Hawke's Prey

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Now they were both at least as well armed as their opponents. Ethan keyed the radio again. “All units. The command center will be at the Posada Hotel.” The words came fast and breathless. “Use the hotel’s east entrance. Repeat. Use the east entrance of the Posada. Charles Street may be under fire. Be careful getting over there, boys, I don’t know what the hell’s going on.” Several rounds shredded the Johnny Holmes coffeepot, putting an end to its obscene gurgling. Hot coffee showered the floor. “But right now stay away from the courthouse. Frank, creepy-crawl out the back.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “Help me with Pelham.”

  “He’s dead, boss.”

  “We take him with us anyway.”

  Dragging the body, they crawled between the empty cells where the Mayo brothers had spent the night and through the back door. Out of the line of fire, they rose and hoisted Pelham’s body on Deputy Malone’s shoulder.

  Using the building and snowstorm for cover, they ran through the alley and across the empty street to the Palace Theater. Malone ran panting along behind Ethan as he cut between the buildings to South Charles Street. Heavy snow cloaked the courthouse in a dancing veil of white, preventing those inside from seeing farther than the theater on the corner.

  A covey of Red Hat women were huddled in the Posada Hotel’s lobby, not far from the roaring fireplace. One of the younger members of the over-fifty fun-society group screamed when the snow-covered lawmen burst through the door with weapons in hand.

  Andy Clark was on the phone behind the registration counter. At the sight of the two lawmen and the limp deputy, he trailed off with the receiver in hand. “Something’s going on all right, but I don’t . . . an ever’thing—” He hung up without taking his eyes off Malone and the rifle in his hand.

  Ethan swept a vase of flowers off a long table and they replaced it with Pelham’s body. “No one go outside. Andy, I’m commandeering the building. Frank, cover that door until we get some help. Andy, clear the banquet room, I’m using it as a command post. You have a pistol back there with you?”

  The white-faced hotel owner reached under the counter and produced a Judge, a revolver chambered for both .45 and .410 shotgun shells.

  Despite what they’d just been through, Ethan’s eyes widened at the sight of the large bore in the big revolver that judges have been known to carry into courtrooms for protection. “That’ll do. Watch that other door until my men arrive.”

  Andy faced the doors coming off the patio.

  Outside, the snowstorm ramped up.

  Chapter 17

  The steady chatter of automatic gunfire rolled down the hallway from the northern entrance. Return fire shattered the glass doors and whined overhead. DeVaca regarded the hallway without blinking. “Team Four, report.”

  An American voice came into his ear. He thought it sounded like the dumpy guy named Danny. “We were about to get company from across the street when some lawmen came out. Ol’ Billy and Milton changed their minds for ’em. They’re back inside now.”

  The transmission stopped when the rate of fire escalated at that same end of the building. DeVaca remained rooted to his spot, listening to return fire from outside. He keyed the transmit button when the volume died down.

  “Update.”

  “Dayum!” This time Danny Woods’s voice was shrill with adrenaline. “They unloaded on us, I think they have a mini-gun over there! Do you think that was a mini-gun, Milton?”

  Milton’s voice shook. “Hell no. There ain’t no mini-gun in any sheriff’s department in West Texas.”

  “It don’t matter. We pushed ’em back. I don’t expect they’ll be shooting any more for a while.”

  Two light pops sounding like a handgun came from the second floor, the echoes reverberating in the rotunda. A torrent of automatic fire cut off a scream. The burst was followed by silence.

  DeVaca glanced upward. “Tin Man?”

  “Light contact. We missed some secretary who wanted to fight.”

  “Texans.” DeVaca’s voice was full of disgust. He pressed the button again. “Do you have the second floor secure?”

  The response was immediate. “Yes.”

  DeVaca grinned. “Excellent. Is the courtroom cleared?”

  “Yes. Bring the rest of them up.”

  “Dorothy! Move them now.”

