Pardners

by Roy F. Chandler

  Byrne and Shepard watched their approach. Each man now used binoculars. Bravo said, "They're talking together. I've got to admit that there is nothing suspicious or furtive about them. I've seen a hundred Mexican workers come to doors just like these two are, and I have hired some of them."

  "Well, don't hire anymore, Shepard. You Californians are selling out the country for cheap labor as it is.

  "The difference with these guys is that they are coming to shoot or hack me to death. They surely know that you are here, as well, but they don't give a rat's ass. They will try to kill us both."

  "No guns or big knives showing."

  "They will have pistols under their jackets."

  Bravo was not arguing. He saw it the same. Two Mexicans seeking work way out here just one daylight after they had returned from months away smacked of planning—not coincidence.

  He asked, "How do you want to do it, Alpha?"

  Byrne had been thinking tactics, and his description was short.

  "We should shoot them without warning, but we could be wrong, Bravo. So, they must make the first hostile move or hint of a move." Byrne's teeth gritted, and Bravo could hear them.

  Bravo's voice was solemn. "You are talking a high noon kind of shootout, Alpha, and that isn't usually smart."

  "No, it isn't, but we do have that ethical problem keeping us from dumping them in their tracks, and there is another detail.

  "These two might not be all of them. Others could be holed up out of sight just waiting to join in."

  Bravo was disdainful, "Now why didn't I think of that. For God's sake Alpha we both know all of this stuff. Forget the explanations and announce a plan before they are sitting on your sofa."

  Byrne felt hurried, but he said, "All right, but we will wait until they knock or call out. They will want us outside, but we won't come out. We will ask them to go away. If they don't, we will consider them unfriendly."

  "And if they do walk away, we know they are friends? That stinks, Byrne. They could just come again or wait until we are already outside."

  "True. How would you like to play it, Bravo?" Byrne picked up one of the M3 sub-machine guns and unscrewed the suppressor.

  As he had suspected, their practice with the recovered M3s showed that silencers did not work all that well on blowback actions, and Alpha wanted the short barrel's handiness. He opened the receiver cover and jacked the bolt to the rear. The M3 fired from an open bolt, so the gun was ready to shoot. He could close the cover, and the machine gun was on safe. The Mexicans were only a hundred yards out. Byrne kept the cover raised.

  Bravo said, "How about a little surprise from us? I have practiced fast draw for too many years to be taken by MS-13 punks who are unlikely to have ever shot a full magazine from their junk nine-millimeters."

  Byrne snickered. "They have probably studied that old Taxi Driver movie and have practiced hours in front of their mirrors with Dirty Harry .44 Magnums.

  "They are probably snake-quick, but okay, pardner, you go out, you outdraw them—and I believe you will do that without sweat—but what am I supposed to be doing while you are out Wyatt Earping them? Why shouldn't I be there right beside you?"

  Bravo did not spare his friend's feelings.

  "Because you are slower than a lame turtle, Alpha, and if two of us appear it might scare them off. This is my kind of game. I know how, and I will do it." Shepard's eyes were cold and as hard as Byrne could remember them.

  As he always did, Bravo checked his pistol for a chambered round. He re-holstered the gun and just as suddenly snapped it clear and pointing, his body dropping into a crouch with the pistol held two-handed in an isosceles stance. The move was extremely fast, but Bravo was just practicing. He again returned the gun to its hip holster, and this time, he drew and aimed one handed, cowboy style—and he was significantly quicker.

  Byrne was impressed. "God, Bravo, can you hit anything one-handed like that?" Alpha knew Shepard could. He had seen it when they shot a thousand or so rounds from the fantail of the Noisy Oyster.

  Byrne conceded, "All right, those two are yours. I'll ease to the front corner, and keep an eye out for hombres staked out in the brush." Byrne studied the Mexicans who were now quite close.

  "They are too young. Neither of them is Christus."

  Bravo was slipping on a comfortable windbreaker that he favored. The coat came just below his waist and disguised the holstered pistol. He left the zipper open so that his hand gripping pistol would simply slip the lightweight material aside.

