by Ethan Cross
The rear doors were closed. With his right hand, he pulled them free and snatched the Peacemaker from his holster in the same motion. Two men with semiautomatic pistols hid inside the back of the panel van.
The man on the left raised his hands and said, “Whoa, Uncle Xavier, don’t shoot! It’s me.”
The other skinny little man who had always been Jamie Ramirez’s sidekick since they were boys followed suit and lowered his weapon. Slipping the Peacemaker back into his holster, Yazzie said, “I didn’t recognize you Jamie, with all that blood and dust all over you. What are you two doing in here?”
Both men had fear in their eyes. Ramirez answered, “El Diablo was out there walking in the fire. And laughing.”
Xavier Yazzie kept his face stone, but inside he snorted a laugh. El Diablo, that was rich. Obviously, these two had had another run-in with Frank out there as they were stumbling blindly through the smoke. Or perhaps they had heard or seen the aftermath of what happened to someone else who had come across the killer, who had more than earned Yazzie’s respect.
Yazzie said, “Help me get her inside the van, and we’ll get out before the devil even knows we’re here.” He laughed internally about their foolish fears, but seeing that both men were still shaken, he added, “Just stick with me and shoot where I shoot. We’ll be fine.”
With that he climbed inside, closed the doors, and slipped in behind the wheel.
He hesitated a moment, fearing that the vehicle wouldn’t start or that there was some kind of a leak in the gas tank that would cause it to explode. But he also knew that to stay here was to court death.
With a twist of the key in the ignition, the van fired right away and without exploding.
Ramirez dropped into the passenger seat, gun in hand, and asked, “Where are we going?”
Yazzie replied, “We’re headed to the casino and then we’re getting the hell out of here. Don’t worry, kid. Just stick with me and do what I say. If you do exactly what I tell you, you may even escape this valley as a rich man.”
92
One of the cartel thugs—a man with long black hair slicked back into a pony tail wearing a leather vest over a white T-shirt—had decided to get fancy and was wielding a Mac 10 in each hand, waving them around and popping off random shots into the smoke.
But Ackerman could plainly see that this gentleman was not versed in proper akimbo dual wielding techniques.
He rolled three times on the ground, staying low and out of the line of the man’s sporadic fire. On the last roll, Ackerman popped up like a jack-in-the-box and drove the push daggers into the bottom of Ponytail’s forearms. He followed by slashing Ponytail across the abdomen and then driving the push daggers forward beside the man’s head, piercing both blades through the man’s ears.
Ponytail screamed in agony as Ackerman manipulated him like a marionette.
Ackerman found the whole thing rather humorous. If it hadn’t been for the thermal imaging mask, he would’ve given Ponytail a kiss on the forehead. Since that wasn’t an option, he instead pulled his arms straight back out and whipped his elbow against Ponytail’s temple. The man dropped, instantly unconscious.
Ackerman moved to lick the blades of the push daggers clean but again realized that the mask prohibited him from doing so. Which was probably for the best. Who knew where these guys had been.
He now felt like the Thunderbird, a massive predatory avian of legend, as he soared over the battlefield. He was the top of the food chain. He was the lion, the eagle, the great white shark. And it felt good to be king.
But the experience was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires and tearing metal. He turned to see the panel van that Canyon had emerged from earlier speeding toward him.
The van collided with the burning husk of one of Canyon’s farm trucks and spun the wreckage in his direction.
With nowhere to go and a couple tons of burning metal spinning his way, Ackerman jumped forward and landed atop the charred husk. He grabbed hold of what had once been the truck’s axle and gas tank and held on for his life as the wreckage nearly spun a circle from the van’s impact.
Luckily, there were plenty of handholds on the truck’s bottom. Unfortunately, those same pieces were extremely hot. He felt his flesh melting, not an unpleasant experience for Ackerman, but he still pulled his arms free as soon as possible, leaving skin and hair from his forearms behind. The pain sent electric shivers through his body.
Looking toward the path that the van had cut through the ruined barricade, Ackerman hoped that the vehicle had only contained a few scared mercenaries finally making a wise decision. But intuition told him that he wasn’t going to like it when he found out who the vehicle’s occupants were.
Turning away, another electric shot of ecstasy pulsed up his side from where the metal shrapnel had been removed earlier. He supposed he had torn loose the effects of the cauterization and was again bleeding from whatever part of the circulatory system he had damaged.
He needed to re-treat the wounds.
Lifting up his shirt, Ackerman leaned against the charred and smoking husk of the pickup truck once more, this time pressing his side into the metal and rolling it back-and-forth to melt the wounds closed. He knew all of this cauterization would soon result in infection that would ultimately be as dangerous as the original wounds, but that was a problem for another time. And he could properly tend to the injuries later. Right now, he only needed a temporary fix, and burning himself was his approximation of a Band-Aid.
As his flesh touched the metal and began to sear and smoke, the familiar sent of burning human meat filled his nostrils. The maelstrom of smells and sensations caused his head to swim, and he realized that he was again going to lose consciousness.
