Vengeance Is Mine

by William W. Johnstone

  Gonzales turned to Stark. “Do you have five grand in cash, John Howard?” he asked. “If you don’t, I can get it.”

  “There’s that much in the bank,” Stark said. “Elaine can withdraw it.” He looked over at her, and she nodded. She was only a few feet away from him, with only a wooden railing separating them, but when she started to reach out toward him, a deputy moved to block her. Stark growled a little when he saw that.

  “It’s all right,” Gonzales said quickly. “You’ll be taken back to jail now, while the bond is posted and processed. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour. Hang in there, John Howard.”

  Stark nodded curtly. “I’m fine. Just get it taken care of, Sam.”

  As Gonzales predicted, all the paperwork took about an hour. But then he arrived at the jail, and the cell door was unlocked and Stark stepped out again. He signed some papers and all his belongings were returned to him. Gonzales took his arm.

  “We’ll go out the side door. The reporters are watching the front and the back. I figured you wouldn’t want to deal with them right now.”

  “You figured right,” Stark said. “I just want to go home.”

  “That’s where Elaine and your friends are waiting for you. They thought it would be best not to add to the commotion.”

  A few minutes later, they stepped out through a narrow, unmarked door into an alley. A disreputable-looking pickup was parked there. “My uncle Gil’s truck,” Gonzales explained with a smile. “I thought if my car was parked back here, some of the reporters might notice it. They didn’t pay any attention to this old junker, though.”

  “Good thinking,” Stark said. He paused just outside the door to draw in a deep breath.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Gonzales said. “Free air. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

  Stark nodded, but he was thinking that no matter how good it felt to be out of jail, he wasn’t a free man again. Not really.

  Not as long as the threat from the Vulture was hanging over his head.

  But he couldn’t do anything about that now. “Let’s go,” he said hoarsely as he opened the passenger door of the old pickup. “I’m ready to see my wife again.”

  Nineteen

  There was a crowd waiting at the ranch house, and they broke into cheers and applause when Sam Gonzales drove up in the old pickup and Stark got out. Elaine was standing on the porch, but she didn’t have the patience to stay there. She ran down the steps to meet Stark and throw herself into his arms.

  He hugged her tightly and then kissed her, and that brought more cheers from the crowd. As he came up onto the porch with an arm still around Elaine, his friends gathered around him to slap him on the back and shake his hand. They were congratulating him as if he had just hit the game-winning home run in the bottom of the ninth, he thought. But this was no game, and there might not be a clear-cut victor.

  “We knew they couldn’t keep you in jail, John Howard,” Devery said. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  “That’ll be up to the grand jury to decide,” Stark pointed out.

  W.R. snorted in derision. “Ain’t no grand jury in Texas gonna indict you for what you did, John Howard. Folks are sick an’ tired of those drug runners and other criminals gettin’ away with everything they do. If it takes goin’ after ’em our own selves, folks are fed up enough to do it. You’re a damn hero, man!”

  Stark just shook his head. He didn’t feel like a hero at all. He felt like a tired, grieving man who just wanted things to get back to normal. It might be a long time before that happened, though, if ever.

  Just like at the Fourth of July celebration a few days earlier, people had brought food galore to the Diamond S. Once Stark started in on the fried chicken and potato salad and green bean casserole and homemade rolls, he discovered that he was hungrier than he’d thought he would be. It was a good lunch, and by the time he finished, he was stuffed.

  Some of the visitors began to drift away after the meal was over. By late afternoon, all that were left were Sam Gonzales and Stark’s closest friends, Devery, W.R., Hubie, and Everett. “You can relax now until the grand jury hearing, John Howard,” Gonzales said. “That won’t be for several weeks yet.”

  Stark nodded.

  “What about Ramirez?” Hubie asked. “Ain’t he liable to try something else?”

  Gonzales shook his head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t want a lot of bad publicity.”