  "Yeah, they look too young to me. So, you keep a sharp eye peeled. If they blink wrong, I'll drop 'em and step back inside. If anyone raises up, he'll be yours."

  The Mexican men stopped short of the porch and milled for an indecisive moment before hailing the house. Their voices came clearly, and their expressions were friendly. Neither Alpha nor Bravo saw weapons.

  Alpha said, "I'm heading out. Give me a ten count, then make your move."

  As calmly as if he had done it a dozen times, Bravo questioned, "Make my move? I'm just going to step onto the porch to speak with some traveling workmen."

  If his partner was shaken or nervous at the prospect of shooting to death two men, Don Byrne did not detect it.

  Left hand gripping the long thirty-round magazine, Byrne held his M3 at a crude Port Arms as he eased out the backdoor and slid along his back wall to reach a corner. He kept his own count, and at nine, he moved to the house side and swift-stepped to the front corner.

  Byrne kept his eyes on the unmowed grass and weeds that came to within a hundred or so yards of his house. He thought that he was overdue in bush hogging them down to a more reasonable height. Brushfires could rage in such a crop, and little was worse than having a wind-driven, wild fire rushing at you. Nothing moved or showed within the weeds, and Byrne heard his front door open. He caught a hint of Bravo's soft step as he came onto the porch. Byrne listened closer, but his eyes did not shift. Bravo had his task, and it was Alpha's job to make sure that he was uninterrupted.

  An American stepped through the doorway, and he was older. It was probably the doctor, and Pasco was pleased. The second man did not appear, and that was disappointing, but why would both come to the porch merely to greet two workers? It would not be a problem.

  He swept off his hat and saw Raul's match his own sweep to his waist. Pasco said, "We are seeking work, Senor. We are legals with our green cards, and we will do any kind of work offered."

  Now the American would speak, and he would be dead before he said many words. Pasco allowed his hand to move closer to his belt-carried pistol.

  Bravo saw the hand move, and he was not surprised. His own cold smile held. His words, however, stunned, and despite their intent to instantly shoot, the shock of the words delayed the Mexicans for an all-important instant.

  His voice powerful and condemning, Bravo said, "Toro Caca! You work for Christus." Bravo drew as he spoke.

  Raul was faster than Pasco, and his fingers gripped his Smith & Wesson before an astonished Pasco could more than begin his draw.

  Neither stood a chance. The shooting was too fast for them to realize a terrible misjudgment, although as he collapsed, Pasco's mind wondered if many North Americans could shoot like the devil who was killing him.

  Bravo's pistol snapped clear, and its first round departed as the barrel swung into line. The bullet struck Raul squarely between the eyes, and all life left the gang killer. Pasco lived longer because shooting at top speed, Bravo dumped rounds into his body.

  Three bullets, fired almost as one, struck Pasco in the chest. Bravo's deadly Black Talon hollow pointed bullets ripped and dug deep. Pasco's heart and lungs died together, and only the single fleeting thought of how swift the American had been reached his awareness. Pasco did not feel his body strike the porch. His undrawn pistol fell free and lay beside him in the gravel driveway.

  When Bravo opened fire, Alpha concentrated his focus on the too-close cover that could conceal other enemies. An
d up one came.

  The range was long for the .45 ACP caliber submachine gun but not too long. Manuals claimed that the M3 was accurate out to seventy-five yards. Men trained to shoot the old M3s knew better. When used by a competent marksman familiar with the sub-machine gun, a target at one hundred yards was dead meat.

  This suddenly exposed target was that far out. Alpha's heavy 230-grain military bullet would drop, so he held the M3's crude sights on the figure's face and squeezed the long and jagged trigger pull. The M3 shuddered in recoil, but it did not climb and wrench to a side as a Thompson sub-gun would have. Alpha held dead on and let the bullets pour through the barrel.

  He had to be hitting, but the figure did not collapse, and through the heavy powder smoke of automatic fire, Alpha discovered another, mostly hidden figure, beyond the first. He shifted his aim and emptied the magazine.

