Vengeance Is Mine

by William W. Johnstone

  Scorched earth, baby, scorched earth.

  Threadgill reached down, grabbed the stunned Sheffield’s arm, and dragged him out of the way as the women stampeded past them. Hauling Sheffield to his feet, Threadgill asked, “You all right, Will?”

  “Y-yeah. Just got the breath knocked out of me by that shot.”

  “I reckon we better go find John Howard.”

  Sheffield nodded. “Yeah.” By now, he figured, wherever they found Stark, they would find Ramirez as well.

  Bare lightbulbs lit the tunnel at fifty-yard intervals. The floor, the walls, the arched ceiling were all made of square-cut stones that oozed moisture. The tunnel had been here for a long time, hundreds of years, perhaps. It predated the compound that was above it now. Ryan figured that it had been built as an escape route by some of the early Spanish settlers who might need such a bolt-hole to save their lives in case of an Indian attack. The original hacienda was long gone, but the tunnel remained, and Ramirez had put it to good use once he realized it was there. It led from the main house to the big, barnlike hangar where the helicopter was kept.

  Even down here, they could hear the gunfire and the explosions as the small-scale war aboveground continued. As they hurried along, Ramirez said, “Stark should be dead by now! How can they still be fighting?”

  They were still fighting because Ramirez’s hired guns were no match for Stark and his friends, Ryan thought. A hundred and eighty defenders inside the Alamo shouldn’t have been able to hold off Santa Anna’s army of thousands for thirteen days, either. A man fighting for a cause was always more dangerous than a man fighting for money.

  Well, almost always, Ryan amended. He was the exception, of course.

  “You can fly the chopper, eh, Silencio?”

  “Sure.”

  “We will head for Mexico City and let this disaster die down before we return, eh?”

  “Can’t fly all the way to Mexico City on the fuel tank in that chopper,” Ryan said. “We’ll have to stop for gas a few times along the way.”

  “Yes, yes, whatever it takes.” Ramirez was already thinking ahead. “When this is all over I will return here and rebuild my operation until it is bigger and better than before. Soon, from one end of Mexico to the other, no one will ever again dare to defy the will of the Vulture.”

  Never believe in your own hype, Ryan thought. Obviously, Ramirez had never learned that lesson. That was why he had pushed and pushed Stark, playing with him at times the way a cat might play with a mouse, until finally Ramirez had backed Stark into a corner from which there was no escape.

  At least, so it had seemed. Stark had proven, was proving, otherwise, at this very moment.

  If they made it to Mexico City, Ramirez could do what he wanted to. Ryan knew he himself would never come back to this place. He had never been a great believer in luck . . .

  But he knew he had pushed his as far as he could push it.

  Stark burst into the large, opulent room and knew at first glance that this was Ramirez’s sanctum. He swept the assault rifle from side to side, ready to fire at any motion.

  Nothing. The room was empty.

  No, not quite empty, Stark saw. A man lay facedown on the floor, unmoving, a red puddle under his head. From the size of him and the uniform he wore, Stark recognized him as Sheriff Norval Lee Hammond. He got a toe under Hammond’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The sheriff had been shot twice in the forehead at fairly close range. Stark wasn’t surprised by that, because he had seen the gory mess the slugs had made of the back of Hammond’s head when they exited. Stark felt no pity, not even a twinge, as he looked down at Hammond’s corpse. The man had made his own choices, followed his own path, and this was where it had led him.

  Of course, that was true of everybody. Stark had his own destination, and this wasn’t it.

  Where the hell was Ramirez?

  He searched quickly, and in a small room down a narrow hallway, he found an open trapdoor. Steps led down into a stone-walled passage lit by an occasional bulb. Stark didn’t hesitate. He descended into the underground passageway. It stretched out, seemingly endlessly, in front of him.

  And as he paused there at the foot of the steps for a second, Stark heard the faint echo of shots from somewhere far ahead of him.

  He didn’t hesitate any longer. His feet slapping against the slick stones of the floor, he ran down the tunnel, every instinct telling him that he was on the right path.

