This Side of Night

by J. Todd Scott

  That meant he was a shadow, too, almost invisible behind the smoky plastic of the camper shell. He could see out well enough, at least until he lost the sun at his back. West had thoughtfully included an AN-PVS-22 clip-on night sight that Danny had already tested, but if it got too dark, if things dragged on a little too long, the few tactical advantages Danny had wouldn’t mean much. He’d lose control of his battlefield.

  He had to make sure this ended fast.

  He adjusted the radio earpiece and the mic clipped to his BDUs. He’d folded the rifle’s stock to accommodate the small space he had to work in, but now he shouldered the M110 and used its high-powered scope like the spare pair of binoculars he’d brought along. He saw the whole world through a tunnel, things both close and far away at the same time. The scope gave the scene a certain unreal quality, a weird chrome sheen, as if he were looking at a movie.

  As if the sheriff’s truck and the yucca were shiny props and the house itself were cardboard, easily pushed down with a hand.

  The same hand that had been crushing him all afternoon, that was tightening more now.

  A house that held people he cared about.

  He took a breath, as deep as he could, and forced his hands to stop shaking.

  His bad eye was bouncing up and down so he closed it. Working the scope, he didn’t need it anyway.

  He waited for the van to show itself.

  SIXTY-SIX

  They’re here,” Chris said, as the van rolled to a stop. It hadn’t pulled past his own truck, so there was some ground to cover between it and the house.

  Too much ground.

  Amé was at his side, with Fox Uno behind her. They were all watching the van idling in the gravel. It was an old Ford Aerostar, the color of pencil lead, rust and primer spotting the wheel wells.

  No one got out.

  Chris checked in on the handheld with Danny, who confirmed he had eyes on the van as well, and had seen no movement, either.

  “Okay, I’m going out there. Let’s see who showed up.”

  “No, let me,” Amé said. “I will do it.”

  “No, you’re staying back here, covering me.”

  Her eyes went hard, reflecting her frustration. She clearly hadn’t expected Chris to do this alone. “I have to do this. You won’t understand what they’re saying.”

  Chris smiled. “I will if they talk slow enough. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m going to have him right next to me.” He pointed at Fox Uno. “He can translate.” He left the Remington leaning against the door frame, but shouldered his A5, aiming it squarely at Fox Uno, using it to gesture toward the door. “Let’s go meet your men and get my deputy’s mother.”

  Amé stepped in front of him, desperate. “No, por favor, let me do this . . .”

  Danny’s voice cut in over the radio: “I got the driver’s-side door open and one out. Just one . . .”

  Chris glanced back through the window, where he also could see the van’s door now open, and someone standing there. He turned back to Amé. “It’s going to be okay. This is what you wanted. Freedom, right? I’m going to make sure you get that, that we all do.”

  Chris swapped in the radio earpiece on the handheld hooked to his jeans, and then pulled Fox Uno toward him, ordering him in Spanish to open the front door.

  He radioed Danny and told him they were coming out.

  Danny’s voice came back again, now loud in Chris’s ear. “He’s got something in his hands, Sheriff . . .”

  Fox Uno opened the door.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  They’d been walking for an hour, following what remained of the fence line, when Eddy finally picked out the house.

  And the sheriff’s truck . . . and Danny Ford’s Bronco.

  Johnnie then had them all fan out and settle in and watch for a bit.

  * * *

  —

  IT HAD BEEN JOHNNIE’S IDEA to abandon their vehicles out by the 19 and hike the rest of the way toward the house, coming at it overland from the southwest, clear and away from the access road that led back to it. Eddy had toyed with the idea of trying to turn them around and getting them lost, maybe walking their asses right into Mexico, but he hadn’t been sure he could find the sheriff’s house even legitimately trying, so he’d let that plan go.

  Now here he was staring at it—a nice little place with green trim and a big front porch—with Johnnie breathing hard next to him.