  Stark still thought the lawyer had his head in the sand where Ramirez was concerned, but he didn’t say anything. After all, there was a chance Sam might be right.

  But Stark intended to be prepared for the possibility that Gonzales was wrong.

  Devery said, “We can take turns stayin’ over here, to sort of help you keep an eye on the place, John Howard.”

  Without hesitation, Stark said, “That won’t be necessary. All you boys have spreads of your own to look after. You need to go home, take care of your ranches, and spend time with your own families.”

  “But just in case—” Everett began.

  “You heard what Sam said. Ramirez isn’t going to try anything else. He had Newt and Chaco killed. He’s had his vengeance.”

  A man like the Vulture could never have enough vengeance, though, Stark thought. Not until every one of the people he considered his enemies were wiped off the face of the earth. Stark didn’t want any of his friends putting themselves in danger to look after him. That just wasn’t his way. He was a man who stomped his own snakes, as the old saying went. Or in this case, shot his own vultures.

  “If you’re sure that’s what you want . . .” Devery said reluctantly.

  “I am,” Stark declared. “I appreciate everything you fellas have done, especially coming over here last night to make sure Elaine was safe. But it’s over now, and things need to start getting back to normal.”

  “I think that’s the wisest course,” Gonzales said.

  There was a little more talk, and then the men climbed into their pickups and drove off. Gonzales was the last one to go. “I’ll get Uncle Gil’s truck back to him,” he said with a smile as he sat there for a moment with the driver’s door open. “If there’s anything you need, John Howard, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll be in touch regularly and let you know right away if there are any new developments in the case.”

  Stark nodded solemnly and shook hands with Gonzales. “I’m much obliged, Sam.”

  With a wave, Gonzales drove off, leaving Stark and Elaine standing side by side at the foot of the porch steps. She reached over and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She squeezed his hand hard, and when he looked over at her, she smiled and said, “That was just about the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard, John Howard.”

  Her reaction didn’t surprise him. She had always been able to see right through him. He said, “You don’t know that. It could turn out that Sam’s right about Ramirez not doing anything else.”

  “We both know better. Yes, he’s killed two of yours, but you’ve killed seven of his. Worse than that, you’ve hurt his pride and maybe damaged his standing with the rest of the drug lords. He has to wipe out you and everybody close to you. You know that . . . and what do you do? You send away everybody who could help you.”

  “Not everybody,” Stark said softly.

  She looked up solemnly at him for a moment before she breathed, “Damn, I’m glad to hear you say that, John Howard. What do you want me to do?”

  “Start loading the guns,” Stark told her. “Every gun in the house.”

  By nightfall all the guns were loaded and Stark had worked out his plan. The few ranch hands who lived on the Diamond S had been sent away, all of them leaving reluctantly. Now came the biggest chore of all, he thought as he walked into the living room. He found Elaine there, closing the cylinder of a pistol she had just loaded.

  “We’re ready, John Howard,” she said.

  “Not quite. There’s still one thing to do.”

  “What’s
that?”

  “Talk you into going over to Devery’s place where you can lie low for a while.”

  She stared at him in surprise, and then her frown turned into one of anger. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” she said. “You don’t really think I’m going anywhere, do you?”

  “I can operate a lot better and a lot more efficiently if I don’t have to worry about you all the time,” he pointed out.

  That just made her angrier. “I haven’t asked you to worry about me, have I?” Without waiting for him to answer, she went on, “How about me worrying about you? You think this is easy for me? Tommy’s dead, Uncle Newt and Chaco are dead . . . A part of me says we ought to just pack up and get out of here! Let Ramirez have the place if he wants it so bad!”

  “You don’t mean that,” Stark said, almost aghast at the very idea of abandoning the Diamond S. “I won’t be chased off land that’s been in my family for four generations. Starks fought and bled and died for this spread. This is Texas, by God, and the Diamond S is my part of Texas. No bastard like Ramirez is going to take it away from me.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Besides, before I start soundin’ too noble here, Ramirez doesn’t want the ranch. He just wants to run drugs across it and everybody else’s spread along this part of the border.”

