Hector snapped the flashlight off, and rose from his crouch. He crossed the road to the northern side, careful not to disturb any tracks, then began padding slowly up the road. His bare feet felt the dirt and pebbles, still warm from the day’s sun. He moved with purpose, not hurrying, not hesitating. Every fifty paces he stopped, bent at his knees, and used his flashlight to side cast for tracks.
Miguel’s silver toed boots left very distinct prints. The tracks were widely spaced. The toe kicks where he pushed off for another long pace indicated he was running hard. He blackened the flashlight, and resumed his steady stalk. He repeated the process a dozen times every fifty paces. Stop, crouch, side scan the flashlight for tracks, continue.
The tracks took on a very different pattern after 300 yards. Miguel was clearly running out of steam. The strides were shorter in length. The toe kick was gone. The feet dragged in the dirt, and weaved right and left from a straight line. Miguel was fatigued. Hector began checking the tracks every twenty paces. Miguel had dragged his feet for the last fifty yards, stopping several times. Small circular indentations in the dusty dirt in front of knee prints indicated he had stopped, fallen to his knees to catch his breath. Beads of sweat had run off his face to indent the dust.
“You are close.” Hector thought.
He advanced another twenty paces, stopped and crouched to scan for tracks. There were none. Carefully, Hector reversed, and duck walked as he backtracked. After ten small paces, he found the tracks. They had stopped in the middle of the dirt road, shuffled in a circle, and turned towards Hector into the thigh high grass. The grass was parted, several stalks broken, others flattened under boots. Hector turned the flashlight off, stood straight, and looked across the grassland north of the dirt road. His night vision was compromised by the flashlight, but the half-moon was higher in the sky, providing more contrast between sky and earth. He easily made out the outline of a house and barn half a kilometer across the field. He tucked the flashlight into his belt. He sat in the grass. An hour had passed since he bade farewell to Alejandro, and began his stalk.
Hector sat and rested for a very long time. He rested deeply, but with awareness. He willed his muscles to relax, and his heartbeat to calm. He drank from his canteen, removed his headscarf, doused it with water and washed his face and neck. He checked his wounded side. He watched the moon rise high into the night sky, reaching its zenith, then begin to descend towards the eastern horizon. In his stillness, he relived his youth in the high desert and mountains, tracking, hunting. The night came alive. He became a stone, witnessing this time and place, as he had taught his soldiers. Luis had been his best student.
A coyote yipped in the distance. His Yaqui mother taught him the coyote were tricksters to her people. Smart, cunning, and patient. Night hunters, at home in the mountains, or raiding a bustling village. An owl called from the tree line, momentarily stilling the night birds with fear. A field mouse moved through the grass, close to Hector. He tracked his progress from the tiny rustling in the grass, until it reached the edge of the dirt road.
“That is not a place for you this night, little traveler,” he thought, but the mouse didn’t listen. It scampered onto the dirt road in search of seeds. A dark shadow streaked across the moonlit sky soundlessly, and hit the tiny traveler with its talons. A soft sound, and a brief puff of dust. The wise owl had his evening meal.
In the trees and brush to his right, he heard the distinctive rooting and squeals of a sounder of wild pigs, the scourge of South Texas and Northern Mexico. Unlike native wild desert pigs called javelin in Mexico, which never grew larger than 30 pounds, these were the descendants of domestic pigs that had escaped into the wild. They were huge, aggressive, and armed with six inch tusks that could rip a man in half. Billions of dollars in agriculture was destroyed each year from their destructive foraging. And, they were omnivores. They would kill and eat anything.
Wild Texas hogs travelled in sounders ranging from a half dozen, to thirty or forty animals. A farmer in a place called South Carolina had killed a large boar that weighed over one thousand pounds. They called it Hogzilla.
