My other option was to follow the ledge and find a way out under the cover of darkness. I liked that idea best. Historically, forting up never seemed to be the best option. The guys at the Alamo proved that.
Jolts of pain lit me up as I slipped my left arm through the daypack’s strap. It wasn’t any better when I got into the other strap and shrugged it into place.
Cupping my hand over the tac-light, I found the pressure switch and gave it a squeeze. My fist glowed, and I cracked two fingers to let out a narrow beam. It showed me the fresh rocks I’d brought to the bottom with me, and beyond that, what looked like a thin trail leading off in the opposite direction from where the bad guy came from.
“Yooko? Dónde está?”
“Ha do aai fuera!”
Two whispered voices on my level reached my ears, telling me time was up. One spoke Spanish, and the other a curious mix of that and some Indian dialect. It sounded like some Apache I’d heard, but I’m not even close to a linguist.
They were on the way. Keeping low and bent almost double, I retreated to the opposite side of the boulder that suddenly seemed much smaller now that I was standing.
The clouds above split and my whole plan went haywire when the full moon appeared, washing the world in cold blue light that filled the valley. My ledge continued along the side of the canyon and widened into a slope leading down and away from the killers. From my vantage point, I could see far into the canyon.
And so could they.
Chapter 12
The clouds parted, revealing the moon-bleached valley. Pupils slowly constricting to adapt to the silver glow, Abdullah caught a flicker of movement up and to the right.
Using his flashlight beam to show his men, he swept it across the lip. “There! I saw something move!”
Javier and Calaka were halfway up the slope when the Syrian shouted. Crouching, they held their weapons as far out as the straps would allow and slowed their approach.
When no one shot, Abdullah released the pressure switch and closed his eyes to allow his pupils to dilate. “You two, Chino, Pepito. Follow the canyon wall and cut him off if that ledge continues. There may be a way down. Be ready for him.”
Chino kept one eye on the ledge above, as if Abdullah had seen a mountain lion. “Sí, jefe!” He took off at a jog, followed by the mostly silent Pepito, the only one of the gangsters Abdullah could tolerate.
Abdullah waited for a full thirty seconds as his eyes became accustomed to the moonlight. The clouds from a collapsed thunderstorm raced off toward the south, and the unfiltered moonlight was bright and strong, revealing the valley floor in surprising detail.
Keeping the muzzle of his Cobra pointed at the ridge where he’d last seen movement, he paced Javier and Calaka, winding between boulders and prickly vegetation. He moved slowly, alternating his concentration on the cactus-studded ground and the possibility of an attack from above, at the same time wondering how the man he’d shot off the edge of a cliff could have possibly survived.
And with enough life left in him to fight back.
Chapter 13
The huge River Oaks house in Houston was silent as Chavez paced the new mesquite hardwood floor in his bare feet. He’d realized months earlier just how filthy his house was when workers arrived to replace the living-room carpet.
It was all the obsessive-compulsive terrorist mastermind could do not to scream when he saw the underside of what he thought was clean carpet. Several strange stains yellowed the backing.
“What is that filth?”
The hourly carpet layer looked up from his work in surprise. “What?”
“Those stains! And on the floor, where did all that dirt come from?”
“Sir, it’s not unusual for carpet to have stains. It’s not dog or cat pee, but you can see where something was spilled. It looks like the carpet cleaners used a chemical to get it out.” He flipped the material back over. “See? There aren’t any stains in the fibers on this side.”
“But this carpet is only a year old.”
Frowning, the Hispanic worker shrugged. “I can see that. Why are you changing it out so soon?”
“That’s not the point. This is supposed to be stain-proof and antimicrobial. Look how filthy it is! Filthy, filthy, filthy.”
“Sir. It’s stain resistant, not stain-proof, and all carpet gets dirty. It comes in on people’s shoes.”
