Whitewater (Rachel Hatch Book 6)

by L T Ryan

  Hatch swam hard, taking the river current at an angle and bringing herself to shore one hundred feet further upriver than their plan dictated. A football field of mud and rock had been added to the timed obstacle course.

  The cold water responsible for rinsing much of the blood caked to her skin and clothes was now responsible for the slipping and sliding she experienced while sprinting along her route. Her lungs burned. She barely kept ahead of the red rubber rocket in her left periphery. She could hear the tick of the countdown clock in each wet step she took.

  Hatch scaled the jagged edges of the biggest boulder. The red of the raft disappeared into white froth and out of sight as Hatch followed the boulder's cool stony contours around and to the right. The sands of time fell more rapidly, matching the speed of Hatch's feet. The burning exhaustion stinging her muscles earned her the high ground. And as Sanchez had predicted, the sniper nested below.

  The killer's wide-brimmed black hat cloaked the man in shadow. He knelt in the gap between the devil's fist and thumb knuckle. If these two boulders were truly The Devil's Hand, then Hatch stood thirty feet above the webbed gap between them, like the gauze-wrapped hole in her left hand.

  The red appeared in her vision while she drew her Glock from the small of her back while navigating the uneven terrain on her path to high ground. But just as time ticked away and Hatch brought her gun up on the cartel boogeyman, she slipped.

  Hatch's wet boot lost traction. Instinctually she reached out with her non-gun hand to catch herself. Hatch's left hand found no purchase with the sun-warmed stone; the wet, blood-soaked a gauze mitten had seen to that. Hatch fell down the side of the boulder. A loud cracking sound rose above the churning whitewater.

  The loud crack was not that of a rifle, but instead came from Hatch's pistol. It smacked the rock which knocked it out of her hand. As the last grains of sand in the hourglass finished their descent, Hatch landed flat on her back. Her gun was out of her hand and rested on the wet water-smoothed pebbles within arm's reach. It didn't matter. It wouldn't have mattered if it was in her hand.

  Action always beats reaction. Hatch survived un-survivable encounters by the grace of that principle instilled by her father and refined in the fifteen years of battle she tested it against. In those trials, in the world of combat, no truer fact existed. Action beat reaction and the hand of the devil literally held Hatch.

  Forty-One

  Hatch lay flat on her back. Her stone mattress wet with the angry water's spray reminded her, painfully so, of the journey it had taken her to get from the ridge thirty feet above to where she now lay, looking up into the end of the killer's rifle. The legendary El Vibora. The Viper, serving his dark master's command, had turned his aim from the raft to her. One slip had shifted favor to the hand of the devil.

  On the wet, rocky shore of the Rio Grande River, Hatch heard the words whispered to her on the wind brought to her from the churn of whitewater. As with all words of wisdom, they are only considered wise at the point in time where wisdom is needed. Hatch had used her father's wisdom to find strength in dark times and resolve when her measure was tested.

  Many times, her father's lessons, living long beyond the twelve years they had shared together, had enabled Hatch to cheat death. This did not appear to be one of those times.

  Laying on the rocky riverbank with the setting sun slowing descent and setting the sky ablaze, Hatch found that for the first time in her life, she had no way to capitalize on the words her father said in the woods behind their mountain home.

  The first punch often ends the fight.

  He'd been going on that day about action versus reaction and the importance of always striving to be on the offensive. It didn't make much sense to the young Hatch, at least not then and not as it did now. But on this day, it seemed the message he'd sent had been received by the man in the wide-brimmed black hat, standing above her.

  His ghostly, nearly translucent skin peeked out from under his hat. Two distinctively lighter marks paired underneath his right eye. Dark storm clouds brewed in the eyes sighting down the long barrel of the rifle now pointed in the direction of her forehead.

  The first punch often ends the fight.

  El Vibora won the draw. The advantage was clearly in his favor, and the first punch was about to hit Hatch’s forehead in the form of a bullet-shaped fist, traveling two-thousand-seven-hundred and ten feet-per-second from the end of the rifle.