Hector had noticed a faint rabbit tunnel beneath the tall grass. A plan had formed in his mind, and a rabbit would play a key role. He removed some light wire from a cargo pocket, and crept to a small tree sapling next to the hidden trail. This tree had survived the war with the grasses, and stood six feet above the surrounding stalks. He attached the wire to the top of the sapling, and formed a noose on the other end. He bent the sapling to the ground, creating a trigger with a forked stick he drove into the ground with a rock. Reaching through the grass, careful to disturb nothing in the under-grass tunnel, he positioned the noose, then returned to his seat some yards away.
An hour later, the sapling trap was sprung. Hector leaped to his feet, and dashed to the dangling and kicking rabbit caught in the snare. Using cordage, he quickly tied the animals front and rear legs together, and carefully removed the noose from its head so it would not strangle. He needed the rabbit alive.
“Thank you brother. Can you help me tonight? Then I will let you go.”
He returned to his seat in the grass, and lay the trussed rabbit next to him. It kicked occasionally, then settled.
As a Yaqui boy, he hunted for food for his family with other boys. The learned to fashion deadfalls for ground squirrels, snares for javelin and rabbit. Hector had no proper knife. He used a discarded butter knife from the hacienda he had sharpened on a rock. Other boys had better knives, given to them by their fathers. Hector’s father was the son of the Patron. He watched Hector grow up, but never acknowledged his relationship. Hector, with his handmade hunting and trapping tools became the best hunter in the village, providing food for the old widows as well as his mother.
One day, Hector walked the path into the village with two javelin over his shoulders. As he rounded a corner, Don Tomas, the Patron’s son, his father, stepped from his mother’s house. Hector froze in his tracks. Tomas turned, saw Hector, and walked directly to him.
“I’m told you are a great hunter.” He towered above the boy. Hector was silent, but met his father’s eyes defiantly.
“Your mother has something for you. It is from me. Use it well.”
Tomas turned, and left. It was the first, and last words his father would ever speak to him. Hector rushed into his house, dropping the pigs on the front steps. As he burst through the door, his mother stood in the single room holding something wrapped in cloth. She presented it to Hector.
He advanced, accepted the bundle, and unwrapped it. The cloth revealed a hunting knife in a fine-carved leather sheath. He withdrew the knife revealing the finest six inch Damascus steel blade with a traditional drop point. The ivory handle had an inscription he could not read.
“Mother, what does it say?” He begged.
“El Cazador. The Hunter.” His mother answered.
Hector stood from his rest in the grass, refreshed. The sun would rise in an hour. More than enough time. He reached to the small of his back, and withdrew an ivory handled knife of the finest Damascus steel. The blade was a half inch thinner from twenty-five years of sharpening. He turned, picked up the rabbit, bent low and entered the grass following Miguel’s trail at a light jog.
Dirt Road, North of I-77, South Texas
Miguel was a wreck. Exhausted, terrified, and alone. Luis, his protector was dead, shot by Sergeant Gonzales. He did not understand. How were Mexican Special Forces operating twenty miles inside the United States? They tracked him now.
He kicked in the front door of the house, and stumbled inside, pointing his Glock in every direction. He was blind in the darkness of the empty house. He tried walking forward both arms extended to feel his way, and only ran into the newel post supporting the banister to the second floor. He fished in his pocket for his lighter, found it at last, and flipped it open, striking the flint wheel. It sparked to life, illuminating a three feet circle around him.
Where to hide? He shuffled
his feet to avoid falling again. Feeling his way down the hallway next to the stairs, and found a door. Opening it revealed more stairs leading to a basement root cellar. He started down, stopped after two steps, and returned to the hall. “I will be trapped like a rat down there if they search the house,” he thought. “I must find a place to watch, with an escape route if I see them approach.” His mouth was very dry. He reversed course, returning to the stairs to the second floor, and started to climb. He held the Glock in his right hand, and the lighter in his left. Halfway to the top, the metal body of the lighter grew too hot to hold from the extended flame, forcing him to snap it closed, and drop it. He heard it bounce down several steps. Doubly blind from the darkness, and loss of night vision from staring at the flame, he carefully backed down one stair at a time, feeling for the lighter like a drowning man grasping for a life buoy.