From there the argument disintegrated into a one-sided shouting match resulting in solid-wood flooring throughout the house. Now guests were required to remove their shoes upon entering, Hawaiian style, keeping the polished floors clean and unscuffed.
The smooth boards under Chavez’s feet calmed him as he paced the living room, bagged TV remote in one hand and a glass of 25-year-old Glenlivet in the other. A satellite phone was squared on the dividing island between the kitchen and living room, perfectly aligned with the counter’s edge and the open laptop turned so he could see it.
It was everything he could do not to dial the phone. Instead, Chavez sat the scotch down on a coaster and picked up his iPhone. He punched at the screen until he found the number he was looking for.
The heavily accented Hispanic voice on the other end was friendly, but reserved. “Yes?”
“Have you heard anything?”
“No. Your man said he would call when they have the . . . package. We have not heard from him, and I suppose you have not, either.”
“He said the target was in sight the last time we spoke.”
“I prefer the word ‘package,’ and like I said, nothing. I am sure it will be delivered. There may have been issues with the retrieval.”
Why doesn’t he pronounce ‘head?’ This is a secure phone for Chrissake. We should be able to speak freely instead of this spy shit.
Chavez placed the sanitized remote on the counter and took a huge swallow of scotch. He passed the sole of his bare right foot over the smooth floor, breathing deeply to calm himself. The 80-inch flat-panel television on the wall was muted and tuned to CNN. “It’s getting late.”
“Yes.”
“I am concerned.”
“Look, try to be patient. The call will come through. When it does, I’ll get my package and you’ll get your revenge.”
You’ll get the Ranger’s head, and I’ll get some relief. “I hope your people know what they’re doing.”
“My people will do their jobs. I brought them in especially for this one. It’s your vengeful associate that is untested.”
“He came highly recommended by those who trained him.”
“Then there should be no problems. Relax. It will be over soon.”
“Have your people taken care of the second issue? Has his family been eliminated? Remember our deal. I wanted Hawke and his entire family wiped out.”
The voice hesitated. “There was an issue of too many players on the field. They had to wait and regroup, but I can promise you that by this time tomorrow night, they too will be neutralized.”
“Fine then.” Chavez saw something on the floor that concerned him. “I will speak to you later.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Chavez punched the phone off, keeping an eye on the floor.
He tapped his computer’s keyboard, bringing the laptop to life. He’d long ago learned how to hack into a Snapchat feed. Using a fictitious name, Chavez’s stolen information revealed him to be one of Mary Hawke’s high school friends.
A common misconception is that Snapchat photos disappear forever after one to ten seconds, however Chavez had long since learned where they resided in the dim recesses of the online digital world.
Mary Hawke had posted a photo of her and an attractive Hispanic woman a few years older. The accompanying message read: Dad’s late for supper again, and we’re starving! The timestamp read 9:30 P.M. He grinned to himself, knowing that Sonny Hawke wouldn’t be home for supper that night or any other.
A quick scan of her latest posts told him nothing else about the girl or her Texas
Ranger dad. Oh well, she’d feed him more information later. It was her habit to send a flurry of Snapchat photos later in the evening before going to bed.
He jumped over to a Facebook page he’d stolen. “His” photo in the newsfeed was of a middle-aged woman by the name of Norma Wilson. She was a real person who lived in Ballard, but the remainder of the page was bogus. Chavez then scanned Kelly Hawke’s most recent posts, seeing that she and Sonny planned to attend a local barbecue dinner in a week. Finding nothing else, he’d wait until eleven, when she usually posted a comment or two before turning in.
She’d have plenty to post later tonight.
That finished, a spot on the floor finally had his full attention. Chavez knelt as if sneaking up on a scorpion and dropped to his hands and knees to better see the one mesquite board that had caught his eye. A knot in the wood caused a small imperfection to show.
He stifled a whine.
It was a hole, roughly the size of half his little fingernail, that caught a small amount of fine dirt.
His eyes widened at the thought of what might already be growing in there.