  The trapdoor at the other end was locked, of course, but Ramirez had the key. He fumbled with it, dropped it, and Ryan had to pick it up and unfasten the heavy padlock. He swung the trapdoor up and back.

  They climbed out into the darkened hangar. “Start the engine,” Ramirez snapped. “I’ll open the doors.”

  That would be the most physical work the man had done in a long time, Ryan mused as he headed for the chopper. Well, other than raping and torturing Elaine Stark, of course. Ryan climbed into the cockpit, turned the switch on, and checked the gauges as the dashboard lights came on. Gas tank was full, battery was charged, everything looked good. The ceiling was high enough and the doors were big enough so that the helicopter could lift off and hover above the ground, then fly out of the hangar, rather than having to be wheeled out before it could take off. It took a skilled hand at the controls to accomplish that maneuver, but Ryan was capable of it.

  The doors had hydraulic motors attached to them. Ramirez had to unfasten them, but then all he had to do was press a button and the doors would roll back on their own. With a rumble, they started to do so. The chopper’s blades began to revolve lazily as Ryan started the engine.

  Ramirez ran to the helicopter and climbed in next to Ryan. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said breathlessly.

  “In a minute,” Ryan said. The engine was still warming up, and the doors weren’t all the way open yet. A reddish glare filled the gap, and from the looks of it, Ryan thought the whole compound must be on fire by now. Except for this hangar, which was off to the side, well away from the other buildings. Stark and his friends had ignored it so far. They would pay for that mistake.

  Ryan reached for the controls and increased the engine’s idle a little more, when the shape of a man appeared in the opening between the hangar doors. He strode forward confidently as the doors continued to slide open. Ryan’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw that the man had an assault rifle cocked jauntily over his right shoulder.

  Ryan shoved Ramirez out the right side of the cockpit and went diving to the left as the assault rifle came down and began to spit lead and flame at the helicopter.

  “Going somewhere, boys?” Jack Finnegan shouted as he opened fire. He knew they couldn’t hear him over the drone of the chopper’s engine, but he didn’t care. In the glare of the dashboard lights, through the Plexiglas bubble that enclosed the cockpit, he had recognized Ramirez from the newspaper photos. The other man, the pilot, had to be the one John Howard had warned them about. Both of them jumped for their lives as Finnegan sprayed the chopper with burst after burst from the assault rifle. The bubble shattered and bullets bounced around until the control panel was nothing but a torn-up mess. That helicopter wasn’t going anywhere, despite the fact that its blades continued to turn.

  Caught up in the destruction, Finnegan remembered the bodyguard too late. He swung the L85 in the man’s direction, but the man had already rolled over and had a gun in his hand. It cracked wickedly as flame geysered from the barrel. The guy was good; he knew where to aim. Two slugs punched into Finnegan’s abdomen, just below where the Kevlar vest ended and above the armor strapped to his thighs. In this light, under the circumstances, that was damned good shooting.

  Finnegan was in no mood to appreciate it. He doubled over in agony and toppled forward, but as he fell he squeezed off one last burst from the rifle. He didn’t know if he hit anything or not . . .

  But by God, it felt good to go down fighting!

  The luck that Ryan had never really believed in
had just bitten him on the ass. There was no other explanation for it. Otherwise how could a blindly aimed shot fired by a dying man hit the gun in his hand and send it flying? Not only that, but the round also took off the index and middle fingers on Ryan’s right hand. Blood spurted from the stumps as he rolled farther into the shadows near the wall of the hangar. He grabbed them with his left hand and squeezed hard, trying to stop the flow of blood. The pain was bad but nothing he couldn’t deal with. It was unlikely, too, that he would bleed out just from losing a couple of fingers. But it could happen if he didn’t get the situation under control.

  One thing was certain: he was out of this fight. Ramirez was on his own, wherever he was. Ryan had lost track of him. No, wait, there he was, tentatively approaching the now motionless body of the man Ryan had shot.

  Ryan lifted his head as he heard something. Footsteps, thudding on the stairs leading up from the tunnel.

  Of course there was only one person it could be. Of course.

  Ryan laughed softly as John Howard Stark climbed out of the tunnel and into the hangar.

