted that speed. Christus was careful. He had planned, and he would not be hurried.

  — — —

  Bravo said, "Does it look safe to you? See anything out of place?"

  Alpha was looking, and his voice was mildly irritated. "Of course it looks safe. They wouldn't be standing on the front porch." He allowed his head to turn as if merely looking around, but he knew the places to study closely. Despite the long distances to see across, there were really not that many superior shooting hides.

  He saw nothing unusual, but a hunter of men or wild animals did not study a small range of wooded hills by gazing across them. Animals or men were detected by lengthy glassing, preferably with a spotting scope, but at least using binoculars. Long hours and perhaps days would be needed to discover who, if anyone, waited.

  More urgently was the possibility that a large and ferocious booby trap had been placed that waited an incautious step or that could be detonated from a great distance. Alpha believed that if he were the experienced Hayzoo Christus, he might choose a bomb. Unfortunately, their knowledge of Christus was meager.
He had been a murderous killer and guerilla for many years—and that was about all they knew. How many men he had, if any, and what their combined skills might be were mysteries that could be revealed only by more than due-diligence.

  Was Christus deadly with a scoped rifle? Alpha and Bravo had discussed that possibility, and they doubted their enemy was that accomplished. Long range shooting was not common within the outlaw bands of Central America, and Christus was not likely to have picked up the exacting shooting proficiency during his life in the LA barrios. Far more likely would be an attack using the familiar AK-47 rifles.

  Guerillas liked firepower. Almost to a man, they preferred wild trigger jerking that dumped full magazines of bullets in their target's direction. And, although full automatic rifles were not readily available north of the border, men like Christus would know where to find them. Semi-auto look-alike clones of the Russian AK-47 were readily available, and their firepower was almost as intimidating as the wild and barely controllable blasts of full auto. Unlike the full automatic AKs, semi-auto rifles were legal, and Christus might arm his team (if there was a team) with Chinese models that sold everywhere.

  Alpha had pulled the camper and truck behind the house where it would not be noticed from the highway or by anyone approaching the home. This was not the time for friendly visitors to be reporting in.

  Both men had carefully examined their footing before stepping onto the back porch. During their military careers, great emphasis had been put on booby traps, especially those used by the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong in that late war. A loosened step could act as a triggering device for a pressure mine, or a simple wire to a door that had to be pulled open would emulate Alpha's outhouse bomb.

  Bravo muttered, "You are turning us into a couple of cringing wimps, Byrne. Let's just go on in. I can't believe they would mine the house with booby traps. Hell they might kill innocents, and they would not want attention drawn to their presence."