  Johnnie hadn’t left his side all afternoon, which had considerably narrowed Eddy’s already shitty options. Although Johnnie had destroyed Eddy’s personal phone back at the trailer, he’d somehow forgotten about the Apache phone—the one he’d given Eddy during their first meeting—and Eddy had succeeded in slipping that down his jeans before they left the trailer, just like he’d been able to grab Danny’s phone number off the egg carton, too, after the deputy had visited him this morning. But so far, he hadn’t been able to get free enough to do anything with either of them. And even if he did, Danny wouldn’t recognize the unfamiliar number and might not answer the call.

  Not if he was tied up with whatever was going on inside that house.

  Danny was only a hundred yards away—there in that pretty house, probably with the sheriff and the old man Johnnie had come to kill.

  Eddy remembered that the sheriff had recently had a kid with that hot girlfriend of his from Earlys. Would Johnnie and the rest of those fuckers shoot a woman and a kid?

  Yes, yes, they fucking would.

  Johnnie’s boys were spread out in the scrub, all of them in their black ninja gear. They had their badges out on chains, swinging around their necks, easily tucked away at a moment’s notice, and Johnnie kept checking a red phone of his own, looking for messages. Eddy didn’t know if he was waiting for some signal, or some confirmation, or what. Johnnie was chewing on one of his damn matchsticks, eyeballing the house. To their left, Ringo was using a pair of tiny binoculars to give the place a good once-over. When he was done, he whistled low to Johnnie and flashed a hand signal Eddy didn’t understand.

  Johnnie nodded and went back to his phone.

  Eddy did some math in his head.

  He was maybe a hundred yards from the house itself, give or take, and maybe less than that to Danny Ford’s truck. At his prime, at his best, he’d been able to do the hundred meters—pretty much the same distance to the house—in about eleven and half seconds. But that was a damn long time ago, and he was far from his prime.

  So call it twice that—say, twenty seconds. What were his chances with five pissed-off men trying to shoot him in the back? Next to impossible, and no better than what he’d had with Danny back at the trailer. No way he’d make it. He might get twenty steps before they put him down. His only chance was the Apache phone, which after their little hike felt like it was shoved almost halfway up his ass.

  Eddy wasn’t proud of many of things he’d done in his life, and now was no time for pride.

  “Fuck me, Johnnie, my nerves is all shot to hell. I gotta take a shit.”

  Johnnie looked him up and down like Eddy was on fire, like he’d just burst into rosy flames in front of him. “What the fuck?”

  “All this walking . . . those goddamn eggs. Hell, maybe they were bad or something. I think I’m going to shit myself right here.”

  “The fuck you are,” Johnnie said through clenched teeth and his matchstick, as if that order was enough.

  Eddy tried on a face that said otherwise.

  Johnnie looked around, rolling his eyes, disbelieving. “Goddamn, you are a piece of work.”

  “Look, you don’t need me no more. I did what you wanted. Lemme just move back out of the way.”

  “I’m sorry to say, amigo, I’m not quite done with you yet. Not by a long shot. And I can’t have you stumbling around at our backs. But Jesus, crawl over there, cop a squat. Downwind.” Johnnie made a vag
ue motion to some mesquite scrub, well within sight. Not too far away.

  But far enough.

  Eddy knew exactly what Johnnie meant by not being done with him. After they shot the hell out of the old man and whoever stood in their way, Johnnie or one of the others was going to put a bullet in Eddy’s brain pan and leave him behind to take the fall. Nobody who knew Eddy would believe he’d gun down the sheriff or anyone else, but in the bloody aftermath, Eddy guessed he wouldn’t have too many friends suddenly standing up to vouch his for goddamn corpse. After all, Eddy’s so-called friends had abandoned the very-much-alive Eddy Rabbit after his arrest out at Delcia Canyon.

  But not Danny, who’d never been a friend at all.