His hand brushed the still hot lighter. He pocketed it, and resumed his climb in the darkness, using his hands on the treads above him. At the top, he stood upright. Faintly, a hall extended to the left and right. What could only be bedrooms with open doors cast light from their windows into the hall, providing points of navigation. Miguel moved down the hall to the first bedroom. It faced the front of the house.
He quickly paced to the window, and looked out. The moon was rising, and he could make out the line of the dirt road in the distance, and the grass field he had crossed. There was a line through the grass that didn’t register in his brain. It was the path he made.
He sat on a chest beneath the window, and began his vigil looking for his pursuers. “If I see them, I will slip out the back through a window,” he thought.
The hours passed agonizingly slow. The house was stifling hot, only cooled minutely from the day’s heat. By morning, it might be cooled enough to be comfortable. Tonight, it was unbearable. He could not leave the window. Once, he thought he saw a flash of light along the dirt road a half kilometer away, maybe a flashlight. His adrenaline surged, making his skin crawl. But then nothing. More hours. His lips began to crack. He had nothing to drink since yesterday morning. He constantly looked at his phone to check the time. Each time he opened it, the illuminated screen ruined his night vision, but he could not help himself. Inactivity was torture. Every couple hours, he lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. He had only a few left.
“If I don’t see anything by first light, I will steal a car, and head to San Antonio.”
Hector slowed when he neared the house. One hundred yards out, he left Miguel’s trail and crept closer using trees and brush to mask his shadow. Thirty yards from the house, he stopped behind a mesquite bush, took a knee and watched the house. After twenty minutes, a flare of light, like a candle flame, briefly illuminated the front right upstairs window, then disappeared. He waited. A pinpoint of red light grew brighter, then faded. Seconds later, it appeared again. Hector smiled.
“Hello Miguel. Don’t you know the Surgeon General says smoking tobacco can kill you?”
He moved into the trees to the side, making for the rear of the house. He examined the house from the rear. A back door with a small roofed porch, a bathroom window above, slightly open. The rear porch was just a small platform to support two steps to the ground with a steep tin roof. It connected to a well-worn footpath to the barn forty yards behind the house. Thick woods began at the rear of the barn.
This would be Miguel’s panic escape route to the woods. He walked to the barn. A thick coil of rusty bailing wire leaned against the open door frame. Next to the wire, a mechanic’s pan. The unmistaken smell of used motor oil. Hector cut a suitable length of wire with his Leatherman tool, and prepared a reception for Miguel.
Miguel was at the end of his rope. He had spent the night without sleep, his emotions jerking between boredom and abject terror at every new sound. He had smoked all his cigarettes, exacerbating his thirst. He watched and prayed for the sun to rise. Soon, he would escape this prison. No one had come in the night. The sun was casting pink ribbons in the eastern sky, but it was still dark. Thank God.
A loud voice from the front, shouting, startled him, making him jump. “Hey, he’s in the house!”
He fell off the chest he sat upon. Miguel scrambled to his knees and grabbed the window sill. On the trail through the grass, someone ran towards the house with a flashlight, it’s beam bouncing every which way. They were unbelievably fast.
He sprang to his feet, grabbing his Glock, and ran to the bathroom across the hall. The window overlooked the back of the house. He ripped the sash upward, and climbed onto the steep porch tin roof. His silver toed boots slipped out from under him. The tin was slick with something, and he landed on his backside, losing his grip on the gun which skittered off the roof. He could not stop himself from rapidly sliding feet first off the slickened tin roof. His feet were suddenly over the edge. He instinctively spread his arms, then felt something catch on one leg, sliding all the way up to his crotch. His body was violently twisted sideways from his momentum, and was suddenly flipped around. Miguel dropped head first off the roof. Just before his head crashed into the hard ground, he jerked to a stop, dangling from one leg. He screamed in pain and terror.