  Hatch met the eyes of her killer. In the brief unspoken exchange, two killers, regardless of their cause, locked eyes. Like rams locking horns, their souls were momentarily locked in the age-old battle of good and evil. Hatch stood face to face with The Viper in the open door separating life from death. It appeared to Hatch that Murphy's law had reared its head once again, this time tipping his hat in favor of the devil.

  She tried to retrieve the image of Dalton Savage's face to replace the ghostly one hovering above. His face flickered but wouldn't hold. Her mind, in battle with itself, refused to drift.

  El Vibora stood silhouetted by the warm oranges and deep reds of the setting sun. But that's not what caught her attention. It was the hole she’d placed with her sixth shot during their first encounter.

  The sun sent its final goodbye to the day in the form of a cord of gold beaming like Zeus's lightning bolt through the small opening she'd created with her Glock. The goldenrod sailed a short journey until it found its end in the reflective surface of Ayala's father's watch from the raft. The reflection of light was intensified by the frothy mist created by the whitewater.

  The beam bounced back toward the hole it had come from but at an angle, putting it in line with the devil's hitman's right eye. Then Murphy's Law changed hands with the devil and passed favor to the supine Hatch. And in the light reflecting off the Peacock Man's watch, El Vibora, The Viper, blinked.

  A flood of tears marched down the killer's face, stretching a river across his cheek.

  The first punch often ends the fight.

  In the frozen speck of time Hatch realized something. It was the nagging part that wouldn't let her give way to her end. It was why she couldn't hold the image of Savage's face in her mind’s eye. She couldn't do those things, because there was a second part to the message her father sent, a message the devil's right hand never got.

  If you happen to take the first punch, you better make sure you damn well finish the fight.

  And in that moment, Rachel Hatch did what she did best.

  Hatch had been in a knock-down, drag-out fight with the devil and his henchmen. A fight that began over twenty years ago on a cold morning near the lowland brook behind her family’s house in the small town of Hawk's Landing, where she found her father dead. But death had not ended the conversation between father and daughter that day. Nor any other to follow. Her father's words continued to find meaning in her life long after their first utterance. And the words fueled the stoked the fire inside her.

  Finish the fight.

  The age-old war between good and evil chose its battlefield to be the bank of a river, dividing two communities who used the rope between them to overcome their differences, outweighing those of politics and geography.

  Then the devil's hound did as he was commanded. He stood with his back to the sun which, as any shooter will advise, is the best way to use the light to blind a target. And he did as training and experience taught him to do, as it had taught Hatch to do. But in the devil's haste, the killer he sent lacked the benefit of her father's wisdom.

  If you happen to strike first, do not hesitate. With hesitation comes opportunity. And if it presents, you better take it.

  The Viper’s right eye leaked water like a broken spigot. The cartel gunman rapidly blinked his eyes, only strengthening the tear-made river rolling down his face. Hatch seized the opportunity of El Vibora’s distraction.

  The Glock within reach, Hatch grabbed it and got off one single shot before the man's eye had a chance to clear.

  The blood flowing fr
om the small hole in the center of The Viper's forehead at the T-intersection, where the bridge of the nose met his brow made its way down the right side of the legendary killer's face, joining the river of tears.

  The rifle dropped from his hand. The Viper stood motionless, as if his body were in argument with death and not yet willing to concede his hold on life. The blood mixed with the saline of his tears and spread out like the twisted thorns of Hatch's scar. The blood running down made his face look as though the old scars of the rattlesnake's bite were opened and bleeding once again.

  Just before The Viper fell, Hatch saw confidence in the man's eyes as he faced death, and she hoped to have the same when her time came. The fearlessness with which the killer walked away from the world was not all he demonstrated at his end.

  In the last blink of his right eye, Hatch saw peace in its final closing. A peace that could be only achieved in death, but only truly appreciated by those who spent the better part of their lives walking hand in hand with death.