  “And he wants you dead,” Elaine said.

  Stark nodded grimly. “I reckon that’s true. He’s Colombian, remember? He’ll want to kill my family, too. For the first time, I’m almost glad David and Pete are over there in the Middle East where he can’t get to them. But there’s still you to think of.”

  She was still holding the pistol she had just finished loading. She lifted it and said flatly, “This is my home, too. I’ve lived here for over thirty years. I won’t run . . . I can’t run—any more than you can, John Howard.”

  He looked at her, searching her eyes for any signs of wavering. He saw none, and he knew that he would never budge her from her position. The only way he could get her out of here would be to take her physically over to Devery’s and ask his friend to keep her there. And now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure ol’ Devery was up to that task.

  “Can you do what I say?” he asked.

  “Of course I can. You’re the ex-marine, not me. You tell me the plan, and I’ll follow it.”

  Stark nodded. “All right. I hope you can, because both of our lives will probably depend on it . . .”

  The night was dark, not much of a moon hanging over the landscape of the border country. Starlight filtered down like glowing haze but did little to illuminate the darkness under the trees around the ranch house.

  Five shadows moved through that darkness, slipping around the house with silent stealth. Although the hour was late, almost midnight, most of the lights in the house seemed to be on. As if that would protect the occupants from the deadly fate that was closing in on them.

  El Bruitre had a large organization. Even with the losses he had suffered recently, he had plenty of good men to draw from. These five were hardened, experienced gunners, men who could and would kill without hesitation. They were dressed in dark clothing and carried automatic weapons. They would show no mercy tonight. The Deguello might as well have been playing, as it played while Santa Anna’s army surrounded the Alamo and its valiant defenders.

  This was no siege. It would be one brutal, smashing assault, designed to take out the enemies of the Vulture with as little delay as possible. Silencio Ryan had thought to draw Stark out by attacking those near and dear to him first. That hadn’t really worked. Through luck or sheer determination or a combination of both, Stark had wiped out the crew sent to kill Newt and Chaco. No more fancy stuff, Ramirez had decreed. Just hit Stark and hit him hard, wipe him out. If Ryan was offended by being overruled when it came to strategy, he gave no sign of it. But then, Silencio Ryan seldom gave much sign of any emotion.

  The lead gunner, a man known as El Duende—the Goblin—was connected by radio with Ryan. El Duende had a headset with both an earpiece and a microphone attached to it, with wires that ran down to the battery pack in the small of his back. Ryan had equipped him as well with a small, head-mounted video camera, also with its own battery pack and transmitter. Ryan sat in the back of a black van a mile away, receiving the sounds and images sent back to him by El Duende. If all went well, Ryan could show the tape to Ramirez when he got back to the compound on the outskirts of Acuna. He was sure Ramirez would get a large amount of enjoyment out of being able to watch Stark and his wife die, even though it would be a vicarious pleasure.

  At the ranch house, El Duende motioned silently for his men to spread out around the place. When he was ready, he would fire the first shots, and that would be the signal for his fellow killers to open up as well. They would pour so much lead into the house that no one inside it could escape alive. Though the house was old and sturdily built, the high-powered bullets would have no trouble punching through the walls and doors and anything else in their deadly path.

  The Goblin found himself crouching underneath a brightly lit window. He raised himself enough to peer through it. He looked into a large, well-equipped kitchen that also served as a dining room. The table, covered with a white linen cloth, was set for a late, intimate supper for two, complete with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a couple of unlit candles. At the stove, steaks were frying on the grill and something was bubbling in a pot. The room was empty at the moment, but with the food cooking like that, it was obvious that Stark’s wife had just stepped out of the kitchen for a moment. El Duende flexed his fingers on the automatic weapon he held as he heard footsteps coming closer, approaching the door into the kitchen from the rest of the house. The smell of the steaks cooking drifted out through the open window and tantalized the gunner’s nostrils. A shame that the food would probably get shot up along with the inhabitants of the house.