Miguel’s world spun, as his body spun. He was completely disoriented. He hung upside down. He couldn’t quite reach the ground with his hands to relieve the excruciating pain on his leg above the knee. Like a children’s merry-go-round, he hung, slowly spinning. The sunrise had lit the area in bluish gray light. His head throbbed with his blood pressuring his brain, draining from his body. His left foot was numb. A man approached with a quick step. Miguel caught upside down snapshots of his approach as he spun. Fifty feet. Thirty feet, Fifteen feet. The man jogged the last few feet, something in his hand. As Miguel spun to again face the man, he glimpsed his shins and feet. Very dark skin, and barefoot. Movement from the side, a blinding white light, then darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marina, south of Downtown Key West
“Gas is here. Show time, Captain Ron.” Bobby Lee turned to his captive. “Now, let’s be real clear. I’m going to have this here pistol aimed squarely at the back of your head. Anything goes wrong, your fault, his fault, even nobody’s fault, and I blow your brains all over that shiny deck. We understand each other, Ronnie ol’ pal?”
Ron nodded his understanding, holding his fourth martini since being cut free. He wobbled a bit.
“Why did you give him so much to drink?” Sherrod was scared and angry.
“That’s how this asshole spends his days. Drunk. That’s how you were able to board his boat, and secure him. And that’s how the harbor crew expect to find him. Drunk. He needs a little liquid courage to pull this off. If he was sober, no telling how much he’d shake, or what he’d say.”
“Showtime!” Bobby Lee pushed drunk Ron towards the bridge and outer deck. “Remember, I’m watching.”
“Ahoy! She Got the House. Need a fill-up? A voice came from the pier.
“What the fuck? Is this Sea World? Who the hell says Ahoy?” Bobby whispered to Sherrod. Sherrod just frowned. Bobby Lee glanced out the window. A pimple faced college kid dressed like a cartoon sailor stood with a greasy coverall wearing mechanic holding the business end of a long gas hose from a service boat parked directly behind the yacht. Ron staggered topside, sloshing his martini.
“Ahoy Captain Duquesne! We’re here to provision ya’” The make-believe sailor-boy beamed. The mechanic rolled his eyes, and dropped his chin at the indignity of this farce.
“Okay.” Ron responded. Apparently, he had forgotten his lines. He stood with a blank face, and wobbled.
“Shall we put it on yer tab, sir?” beaming sailor-boy asked.
“Okay.”
“Aye Aye, Captain!” Sailor-boy turned to the mechanic. “Swabby, jump to it quick!
The 40ish mechanic gave Sailor-boy an I’m going to kill you look, and made a half step towards him, making the kid flinch, and skitter backward.
“Chill Vince, I’m just doing
my job.” the kid whispered. They started towards the stern of the boat. Vince unscrewed the gas cap. Their argument was interrupted by a couple cops approaching. One cop, and a real sailor in his day khaki’s holding a clip board. The cop spoke first.
“Evening. You gassing up this boat? Owner planning on a cruise tonight?
“No sir. Ron Duquesne is the owner. He hasn’t left this pier in two months. He’s the drunk on the front deck.” Dustin replied. On cue, Ron leaned forward, and waved at the group with his fingers. He almost lost his balance, and had to grab the railing, spilling the rest of his martini.
“Thank you.” The sailor made a note on his clip board, and they moved on to the next boat. When they were out of earshot, Vince started on Dustin again. He wasn’t finished.
“I don’t give a flying fuck, Dustin. That’s the twelfth time today I had to listen to that shit! It gets fucking old, you know. I’m not your fucking swabby.” Vince shoved the nozzle into the fill-up tube, and started fueling.
“My mom said I had to find a job, or go back to school. You think I like this shit. It’s humiliating.” Dustin whined.
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