  * * *

  Fahio Muhammed Ally Mslam knelt, placed his weapon on the ground, and opened a black plastic case with a recognizable shape. He withdrew a chainsaw, primed it by pushing the rubber bulb, and gave the starter rope a tug. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died. He tugged again, then again, with the same frustrating result.

  Frightened, the Syrian met DeVaca’s gaze. This was his one single most important duty. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He knew DeVaca’s finger was twitching.

  He yanked again, then again, before remembering he hadn’t choked the engine. He flipped the switch and heaved on the rope once, then twice, before the engine roared to life.

  DeVaca watched the last captives straggle up the stairs, pushed like cattle by the invaders. Behind him, the Muslim terrorist thanked Allah aloud for sparing him and went to work with the saw. He revved it twice and the engine changed pitch as the tip cut through the polished 140-year-old oak floor.

  Chapter 18

  At the sound of gunfire, Arturo whipped around to charge down the narrow stairs along the curved wall. I reached for his arm and missed.

  “Arturo, wait!”

  I didn’t yell, because the gunshots came from multiple weapons. I had no idea how many people were downstairs, but it wasn’t just one or two. Every nerve in my body jangled like an old-fashioned telephone.

  I snagged the collar of his jacket, yanking him toward me. “Where are you going?”

  “Somebody’s shooting!” His eyes were glassy with excitement.

  I took a better grip and gave him a shake. “Kid!” His eyes darted in all directions like those of a caged animal looking for escape, the tension and dread between us thick and heavy. “The smart thing to do is to stay right here and not go running toward trouble.”

  He was like a frightened horse in a barn fire. His eyes rolled and he pulled away. With my nose inches from his, I spoke in a voice that even I didn’t recognize. It came from deep in the back of my throat and was born of terror for my family and us. “Listen! I don’t know what’s going on down there, but you’re staying here.”

  The sheer violence I radiated burned through his adolescent hysteria. He held my gaze and settled down. “I hear you.”

  “Fine then.” I drew the Colt from the hand-tooled Brill holster hanging from the Ranger rig on my hips and did my best to tamp down the fear burning like acid. A quick glance through the clear left-hand side of my pistol’s grip reassured me it was loaded, with brass peeking through the small holes in the magazine. The other side of the Sweetheart grips held a photo of my grandmother under Lucite. The pistol my grandfather carried in World War II, and on duty as a Ranger, had been my primary weapon for years.

  I pulled him to the opposite side of the round room, away from the open stairway, which amounted to about ten feet. “Listen, kid, and be quiet. Something bad’s happening down there. People could be dying, so you’re gonna do what I say, do . . . you . . . understand?”

  He seemed to shrink in his jacket. “Yes.”

  “Good. We’re lucky we’re up here.” I glanced toward the stairwell to make sure we were still alone and lowered my voice in case someone was sneaking up on us. “You’re gonna wait right here while I go down and make sure the room below is empty. Then I’ll call you down and show you where to hole up until somebody comes to get you.”

  Two more shots barked up the staircase.

  A woman’s shriek came from below and I prayed it wasn’t my wife. It was all I could do not to go charging downstairs like Arturo. “There’s a door at the bottom of these stairs. Did you see it when we came up?”

  He shook his head.r />
  “No matter. It leads into the attic. I’m fixin’ to go down first to check things out. Listen, and when I tell you, come down as quiet as possible. I’ll have the door open. You duck inside without a word, get it?”

  “Yessir.” He watched the balustrade beside the floor access.

  I hoped the attic door wasn’t locked. I couldn’t remember if the long-shanked padlock was hanging open on the hasp when we passed earlier. “Once you’re there, stay inside until someone official shows up. Got it?”

  A short burst of gunfire resulted in a shriek that faded into a wail. Adults screamed and children screamed, and I knew in my heart that Kelly’s students were among them, but I also knew that rushing down right then would help no one. My heart hammered.

  Please God, I thought, give me the strength not to be stupid.

  More pops resulted in another shriek that found its way into our enclosure.