  The darkness of his eyes fell with the gust of wind that knocked off his hat, a feat even her sixth shot had not been able to achieve.

  Hatch watched the dead man's wide-brimmed black hat float down the river until it was swallowed by the raging whitewater.

  Forty-Two

  The raft served as a makeshift bed for Ayala. Sanchez rummaged the Lincoln for any medical supplies, and before finding a combat medic's first aid kit, the former FES operator came across a brown leather ventilated case with a large rattlesnake coiled inside. Hatch watched Sanchez release the snake away from the group into a cluster of rocks. The snake tasted the air with its tongue before disappearing down a dark hole. The noise of its rattle rang out one last time and then faded away.

  Sanchez returned with the kit and he, with the assistance of Angela, went about tending to the wounded Ayala. The hole punched through the floorboard of the raft had torn wide open when they'd struck a rock. If Hatch hadn't fallen when she did, they would've been sitting ducks.

  Ayala had the weak smile of a dying man on his face and limited words to accompany it. Time was of the essence and he needed to get to the hospital, the same one Sanchez had walked the pregnant mother and her young daughter to. The pale horse of the devil's servant would be used to ferry them the rest of the way. The white Lincoln Town Car had been parked behind the shade provided by a cluster of trees.

  Before sending the dead man downriver, Hatch searched him to find in his pockets only one thing of interest. It was folded into fourths and nestled above El Vibora’s no longer beating heart.

  The rattle on his wrist jingled one last time as she lifted his arm to retrieve a folded piece of paper found in his pocket. Finding the paper's content curious, she gave it to somebody who might be capable of translating it.

  Hatch handed the folded paper to Ayala, ready to be shifted to the awaiting chariot. Tears mixed with river water on his face as he looked down at the image.

  Ayala's face screwed up into a question he sought the words to ask.

  "I don't know what it means. But it was in his breast pocket. Above his heart."

  Ayala's eyes traced the contours of the lines in front of him before giving his opinion. "She's alive."

  The piece of paper blew life into the fading light in Ayala's eyes. It was as if he was never shot, as if the bullet had never passed from the back end of his shoulder to his chest. It was as if the holes, both in his shoulder and in his heart, were miraculously healed by the picture and the image held in his hand.

  The folded piece of paper held a colorful image of a lily blooming in springtime with the last droplet of morning's dew dangling at the edge of its light purple petals.

  Ayala took a picture from his own pocket. He held it in his other hand. Ayala brought the photograph to his lips. He kissed it and then cast it into the water, before it was swallowed, just as the dead man and his hat had been.

  He took and re-folded the girl's drawing and put it in his pocket, replacing the photograph that had just occupied that space. Before Hatch could ask, Ayala offered, "I'm trading an old memory for a new one. I'm trading dark for light."

  A team effort took Ayala to the Lincoln. Goodbyes were exchanged, in that very particular way when friends know they will likely never see each other again.

  Just before Sanchez sped away with the wounded Peacock Man, Ayala passed along his final words to Hatch.

  "Try it sometime." He tapped a shaky hand on the breast pocket containing Maria's drawing. "Trading light memories for dark ones. If nothing else, take a moment each day to appreciate its end in those last threads of light. Take stock in the completion of the day's end in knowing that tomorrow's is yours to make."

  And with that, Arturo Sanchez, a warrior born of the most horrific beginnings who eventually found peace, carted off Miguel Ayala, the Peacock Man of Nogales, who proved he could fly, if only for a few feet, to save two girls from a fate worse than death.

  It had been a good day. Hatch had one more stop until she saw its end and the promise kept in doing so. With the teen close behind, she stood on the bank of the river.

  Hatch's gripped the frayed knots of the rope and began to cross.

  Forty-Three

  Hatch sat on the other side of the Rio Grande, the warmth of the sun in her face. The sun’s grip loosened its hold on the day as the last fingers of magenta touched the coming night sky.