He snatched his cell phone from the counter and pushed a button. He had the flooring manager on speed dial. No matter that it was late. He’d paid for quality and by-God he was going to get it.
Chapter 14
I wanted to run more than anything, but even with the moonlight bathing everything with a soft glow, it was still too dangerous.
Now just use your head before you go charging down to the bottom of the canyon. It’s too dangerous to move fast. Slow and steady, Son, slow and steady.
Thanks, Pop. I’ll do just that.
Jaw flexing as I ground my teeth, I forced myself to hold back to a fast walk heading southeast. I didn’t like the direction worth a flip, because it was taking me farther and farther from the most traveled part of the park and well into some damn rough country.
Though I’d been at it for five minutes, the ledge kept going. At one point, it narrowed down until it was barely six feet wide and overhung by towering cliffs that felt like they could come down at any time.
Had it not been for the bare game trail winding through the plants, I never would have made it. The next thirty or forty yards scared the pee-waddlin’ out of me, because the brush quit and the trail narrowed to only four feet before it widened again.
It wasn’t like I could see as well as daylight, even though I could have read a book if I’d angled it just right. The ledge continued to fan out, but the landscape was full of dark corners, shadows, and holes. The bushes and cactus glowed, and for a while it was easy to avoid them. It was a good thing, too. I didn’t need legs full of spines and stickers. No one could stand that for very long, and it would for sure slow me down with every painful step.
I slid stock still at the sound of a hoarse, whistling cough and brought the unfamiliar machine pistol to bear. Finger along the trigger guard, I waited.
Listen.
Check your surroundings.
A slight movement caught my attention, along with what sounded like a foot stamping the ground. I relaxed at the familiar sound and broke into a slow jog. A doe wheeled and bounded away.
The bullet wound under my arm was still firing lances of pain down my side. The worst of the bleeding had stopped while I was unconscious, but my shirt was stuck to the dried blood. Every movement pulled the material, and I felt the wound soften with fresh blood.
Dozens of other aches and pains woke up as my body warmed and chased the night’s chill away. My boots sounded like horses’ hooves on the hard trail. I tried jogging on my tiptoes, but that got tiring fast.
The cool night breeze helped clear my head, and the fuzziness was gone, leaving a slight headache. The adrenaline dump was wearing off at the same time, and I wondered about shock. I was functioning better than I would have expected, but the human body can take just so much before it folds up to regroup.
Cactus crowded closer to the trail and I slowed. Succulents. I recalled the sign above a table full of one-gallon pots of cactus on sale in the plant nursery back home. Kelly and I’d argued to a standstill that day when she wanted to plant cactus in our yard. I was against anything that could cut, poke, or stick me, and she couldn’t understand why.
I crouched to pull a cactus needle out of my calf. I hadn’t been completely successful at avoiding them. A coyote yipped in the distance. Another answering yip followed and seconds later a whole pack tuned up. They were chasing something, and the barks and yapping became frantic. I had nothing to fear from them, they’d probably kicked up a rabbit, but those sounds could help cover my own noise, I hoped. My lips were dry, and my tongue was already starting to stick to the roof of my mouth.
Water.
A sudden sinking feeling in my gut took some of the spirit out of me. My water supply vanished with Red when he ran off. If I had any water at all, it was in the pack I hadn’t yet checked out. It was heavy all right, and if the bad guy I’d killed was from anywhere around there, he was sure to have water.
But how much?
The traditional rule of thumb is at least a gallon per person, per day, but we always carried twice that amount on our hikes. It sure didn’t feel like there was more than a gallon back there. Let’s see, one gallon equals eight pounds. The pack was at least twice that, so maybe I’d be all right for a day or two.
Any other time, I could have hiked out of the canyon without too much to worry about, if I knew where I was. Half a dozen mountains and pinnacles were easily identifiable from the right perspectives. But after falling off the cliff and suffering a gunshot wound, I wasn’t exactly sure where I was.