  An angry male voice. “No! Get your hands off me you son of a bitch, who the hell are you? I’m—”

  Two flat gunshots ignited more chaos. A war exploded somewhere down below, and I made out automatic weapons in use both inside and out. I saw a flicker of fear in Arturo’s face. “Kid, we have to move! Give me twenty seconds to clear the floor below us and be ready to come when I say. Start counting to twenty, and do it slow. One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”

  Chapter 19

  The chainsaw reverberated throughout the rotunda, making conversation almost impossible. Dorothy stepped close to DeVaca and cocked her head toward the short hallway leading to the west entrance. “Wicked? Malvado, un momento, por favor?”

  His skin prickled at the musical sound of Dorothy’s soft voice pronouncing his mission name. The dusky-skinned woman was fast becoming an impossible obsession.

  “What is it?”

  She pulled him toward the wall, taking care not to stand in front of the translucent doors. “The trailer is parked across the street.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes. I was told and confirmed it myself.”

  His eyes widened in fury. He slapped the comm button attached to his vest. “Kahn!”

  Mohammad Hani Kahn was in the tax office when he heard the shout and joined them without hurrying. His lack of immediate response infuriated DeVaca. “Yes?”

  “Why is the trailer here, instead of one block over?”

  “The snow forced a change in plans. As you said, we must be able to adapt, and I did.”

  In a red rage, DeVaca thought about swiveling the stubby Scorpion and emptying an entire thirty-round magazine into the radical terrorist. Kahn had no idea that he’d compromised what DeVaca considered the most important part of the mission.

  The enclosed horse trailer was a primary tool in transporting what was under their feet if they found what he hoped was there, and the number of items was as described. DeVaca needed the large carrying space to haul everything away, while at the same time becoming a dispersal tool of unimaginable consequences. He’d fantasized about its implementation for months.

  But if his goal wasn’t met, if the building was sitting on a solid, undisturbed foundation, the trailer was to be a decoy full of escaping terrorists that would draw all the attention from the responders as he alone fled on foot.

  Now both plans were compromised.

  DeVaca’s expression told Kahn that he was about to die. The silence that swept in when the chainsaw went silent saved the man’s life. DeVaca relaxed. Killing the radical might lead to more deaths among his men, and he needed everyone until the end.

  He remembered a cautionary tale written by an Anglican priest in the 1600s. For the want of a nail, a shoe was lost. For the want of a shoe, a horse was lost. For the want of a horse, a knight was lost. For the want of a knight, a battle was lost. For the want of a battle, a kingdom was lost—all for the want of a nail.

  DeVaca might need the simple nail staring back with an insolent expression. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  “I’ve adapted and improvised, according to my training.”

  “You have altered my plan.”

  “Allah will provide the way out.”

  “He already has, but now I can’t—never mind.”

  DeVaca shoved past Kahn, maintaining eye contact and dismissing the man as if he were nothing, daring him to try and shoot him in the back.

  Kahn wouldn’t shoot, because no man could kill Wicked.

  Chapter 20

  Gunfire rose and fell. Something bad was going down, but I knew better than to rush into the middle of things without knowing what was happening.

  The Lucite semiautomatic pistol grips were sweaty in my palm, and I took a deep breath to settle my nerves. All was silent. Trembling, I started downstairs one slow step at a time. One. Two. Three. Four.

  Boots thumped up the stairs below. A male voice challenged me with a strong Spanish accent. “Hands over your head and come down!”

  He couldn’t see the upper half of my body, but I was compromised. I gave Arturo a quick headshake and held a hand out to make him stand still. Any shift in weight would give him away if the floor creaked.

  I couldn’t go back up. If he was a bad guy, he’d shoot me full of holes before I could take two steps. I couldn’t bring the pistol to bear for the same reason. My hope was that the guy was a law-enforcement officer. I held my hands high, though the upper part of my body was still hidden from the man’s view.