  Hatch enjoyed the shade of a tree as fire flicked her face, formed in flickering wisps of red and orange from the sleeping teen's hair being blown wild by the wind. The dry heat of the fading day stole the remaining moisture from Hatch's mouth as she gently caressed the teen while they waited not-so-patiently for the arrival of Sanchez' contact on the other side. He said his name was Ben, and that he could be trusted. Hatch had seen the demonstration of Arturo Sanchez’ code tattooed under the anchor of his former team.

  Fuerza, Espíritu, Sabiduría. Strength, Spirit, Wisdom.

  The man had demonstrated to Hatch all those qualities and more in their brief but intense time together. She took his word as his bond and waited.

  As the teen slept the sleep of a thousand lifetimes, Hatch took a moment to reflect. She shifted positions as subtly as possible, so as not to wake Angela. Hatch looked up the river to the bend where the rocky whitewater shredded the raft. She looked out on the rock named The Devil's Hand. From her position across the river, it no longer looked like one giant rock. Instead, the gap where Hatch had made her final stand against the devil, divided the two boulders. A tall cypress rose from behind. Beyond its treetop and barely visible amidst the dying embers of sunlight, the orange-colored sun-glass-wearing walrus, mascot of the cartel-run Solarus Juice Company could be seen.

  Looking at it another way, maybe in the way somebody like Miguel Ayala or his companion Ernesto Cruz would, Hatch adjusted her lens. And this is what she saw when she blinked them open.

  A massive cypress split a massive boulder in two, sending the troll high into the air where his tormented cries could no longer be heard.

  In that rare moment of peace, Hatch understood the story Ayala had told her. Hatch was ready to tell her version. There was a little girl and boy in Colorado who desperately needed to hear it. Hatch pictured her niece, Daphne, and her nephew, Jake.

  Tornadoes of dust chased a dark colored SUV as it pulled to a stop. Hatch's hand was on the Glock under her thigh.

  A tall muscular man wearing dark jeans and a denim shirt of lighter blue stepped from the driver's door. "Daphne?"

  "See any other half-dead people under a tree matching our description?"

  "Not today." He laughed.

  Angela hardly woke during her transport from Hatch's lap to the backseat of the Tahoe. Hatch climbed into the passenger seat. Nothing was said as they drove off. The details had already been arranged through Miguel and Sanchez' contact. Ben was to take Angela to a specified location outside of Austin, where her parents were already traveling to after receiving word their daughter
had been found.

  Hatch would not be there for any of that. She would part ways in Austin and set off to close a door that had been open for way too long. Its salty California breeze held answers to a question only one person could answer.

  "Got a paper and pencil?" Hatch asked.

  "Check the glove box. Should be a couple napkins and a pen if that works?"

  Hatch spread the napkin on her thigh and uncapped the pen. Her letter began like this:

  Have I ever told you the one about the seed and the boulder?

  Forty-Four

  The Very Thought of You by Nat King Cole played on the radio, just above the rattle of Ayala's yellow Nissan, as they watched the cafe from a block away. Ayala wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt for today's occasion. He'd retired it four months ago when a bullet tore through it. The yellow of the pineapples were a little darker on that side, but he figured, you can't appreciate the light without a little bit of the dark.

  Other than the music and the air conditioning at full blast, neither men spoke as they watched the front of the cafe where Hector Fuentes was finishing up a midday meal.

  In the months since Ernesto Cruz's death, Sanchez searched for a pattern in the cartel leader's itinerary that could be exploited as weakness. Everybody had them. And with the right set of eyes, anybody could find them. And he found it in the tip from a reliable informant who worked at the restaurant where Mr. Fuentes was now dining.

  He told Sanchez that the restaurant was rented out whenever he came to eat there. No other customers were allowed in or out. He posted one guard by the door at all exits, and kept his personal bodyguard, Juan Carlos Moreno, with him at all times. He tightened his security ever since his son had tried to kill him, and public appearances had become almost non-existent. It was rumored that the psychological impact of his firstborn's attack and then subsequent death had unhinged the man. And with that, his power was starting to wane.