  Christus saw one man step onto the porch. He laid his rifle sights on the man's ribs, and took up the tiny slack in his trigger.

  On the porch, there was motion, and the crack of shots. Christus struggled to see the result.

  Perdido! The American still stood. Beside Christus, Jose had partly risen in excitement, and his movement delayed Christus' shot into the American.

  Jose was shouting something, but Christus could not make it out. Jose was pointing toward the house corner, and Christus sought to understand without losing his sight picture on the American. He had to shoot, and he did.

  Bravo barely looked at his victims. He leaned away and began a turn to re-enter the house when the bullet struck. He had never been shot before, but he recognized the feeling. Something had hammered him in the side, and his feet had jumped from under him. He discovered he was sitting on the floor looking down the road with a confused sense that he ought to be moving instead of looking, but at least for the moment, he was unable to wiggle a finger.

  Christus believed his aim had been good, but as he squeezed his trigger, a bit of Jose's flesh had splattered on his rifle barrel. The roll of full-automatic fire swept his hearing, and Christus had heard and experienced that before. As he desperately twisted into the shallow route he had used coming in, a bullet tugged at his shirt and stung near a shoulder. More hammered the earth around him.

  He crawled away at his best speed and was highly gratified that Jose was crowding his heels. The machine gun fire had died, but that could mean only reloading—possibly while the machine gunner sought a more favorable shooting position.

  He reached tree cover and rose to run. Departure and reorganization would be necessary. One of the targets was down, and perhaps it was the doctor. Christus listened as he ran. Pasco and Raul would by now be inside the house, they might have already killed the second man—who would have been the machine gun shooter.

  Until they had unsuspectingly stumbled onto at least one experienced and ready gunman, all had seemed well. Surely, Pasco and Raul would have killed him by now, but he heard nothing. There was no further shooting, so such an outcome seemed most probable.

  Deeper within the forest, Christus paused behind a thick aspen stand to allow a laboring Jose to catch up.

  Of course, Jose had been wounded, and part of him had splattered on Christus and shaken his aim. It was worth taking time to examine his man's wounds and determine if he should go on or be left behind. If Jose could not continue, Christus would have to end his companion's life. He could not leave a living witness to speak with the law about who had been along when the doctor had died.

  Being the most exposed, Jose had been hit a number of times, and the wounds were nasty. Fortunately, although struck all over, none appeared immediately terminal. Jose had been shot through an upper arm, and that missing meat had certainly been the part that had flown in Christus' direction.

  Too much blood was flowing, but Jose was moving the arm. Jose had a second bullet hole through the meat of a thigh, and a third had slashed like a saber across his ribs. As they moved, Jose had discovered another wound with toes lying loosely in one shoe. Jose's pain would mount until he would stiffen and be able to do little, but for now, he could function.

  Christus would circle to where he could see best. Then, he would use his cell phone to call Pasco and Raul to make certain all was clear before he and Jose went down to clean the mess, to quickly hook up the camper, and to depart with the bodies. Jose could rest in the camper with Pasco, who would be most dependable caring for wounds.

  Christus pondered only one mystery. Why had the American on the porch still been standing after Pasco and Raul's first shooting?

  Why had he been on his feet so that Christus could get in his shot? Could he have been wearing an armored vest that would stop the puny nine-millimeter pistol bullets? The thought appeared ridiculous and unlikely, but Christus could think of no other answer. His rifle bullet would have penetrated any such vest, and it had certainly ended the porch battle. His men could explain the mystery when they met.

  When he reached a safe overlook, Jesus Christus saw only his two men, assuredly dead, sprawled on their faces in the driveway. How could they have failed? He could not see beneath the porch overhang to study the American's dead body, but Christus had shot him, and it would be there.

  Where was the second American? The situation was suddenly desperate. The American would be inside the house protection calling in help—serious help that could hunt and would shoot.

  The police would find three men dead, and one of them their own. Their hunt would be ferocious. Posses would form with horses and all-terrain vehicles. There could be helicopters and there would be dogs.

  Christus wasted no more time. He helped the sagging but still willing Jose to his feet and began a long-planned withdrawal prepared for exactly this intolerable turn of event.