  My voice shook, and it wasn’t an act. I was as scared of that feller as I was of a bear. I bent to see a man with a nasty-looking machine pistol pointed at my chest. I’m not enough of a weapon guy to recognize the gun from that angle, but none of that mattered. The muzzle looked as wide as a culvert.

  He wore a black watch cap with one of those tube scarves pulled up over his mouth and nose so I could only see his eyes. Mixed camo patterns covered by a tactical vest and worn military-style boots told me everything I needed to know.

  Goosebumps rose on the back of my neck as I stared down the barrel of that killing machine. “You’re a cop?”

  “That is correct. Hurry.”

  “Okie dokey. What’s going on? Is everything all right?” I took another step down. I was between a rock and a hard place.

  “Everything is fine. I am a state policeman. There is a problem downstairs, and I am making sure we are safe. You come down with your hands high until I find out who you are.”

  State police, my ass. His formal speech was unfamiliar to our part of the world, where we cut words down as short as possible and contracted the rest.

  Still bent to see below the floor, I took another cautious step down the narrow stairs. It was impossible to survive a gunfight under those circumstances. I needed to bide my time. While my hands were still out of his sight, I laid the .45 on top of the pony wall around the staircase, hoping my Wyoming Traders coat hid the badge, holster, and gun belt.

  I figured the ranch coat would give him the idea that I was one of the local cowboys. Now, why a rancher or ranch hand would be in the courthouse observation deck in the middle of the worst snowstorm in years would be anybody’s guess, but I knew criminals were seldom the valedictorians of their class.

  Then I remembered the tie around my neck with a feeling of dread. Ranchers don’t wear ’em. I hoped this guy wasn’t the salutatorian, either. “Easy, hoss. Don’t shoot me.”

  His eyes were hard on me as I reached the bottom step. “Manos . . . hands up. Come to me! Who is up there?”

  “Easy,” I repeated. My mouth went dry as dust. “It’s just me. Nobody else. Are you with the sheriff’s department?”

  Shrieks and cries of frightened people rose from below.

  The gunman breathed hard through his nose, as if he’d found himself at a high altitude. “Yes. Come at me and get on the floor and spread your arms and legs. Put your face down!”

  “Did Sheriff Hawke send you, Herman Hawke?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. The Sheriff Hawke sent me. Are there others?”
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br />   The guy was a complete fraud, but he was the one calling the shots. I saw the communication button on the center of his chest and a pouch hanging over his shoulder.

  “Like I just said, I’m by myself.”

  “Get down!”

  That wasn’t gonna happen. I hoped he hadn’t pushed that transmit button to say I was up there, and I didn’t think he had, yet. My boot finally touched the bottom step.

  “Hey! It’s all right.” I took two steps forward, frowning like people do when I question them. I waved, lowering my hands a bit. I needed to get closer. “I live on a ranch outside of town. I just came in to pay my taxes and wanted to see the snow from the dome. What’s going on down there? Are we safe?”

  “Abajo! Down!” He poked the stubby muzzle at me as if he was trying to back up an unwanted dog with a stick. He helped my position by stepping forward, probably thinking he could get in my space and intimidate me into shutting up. The knuckles on his right hand were white on the pistol grip. “On the ground!”

  “Okay. Okay.” I took another step and bent my knees as he ordered. “Jeez. Am I under arrest or something, because I haven’t done—”

  A voice and a heavy footfall on the first step startled us both. “Mr. Sonny?”

  The man jerked the muzzle toward the new threat and gave me the opening I’d been looking for. I charged into him with everything I had and grabbed the weapon’s forend with my left hand to drive the stubby barrel upward, away from Arturo. I wrapped my hand over his on the pistol grip and twisted the gun back over his right forearm.

  Arms aren’t meant to bend that way. He went with it to escape the pressure. I kept pushing and twisting, driving him back. He lunged sideways, to get a better angle and twist the short gun back into my gut. His feet tangled with mine like we were a couple of first-time two-steppers, and he stumbled back to gain some distance.