  Eddy crawled a few more feet away, making a show of it . . . fumbling with his jeans, making faces, groaning . . . until Johnnie looked away, embarrassed, shaking his head.

  Giving Eddy the chance he needed to slide that Apache phone up into his hand.

  He thumbed it on, keeping his eyes on Johnnie. It couldn’t have much battery left, only a spark, but he prayed it was enough to get one message out. Had to be. He wasn’t going to have time to make a goddamn social conversation out of it, or explain much . . . just a few words that he had to make count.

  As he waited for the phone to wake up, he stared into the setting sun. That small breeze from earlier had followed them all the way out here, and he could smell flowers, agave and sotol and nolina. He’d been sweating for the whole hike, but in that moment, he was almost cool, relaxed, like he was standing in some nice shade. It wasn’t as nice as Eddy’s canyon, but it was damn fine, too, in its own way, and he could see why the sheriff might want to live out here.

  If Johnnie had looked over at him then, he might have seen his eyes closed and a smile on his face.

  Eddy was just typing in Danny’s number he’d memorized, hoping he had it right, when Johnnie said something. He risked a glance up, following Johnnie’s own gaze.

  That’s when they both saw an old van roll up and park in front of the house.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  The man in the red shirt did not match the second voice on the phone.

  This man . . . kid . . . was younger. He had thick hair and the hint of a beard, one of those closely cropped, three-day shadows that took plenty of effort to make look so haphazard. Even at a distance, his sunglasses and dark jeans appeared expensive. It was almost like he’d dressed up for the occasion. He reminded Chris of a college student, a fashion model, rather than a narco, and if Fox Uno recognized him, it was impossible to tell from the old man’s face.

  The kid had a leather bag or satchel in his hand that he held out from his body. He’d walked about ten steps from the van, but his door was still open. The setting sun was reflecting off the windshield, so it was difficult to see exactly who was sitting in the passenger seat, or if it was even occupied, and based on Danny’s voice in his ear, he evidently couldn’t get a decent look, either.

  Fox Uno walked off the porch and started to approach the kid. Chris followed him down to the bottom step, then held up. He ordered Fox Uno to do the same.

  Fox Uno and the kid were about twenty feet apart, shadows still and dark between them. Chris kept the A5 high, covering both.

  “I’m guessing this isn’t Gualterio? Do you know who this is?” Chris asked. None of them had truly expected Gualterio to show up in person, but they hadn’t expected someone this young, either.

  “No,” Fox Uno said.

  “Tell him we need to see America’s mother. Tell him we need to see her now.”

  Fox Uno addressed the young man. Calm. Friendly. He asked him his name.

  The kid with the satchel hesitated, like he was waiting for instructions of his own, like he had a voice in his ear the way Chris did. “Mi nombre es Xavier,” he said at last, now holding out the satchel to Fox Uno like he was giving him a present. “Me envió tu hijo, Martino.”

  “¿Conoces a mi hijo?” Fox Uno asked. “¿Has hablado con Gualterio?”

  “No he hablado con un Gualterio,” the kid in the red shirt—Xavier—replied, taking a few more tentative steps forward, still offering the bag to Fox Uno, who ignored it. Fox Uno told Xavier that everything was okay, not to be afraid, but the americanos needed to see the anciana, the old woman, ahora mismo, right now, or the man behind him with the shotgun—Chris—would start shooting.

  And he would start with Xavier. Fox Uno said it with a serious smile. Deadly serious.

  That stopped Xavier in his tracks, and his eyes went wide as he called back to the van.

  Chris didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it was clear enough that this Xavier didn’t seem to know anything about Gualterio. Instead, he kept talking about Fox Uno’s son, Martino.

  Something was wrong.

  The side-panel door slid open and someone got out.

  Pushed out.

  A woman . . . with gray hair blowing in the breeze.

  For a moment, Chris almost relaxed. But he kept his A5 aimed at Xavier anyway, as he stepped down off the porch and joined Fox Uno.