  Chapter 29

  His eyes glued to his mostly-hidden targets, Byrne ejected his empty 30-round magazine and slammed in a full one.

  Thirty rounds blasted at half-seen human shapes. He had to have scored, didn't he? How many had he seen? He guessed two or more, but even as he reloaded foliage moved as someone slid and scrambled from their ambush. Alpha watched for further clues of moving brush, or better yet, a panicky figure plunging away, but he saw nothing more.

  One of them had gotten off a shot—not at him, almost certainly at Bravo. Where had that bullet gone?

  He had to look closer at his own shooting. He could have a man or more down, and if any were wounded, he needed to finish them off immediately before they recovered and escape or further attack became possible.

  He also had to make certain that those who ran kept going. They might withdraw only a few dozen yards to regroup and come again.

  There was Bravo, so Alpha called, but received no answer. Damnation, was Shepard hit? The ambusher had fired the instant he had risen. If Bravo had been delayed outside a good rifleman could have scored.

  Hurrying through the house, Byrne saw Bravo sitting on the porch. What the hell? He called again, and Shepard's head rose, but he did not get up. Hell and damnation both. Bravo was hit.

  Alpha almost dove onto the porch. He hooked his hands under Bravo's armpits and hauled him inside. Bravo's pistol lay on the porch. Byrne would recover it later. The Mexicans lay unmoving on the gravel drive, and Alpha judged they were dead. What had gotten Bravo—the Mexican pistoleros or the rifleman? There was blood across Bravo's body and it had run down one of his sides—looking bad.

  Doctor Don Byrne went to work. He placed his M3 gun closely aside. He locked both front and back doors. Tending a seriously wounded man, he would be almost helpless if attacked.

  Then he saw to Bravo. He ungently tore Shepard's coat and shirt from his body. Shepard complained only a little. Byrne judged him in pretty bad shape.

  Bravo's wound wept along its length. The bullet had struck and it had obviously expanded leaving a long and leaky wound channel. Byrne expected the bullet had broken at least one rib, maybe more. The bullet had gone on, and they would not find it. That part was good, but the hit might h
ave blasted bone and even bullet bits into Bravo's body—and that would be seriously bad.

  That would be notably bad because Byrne had no intentions of hustling his partner to a medical facility. A great effort had to be made to disguise all that went on here. Byrne's judgment of the seriousness of Bravo's wound would determine whether he could be treated in the safety of the cave, or if he required emergency hospitalization that would expose them to all sorts of undesirable delays, investigations, and legalities.

  Shepard's bleeding had not increased when he was moved, and that was encouraging, unless the man had already drained nearly dry. Doctor Byrne saw decent color in Bravo's features, so, perhaps . . .

  Bravo roused a little and spoke his first words. "Son of a bitch!"

  Very manly, Byrne thought and added, "Yeah. You took a rifle bullet in the ribs."

  "How bad?"

  "You'll live, the bullet kept going, but you need surgery. I'm deciding on whether I can do it with the cave stuff. If I can't, I'll drive you to our clinic or have a chopper come out here even faster."

  Bravo said, "I'm feeling a little stronger every minute, but I won't be helping much on this hunt, Donny." Shepard propped his body on his elbows. "Damn, that's starting to hurt. You've got lots of anesthesia haven't you?"

  Byrne had little beyond first aid materials in the house. He went to the kitchen for Saran Wrap. Then he answered Bravo's question.

  "Yeah, pardner, I've got stuff that will leave you asking for more, but it's expensive. Maybe aspirin will do."

  Shepard wanted to laugh, but he was beginning to hurt too much. Byrne wrapped his body with the Saran to keep bleeding down as they moved to the cave. Bravo struggled to keep the tone light.

  Badly hurt men often did that. Some joked as they died. Others cursed and struggled. Some simply quit.

  Bravo was of tough material. He said, "Alpha, all of those bad things I've said about your limited medical training—you know, the use of leeches and medicine dancing, things like that. Forget them, I never meant a word of it. I have complete confidence in your severely limited abilities."