As he fell back onto the gravel road, Ackerman recalled hearing shots from a 45 long Colt caliber pistol while he had been dealing with Ponytail. He wondered, as darkness took him, who Yazzie had been shooting at.
93
Ackerman awakened at the sound of crunching gravel. He rolled to his feet, the push daggers still in his fists, and came face to face with Tobias Canyon.
Although he had a blade pressed to each side of his throat, Tobias didn’t flinch. He looked Ackerman in the eyes and said, “We need your help. You said that you didn’t want anyone to die. Someone is about to.”
Ackerman pushed the boy back and scanned him to make sure that he was unarmed. Then he said, “Lead the way.”
The smoke had cleared enough now that it was more of an annoyance than a blinding force. Ackerman flipped his mask up and sat it aside as they reached the site Tobias had been describing.
Surveying the now utterly devastated roadblock, Ackerman saw the aftermath of his rampage along the right side of the road. He saw a string of unconscious and bleeding men, many sprawled out, many rolling back and forth or clutching at wounds. Looking to the other side of the road, he saw in the now-shifting winds that Marcus’s side of the battle contained men sprawled out and either completely unconscious or dead. The whole scene brought a smile to Ackerman’s face. Perhaps it was wrong to find pride such destruction, but he and his brother truly were forces to be reckoned with.
Tobias led him around a truck that had flipped over on its side, and Ackerman was pleased to see Marcus already on the scene.
His brother had stripped out of his tactical gear and body armor and now wore only an A-frame shirt stained black with blood and soot. Marcus was turned around, gripping the bed of the truck and pushing his back against the wreckage, trying to lift a three-quarter ton pickup truck by himself in order free someone pinned beneath. As he came closer, Ackerman saw that the trapped victim was John Canyon.
Seeing him approach, Marcus yelled, “Help me with this, Frank!”
Moving to his brother’s side, Ackerman examined where the truck had landed on the drug smuggler. After using his trained eye to survey the wounds, Ackerman locked gazes with his brother and shook his head in the negative. Marcus’s face fell.
Canyon’s son must’ve registered the change in their moods and asked, “What are you doing? Why did you stop?”
Standing up to full height and matching the boy’s gaze, Ackerman replied, “I’m sorry, kid. The truck is sitting above his waistline. Even if we could move it, he’d be dead in less than a minute.”
“So what do we do? How can we help him?”
“My brother will be calling an ambulance for him and the rest of your fallen comrades, but if he were my father, I would take this opportunity to say goodbye.”
The young man looked to the ground, his jaw clenched, and said, “You did this. You killed him.”
Ackerman replied, “Yes, I did.”
Neither of them moved or spoke for a moment.
Marcus was already on the phone calling for ambulances and using his federal credentials to put a rush on things.
To Tobias, Ackerman said, “Your father lived by the sword, by the law of tooth and claw. That path has only one end. I suggest that you choose a different one.” He could see tears forming in Tobias’s eyes and added, “Go to your father. He needs you now more than ever.”
Under his breath, Tobias Canyon said, “This isn’t over. You’ll pay for what happened here.”
He admired the boy’s spirit. “Well, kid, if you’re up for taking a shot at the title, I accept all challengers. It won’t end well for you. Many have tried to traverse that trail, and many have discovered that it only leads to self-destruction. Regardless of all that, you have more important concerns at the moment. The cost of revenge is something I suggest you weigh out for yourself with fear and trembling, but not today.”
Without another word of protest, Tobias Canyon moved to where his father was pinned beneath the wreckage.
94
John Canyon wasn’t in any pain. In fact, he felt almost euphoric, but he knew that he was dying. It was never a good sign when a person couldn’t feel anything beneath his or her naval.
Tobias was on his knees beside him, and in the new dawn light and the flickering illumination of the flames, Canyon could see a little bit of himself in his son. He had always thought that the boy took after his mother, but when he looked up now he saw his own eyes looking back. The same fire, but one he had never taken the time to notice.
Tobias said, “An ambulance is on the way. We’re gonna get you help. You’ll be okay. Just lay still.”
Canyon snorted a laugh and felt something tear inside of him as he did. He said, “I always could tell when you were lying, boy.”
“I’m sorry that I allowed myself to be captured, Father.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’ve been so busy trying to build a legacy for our people that I forgot the best way I could do that was through you. I should’ve had you working beside me a long time ago.”
Tears streamed down Tobias’s cheeks, and he said, “I would’ve fought you every step of the way.”
“But at least we would’ve been together. I love you, and I’m proud of you. Go be a better man than I was.” Canyon coughed up blood before finishing, “Tell your mother that I love her and that I should have been a protector for her.”
Sobbing and his words barely audible, Tobias said, “I can’t believe this is happening. Maybe we can still do something. You should be telling her that yourself.”
“Most people in my line of work, son, get their ticket punched without any warning. A bullet to the back of the head or a random chance death, wrong side of a deal gone bad. I’m just thankful that I’ve been given a moment to say goodbye.”
Leaning over and crying on his father’s chest, Tobias whispered, “I’m going to kill him for this. I’ll avenge you, Father. I’ll make him pay.”