  The place was lit like an anteroom of hell, with the nightmarish red glare of flames spilling through the open doors but fading into shadows before it reached the far walls of the cavernous building. Stark saw the shattered helicopter with its blades still spinning and knew that Ramirez must have been trying to escape. That long tunnel had been a bolt-hole. A heartbeat later Stark saw the man near the doors, bending over a grim shape sprawled on the ground. Stark saw the helmet and the body armor and knew that the man on the ground was one of his friends. He couldn’t tell which one, but he felt a pang of grief anyway. Another good man gone down, a victim of the Vulture’s insane hatred.

  And that was Ramirez himself, Stark realized as the man looked up at him. In this garish light, Ramirez looked like Satan himself, gloating over a tortured soul. Ramirez hesitated, made a tentative move toward the fallen man’s rifle as if he intended to pick it up and fight back, but then he straightened and regarded Stark coolly.

  “I know you,” Ramirez called. “You’re him. Stark.”

  Walking forward slowly, keeping his rifle trained on Ramirez, Stark nodded. “That’s right. And you’re Ramirez.”

  “You’re a fool, you know. You’ve accomplished nothing except to get yourself and your friends killed. Still, I am glad to finally meet you, Senor Stark.” An ugly grin stretched across Ramirez’s face. “After all, I already had the pleasure of meeting your lovely wife.”

  Stark almost pressed the trigger then and wiped that grin off Ramirez’s face. He waited, because he didn’t know where the redhead was. The man had to be here somewhere. It would be a great pleasure to kill Ramirez, but the other man had debts to pay, too. Stark wanted to draw him out.

  “Maybe I won’t kill you after all,” Stark said quietly. “Maybe I’ll take you back across the border and turn you over to the law. We’re going to have some real law in Val Verde County now, you know, with Hammond gone. I saw his body back in the house.”

  Ramirez shook his head. “It does not matter. No matter who is in charge, I will simply buy him, as I bought Hammond. You cannot fight me, Stark. It is a losing battle. And I am tired of this now.” He raised his voice. “Kill him, Silencio! Kill him now!”

  Nothing happened.

  Ramirez’s eyes widened. “Silencio!” he screamed.

  Well, maybe he’d been wrong about the redhead, Stark thought. Maybe he was either dead or gone.

  “Looks like you’re on your own, Ramirez.”

  Terror, hatred, madness all raced through Ramirez’s eyes. He took a step back.

  At that moment, the man on the ground groaned.

  Stark knew it was a mistake the instant he took his eyes off Ramirez, but it was too late to do anything about it. With blinding speed, Ramirez plucked a small-caliber pistol from behind his belt at the small of his back and fired. The bullet hit Stark in the throat and knocked him half around. He staggered and went to a knee, firing the assault rifle one-handed as he did so. His shot ripped through Ramirez’s body and knocked the Vulture back even more. Ramirez managed to stay on his feet, though, and tried to bring the gun up for one last shot.

  Inside the helicopter, a fire started by sparks from the shot-up control panel finally reached the gas tank. It erupted with a roar, blowing the chopper into pieces and sending the still-spinning blades loose into the air. The blast knocked Stark forward. What felt like a mighty wind passed directly over him.

  He looked up in time to see Ramirez still standing there, eyes wide with horror and disbelief.

  Then Ramirez’s top half fell one way and his bottom half fell the other, sheared cleanly in two by the helicopter blades on their way out of the hangar.

  “J-John Howard . . . ?”

  Stark had fallen beside his wounded friend. He looked over into Jack Finnegan’s face. Finnegan’s features were smooth, seemingly without pain. But he had trouble speaking as he gasped out, “Did you . . . get him?”

  Stark thought about that madly spinning blade and knew it had been guided by a higher power than anything he and his friends had been able to muster. But Ramirez wouldn’t have been standing right there if not for what they had done.

  “We got him, Jack,” he said hoarsely. “We all got him.”

  “G-good.” Finnegan swallowed. “I can’t feel much, John Howard. Lucky, huh?”