  He kept searching the van up and down. There was something about that Aerostar, something familiar.

  Xavier started walking forward again, talking fast, blocking Chris’s clear sight of the woman standing beside the Aerostar, who was on the side opposite Danny, so he wouldn’t have a good look at her, either. The setting sun and the coiled shadows didn’t help, so the only one who could see her was Amé, who’d appeared on the porch with Chris’s Remington centered on the van’s windshield, and her own AR-15 slung over her shoulder.

  But she was the farthest away, calling out “Mama?” over and over again, across the scrub.

  Xavier was still talking to Fox Uno, talking about this Martino, someone who clearly was not in the van, as Danny started talking rapidly—urgently—to Chris, too, his voice suddenly way too loud over the radio in Chris’s ear. Danny was saying something Chris couldn’t make out, his attention split between Fox Uno and Xavier with his satchel and America at his back.

  And the woman with the gray hair—the only one not talking, not saying anything—standing silently on the darkened side of the Aerostar.

  Silently . . . not responding to her daughter.

  I know that van.

  They were all now about fifteen feet apart.

  Amé’s mother still not saying a word . . .

  . . . because Chris could now see the duct tape across her mouth, her eyes crazy with fear.

  I know that van.

  But before Chris could react, Amé called out, “Sheriff, no,” and then Fox Uno turned to him and very clearly, quietly, said, “Corre. Ahora.” Run. Now.

  Chris grabbed at him hard, pulling him backward fast. Stumbling, trying to retreat. He was yelling at Amé, too. “Get the hell back to the house!”

  And in that space where Fox Uno had been only a heartbeat before, something passed through the air. Chris felt it, imagined he saw it, before he heard the shot itself.

  One shot. Two. Maybe a third.

  Maybe more.

  They echoed over the scrub with voices all their own.

  He had no idea where that first shot had come from, but one more step—one more moment—the old man would have taken it in the face.

  It was pure luck Chris had grabbed him when he did.

  Chris had been shot at before. He’d even been ambushed right here in the Far Six, somehow surviving only because of another moment of that rare, impossible luck, so he knew what was coming for them next: a breathless chaos, time both speeding up and slowing down, the whole world and everything in it reduced to mere heartbeats.

  Absolute, heart-stopping terror after that.

  He also knew there was no way he had any more lucky moments saved up. He’d used his last one, maybe the last one for any of them, on Fox Uno.

  Amé wa
s still calling out to him:

  “That’s not my mama!”

  Now his young deputy was running forward, not backward, raising the Remington, yelling something about La Tienda.

  He understood then why the van had seemed so familiar. He’d seen it around Murfee all the time, most often parked at the little Mexican store, La Tienda.

  Who the hell are these people?

  Chris ordered Amé back again, screaming, begging—pleading with her just to get to the cover and safety of the damn house.

  But not before the satchel in Xavier’s hand, the one he had been carrying delicately from the very beginning, turned red and then white and then blossomed . . .

  And blew him to pieces.

  SIXTY-NINE

  TWENTY SECONDS BEFORE THE EXPLOSION . . .

  Eddy didn’t think his message had worked.

  He could see the young guy with the red shirt and the bag who’d come out of the van, as well as the sheriff and an old man who he guessed was the reason for all this shit. They were all kind of milling around in the yard, talking.

  He could also see that female deputy, America Reynosa, coming up behind them from the house itself.

  She was moving slow, then faster, a shotgun in her hand.

  Everyone was in motion, circling each other.

  But Danny Ford was nowhere to be seen, and Eddy had a hard time believing that the same deputy who’d chased him through his trailer wouldn’t be right in the middle of whatever the hell was going on over there right now.

  Johnnie and his boys were moving now, too, raising their own guns and drawing a bead on everyone standing outside.

  Badges swinging, catching the last of the light.

  No one up by the house knew they were there.

  Now they were shooting and Eddy could hear the whip-crack of their rifles, each one a heartbeat late.