  He spoke in rapid Spanish to Ryan, whispering that Senora Stark was about to come back into the kitchen. As soon as she did, the Goblin declared, he would open fire.

  In the van, alarms suddenly went off inside Ryan’s head as he watched the video feed. He had studied the ranch house at long range through binoculars. He knew it had a central air-conditioning unit, and this was a hot July night.

  Why, then, was the kitchen window wide open like that, as if to draw someone outside right to it, like a moth to flame?

  The kitchen door moved, swinging inward. With his face twisted in a grimace of anticipation, El Duende straightened all the way from his crouch and brought the machine gun to his shoulder. Ryan yelled something in his ear just as he pressed the trigger, but the words were drowned out by the chattering racket of the gunfire.

  Then suddenly, with no warning, everything went dark.

  Stark had already drawn a bead on the would-be killer. It had been easy, the way the guy was silhouetted against the light in the kitchen window. He pressed the trigger of the Winchester as automatic weapons fire ripped out and the lights went off. The old rifle, which was in perfect condition, kicked hard against Stark’s shoulder as it cracked wickedly, but he hardly felt the recoil. He was already working the lever, jacking another cartridge into the chamber.

  He wouldn’t need it for his first target. The man slumped against the house, and his gun fell silent as his finger came off the trigger. Stark saw him fall, a deeper patch of darkness against the shadows, and knew that the shot had been true. The .44-40 bullet had smashed through the back of the gunner’s skull, bored through his brain, and then ruined his face as it burst out the front of his head, leaving him dead on his feet for a couple of seconds before death caught up with the rest of his body.

  Just because one gun had fallen silent, however, didn’t mean that all of them had. All around the house, the other gunmen were firing in response to the signal from the first man Stark had killed. They didn’t know yet that their leader was dead, so they were continuing with their mission.

  Stark slipped out of the clump of mesquite where he had hidden and wa
ited for the ball to start. He wore black from head to foot, and his face had been darkened with charcoal. It was his first time to fight in camouflage since Vietnam, and if he’d had time to think about it, the situation might have brought back a lot of memories. As it was, he couldn’t afford the luxury of remembering. What was past didn’t mean a damned thing. The future—staying alive and seeing to it that Elaine did, too—was all that mattered.

  “Stay down, Elaine!” he whispered into the microphone attached to the headset he wore. It was hooked up to the cell phone in his pocket, as was the earphone tucked into his right ear. They had kept in contact that way, Stark whispering to her while he watched from the mesquites as the gunners closed in on the house. He had told her to go give the kitchen door a push, then duck into the garage, which was right next to the kitchen. The main circuit breaker box was right there beside the door into the garage. It had taken her only a second to hit the switch and kill the power everywhere on the place. The plan called for her to do that as she dived in between the pickup and the SUV parked close together in the garage. The two heavy vehicles would serve as protection from flying bullets. Elaine was supposed to get low between them and stay there. Stark had drained the gas tanks so a stray slug couldn’t ignite them, and Elaine had a couple of pistols and a rifle with her. Stark figured it was the safest place for her.

  He was on the move, circling the house, searching for his next target. Ramirez’s men had to have noticed by now that the lights had gone off, and while that might have puzzled them, they didn’t let it distract them from their mission. With each man posted at a different window, they emptied the magazines of their automatic weapons into the house, reloaded, and started firing again. Stark hated to think about the damage they were doing to the place—so he didn’t. He concentrated on the task at hand instead, and when he had a good shot again, he took it. Once more the Winchester cracked and bucked, and a slug tore through the body of one of the gunners, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground. Stark came close enough to hear the ragged, bubbling breaths the man was taking and knew that he was shot through the lungs. After a moment the grotesque sound stopped.