Canyon asked, “Who are you talking about?”
“The stranger… Francis Ackerman Jr. I heard him tell Liana. That’s his real name.”
Canyon used what strength he had left to grab the boy by the shirt and pull him close. He said, “You stay as far away from that man as you possibly can. He’s filled with the spirit of Coyote, an ancient force that you cannot fight. Tell him to come over here.”
“But Father—”
“I don’t have much time or strength left. The real one who is responsible for this is your Uncle Xavier. And right now, the only way I’m going to get my vengeance against him is by helping the enemy of my enemy.”
With a nod and a wipe of his tears, Tobias stood and went to fetch the stranger. A moment later Frank knelt by his side. He looked much different than he had before the bombs had gone off. He was now covered by layers of dust, soot, and blood. And there was something else. Something in his eyes that frightened Canyon beyond reason. Feeling himself slipping away and his cognitive reasoning slowing by the moment, John Canyon proclaimed, “Please kill him for me, Coyote. I recognize you now.”
Frank said, “Where has Yazzie taken her?”
“The casino. He’ll try to take Reyna with him. And he has cash there. If you don’t stop him now, he’ll disappear into Mexico.”
Frank replied, “It has been some time since I’ve taken a trip south of the border, but considering that my friends probably don’t have that long to live, I am completely open to your suggestions.”
“Once, he took me up into the hills north of Roanhorse. I couldn’t tell you where now. It was years ago, when we were kids. Way up in the cliffs, hidden, there was temple of the Old Ones. Undiscovered by the belegana dirt diggers. They had a kiva up there filled with bones. He showed it to me once and told me about a spirit that visited him when he had fallen into the pit. He called it He Who Devours the World. Yazzie always was out of his mind, to believe in such nonsense. But he does believe it, and I’ve heard him talk about He Who Devours several times over the years. I think he worships whatever it is as some kind of god. That’s where he’s taken your friend.”
“I appreciate the information,” Frank said, “but if you don’t know where this temple of the Old Ones is located, that’s not much help to me. How are we supposed to find it?”
Canyon shook his head. “Only Yazzie can tell you that. He’ll be in the penthouse of the south tower. Thirteenth floor. And he doesn’t think that I know about it, but there’s a back way into the south tower that allows you to take the service elevator up to the penthouse. It’s how he’s been sneaking up to visit my wife. Just promise me that you’ll kill him for me, Coyote.”
Frank smiled and replied, “Consider it done.”
95
Marcus was tired to the point that laying down in the dirt and sleeping from sheer exhaustion sounded like a good option. He, however, had no time the rest. He and Ackerman had begun searching the wrecked vehicles for any that were still usable. Worst case scenario, Marcus knew they could walk back to where he had left Yazzie’s patrol vehicle. But time was not on their side.
His leg was completely numb now, and nausea was still on the attack. Noticing him dragging the leg, Ackerman asked, “What happened there?”
Marcus replied, “Yazzie introduced me to an Arizona bark scorpion. I named him Harvey.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh yeah, you’d have loved it. I’ll get you one for Christmas.”
“That would be very exciting. I’ve never received a Christmas present before.”
The smoke was still clearing out, the wind increasing and helping things along. As they walked, Ackerman noticed the crashed bathtub and asked, “How in the world did that find its way down here?”
Marcus said, “Your new friend, Officer Nakai, used it like a bobsled and rolled down the hill.”
At the mention of her name, Ackerman’s expression went dark. He said, “She has spunk, but I was just going to put the dynamite in there. Even I’m not crazy enough to take it for a ride. She should have stayed up at the trading post, as I instructed.”
“We’ll get her back. We’ll get them both back.”
Ackerman nodded in reply, and Marcus noticed a st
range an alien expression on his brother’s face. At the mention of Liana, Ackerman almost seemed to show the physical markers of fear. Perhaps the fear of losing his new friend? Or being responsible for her death? Marcus had been watching with amazement in recent months as his brother—whose ability to feel fear had been stripped from him by invasive brain surgery—had begun to exhibit signs of the emotional response as Ackerman discovered things that he loved and didn’t want to lose.
Marcus was about to suggest that they run back to Yazzie’s Explorer when, at the back of the now-destroyed line of cars, he saw what he’d been looking for. Emerging from the smoke like some sort of mythic beast was the narco tank, also known in Spanish as “monstruo” for their hulking size. Marcus had read about vehicles like this one, extensively manufactured and operated by drug cartels and other gangs involved in the Mexican Drug Wars. They were often modified semi-trucks, SUVs, dump trucks, or other large consumer or commercial vehicles that were converted into military grade weapons with varying levels of defensive and offensive capabilities. Even the smallest narco tanks, however, were plated with multiple inches of steel armor, and the black monstrosity emerging from the smoke looked like it could survive an attack from a real tank.
Upon further examination, Marcus realized that thought was probably accurate, since one of the C-4 explosives had gone off beneath the Narco tank and it seemed relatively unscathed.
Glancing over at his brother, Marcus smiled for the first time in a in a long time and said, “You think the keys are in it?”
96