That part of the country was cut up and crisscrossed with arroyos and washes, often leading to deep canyons that eventually drain into the Rio Grande. That is, if there’s any water to drain, and that’s a stretch of the imagination until one of those storm trains comes through that flushes the entire country.
You let ’em lead you into the middle of nowhere, dummy.
I wished I could have taken a better look at that guy I’d killed back there, but there was one thing I was sure of, the dark tattoo on the side of his neck, and those on his arms weren’t from any professional tattoo parlor. I figured him to be at least an ex-con or cartel member who’d spent much of his life behind bars, or a gangster, and probably a combination of the two.
Mexican gangsters in the Big Bend spelled nothing but trouble for me and innocent civilians. I’d also gotten that brief glimpse at a tattoo on Dumbass Yooko’s neck that seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It sure wasn’t fancy, a squiggly horizontal line intersected by four lines curving downward and to the right, like those rain showers I’d seen in the distance, ending with a perpendicular convex line cutting across at the bottom.
I’d seen it on a wanted poster, maybe, or even in a photograph, and that’s where my mind kept coming back to, something about an accident. The Occidental Saloon in Buffalo, Wyoming, kept coming to mind, but what could that have to with the dead guy’s tattoo?
There was something about his features that wasn’t quite right, either. He didn’t look like most of the full-blood Mexicans I’d known. He was shorter, squatty, and slightly bowlegged, like the darker-skinned Indios I’d run across in the past.
I checked my back trail to see a flash of high-intensity light skittering along the boulders, shrubs, and cactus, seeking me out.
Someone was coming.
Chapter 15
Surrounded by nothing but scrub brush, I was caught in the open like a rabbit under a hawk. I did what the bunny would do. I froze, hoping the light would miss me.
Don’t move, Son, and he might not see you.
The Old Man told me that once when we were walking along an arroyo, looking for deer tracks. We stepped around a bush to see a twelve-point buck with thick antlers. Pop gripped my shoulder and held me still.
The buck didn’t see us, but something else spooked him and he whirled to run right past us. The Old Ma
n reached out and the tips of his fingers grazed the deer’s side. “I count coup on you!”
The buck kicked in the afterburners at Dad’s shout and streaked away. Counting coup by touching the deer meant it was as good as dead in Dad’s eyes, and that’s how I felt standing there. As good as dead, because the guy intent on killing me and not just counting coup was about fifty yards off.
But nothing happened. I realized he’d ruined his night vision with the flashlight. Either that, or he must’ve been looking down at his feet, because he never saw me. Then again, I was as still as that rabbit under a hawk.
The only thing that moved were my eyes, which flicked over the huge tumbledown boulders jumbled up at the base of the cliff wall maybe thirty or forty yards away. It’s funny how your mind can work out problems in a hurry. One of those boulders was the size of a small house, and it was surrounded by dozens more of various sizes, offering protection in the shadows underneath.
I just needed to get there without trading gunshots.
He still hadn’t seen me, and my luck held when the break in the clouds closed and the valley floor once more plunged into darkness. Despite the desperate need to run, I dropped to the hard ground and stifled a grunt when about a hundred cuts, bruises, and gunshot wounds shrieked in protest. Lying on my stomach, I made myself count to sixty, listening all the while. When I opened them back up again, it was a world of shapes and shadow.
Bent like Quasimodo to find a trail through the shrub and prickly pear, I moved perpendicular to the approaching beam. I concentrated on both sides of the imaginary path before me, knowing the rods in my eyes were incredibly efficient at picking out shapes if I used my peripheral vision instead of looking directly at the ground.
The guy’s night vision was shot from the light on his rifle, but mine was good enough to avoid the plants. The growth tapered off close to the tumbledown, and a dozen dark shadows offered protection, but I wouldn’t take it. There was no way I was going to trap myself in a hole where all he had to do was stand outside and spray into the opening.
Hawke's War Page 7