  “Hang on, Jack. We’ll get out of here.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not me . . . anyway. But it’s . . . okay. Probably . . . for the best . . . You know me . . . always find a way to . . . screw up . . .”

  “Not this time,” Stark told him. “Ramirez would have gotten away if not for you, Jack. You’re the one who stopped him.”

  Finnegan smiled. “I ever tell you . . . I wanted to be . . . a pro golfer?”

  Stark put his head closer to Finnegan’s. “No,” he whispered. “No, I don’t think you did.”

  “Could’a been . . . good at it . . . You should see the way I . . . putt into a shot glass . . .” Finnegan’s eyes opened wider. “Oh Lord,” he said clearly. “John Howard, I . . .”

  He sighed and his head relaxed against the ground. Stark closed his eyes and whispered, “Damn, damn,” but it sounded more like a prayer than a curse.

  Eventually he remembered that he’d been shot in the throat. He got a hand up there to check the wound and found that the bullet had plowed through the side of his neck, leaving a painful, messy wound, but not one that was life-threatening. He could tell from the amount of blood that it hadn’t nicked a vein or an artery. He pushed himself up into a sitting position beside Finnegan’s body and looked around. The fire had spread to the walls of the hangar. He ought to start giving some thought to getting out of here, Stark thought.

  That was when Will Sheffield and Rich Threadgill ran in from outside and saw him sitting there. “John Howard!” Sheffield yelled.

  Stark waved them over. He climbed to his feet with Sheffield’s help. “Rich, get Jack,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Threadgill didn’t move. He looked down at Finnegan and said, “Jack? Better get up, Jack.”

  “I’ll take him,” Sheffield said quietly. “Here, Rich, you help John Howard.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Threadgill put an arm around Stark’s waist and supported him as he hobbled toward the doors.

  Once they were outside, well away from the burning hangar, Stark asked, “What about Henry and Nat?”

  “We haven’t seen them,” Sheffield said with a shake of his head.

  Stark nodded grimly. “By now they’ll be on their way back to the truck, if they’re able to. Get down the hill, go back through the junkyard, and get the hell out while you still can.”

  “What about you?”

  Stark shook his head and looked down at Finnegan. “I’m staying here.”

  “John Howard, you’re a wanted man.”

  “I know, and I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life as a fugitive.
With all these explosions and fires, the police and the fire department will be showing up here any time. With Ramirez dead, the Mexican authorities won’t know what to do with me. They’ll give me back to the Americans, just to get me out of their hair. I’ll take my chances on our side of the border.”

  Sheffield hesitated. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Go back to your life, Will,” Stark told him quietly. “Just one thing . . . look after Rich.”

  Sheffield nodded. “Well, all right . . . I guess. But I don’t like it.”

  “Nothing about it to like. It’s just what’s got to be done.”

  Sheffield and Threadgill moved off into the darkness, Threadgill complaining about leaving Stark behind, Sheffield trying to reassure him that was what John Howard wanted. Stark sighed as a weariness greater than any he had ever known settled over him. Using his rifle to steady himself, he sat down on the ground next to Finnegan to wait. He opened his mouth, intending to say something to Elaine about how it was over now and how he had settled the score for her, but he stopped because he knew it wasn’t true. Justice had been done, but justice didn’t heal the wound and stop the hurting. It was just . . . better than nothing.

  Stark looked at what appeared to be a mile-long procession of flashing red and blue lights approaching the compound and wondered if the huge empty feeling inside him would ever go away.

  Ryan had gotten his belt off, knotted it around his wrist to form a tourniquet, and tied his handkerchief around the stubs of the first two fingers on his right hand. The bleeding had stopped. He felt a little light-headed, but he knew now that he was going to make it. There was a doctor downriver in Piedras Negras, across the border from Eagle Pass, who could be trusted. Ryan could walk into downtown Cuidad Acuna, steal a car, and be there before morning. Being short two fingers was going to be damned annoying in his line of work, but he supposed he would just have to figure out ways of dealing with it. Maybe he would go to work for the U.S. government, he thought with a smile as he trudged through the night. After all, they hired a lot of handicapped people. And he was now an American with a disability. . . .