Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Boyd put the coffee down on the table and slipped both hands into her pockets, studying the map. She raised her eyes to Sheriff Armstrong. “Does he have four-wheel-drive?”

  “He does.”

  “That truck could be anywhere.”

  The cell phone in Perry Hale’s tactical pants pocket vibrated. He read the text from Mary Hawke. As stone faced as the three Rangers across the tent, Perry casually rose and exited, heading straight for his truck.

  Chapter 39

  It was full dark when the littlest gangster with the head full of spiders took off without a word. A scattering of light raindrops came and went, bringing the odor of petrichor, the smell of rain on dry earth. The rain also released the scent of creosote from the surrounding scrub. I’d always enjoyed the scent, because it brought great memories of cool afternoons and quality time on the porch with my twins Jerry and Mary.

  One of the gangsters was more outgoing than the others and I’d heard him speaking a little English, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get him talking.

  “You got a name?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited for it, but he remained silent. “Am I supposed to guess?”

  “You’re supposed to be quiet and do as we say or we’ll put the bag back.”

  “No, you won’t. You boys want to make time now that it’s dark and I’d slow you down too much if I can’t see.”

  The rain increased in volume as Fat Face behind me launched into a string of Spanish mixed with an Indian dialect. The only things I could pick out were the Mexican cusswords I’d learned in school. The way he said them, though, made my skin crawl almost as much as Runt’s snarling coyote tattoos, or the terrorist’s fresh ears hanging like a pendant necklace around Fat Face’s neck.

  It’s like the guys in school who used the “F” word all the time. For some, it came as second nature, but when a couple of others I grew up with used it in any sense, it was the nastiest word I’d ever heard.

  Funny, both of those high school acquaintances were in prison. I’d put one of them there myself, within a year of graduating. I was a rookie cop and got a Breaking and Entering call one night on a warehouse.

  Two men were crawling out a window when I arrived. It was nothing to drag them the rest of the way and cuff ’em. When I finally got a light on my fresh catch of the day, I saw they were the nasty-talking buddies Jim Looney and James Baker, who decided to go into business for themselves by taking other people’s property and reselling it.

  Unfortunately for them, Looney lived up to his namesake and had a pistol on him, automatically graduating him to felony status. It was my first good arrest and conviction, though it was odd to arrest someone you’d known for years.

  Fat Face cut loose with another string of complaints again, and I waited until he was finished before turning to Javier to translate. He saw the look on my face and grinned in the glow of the flashlight cupped in his hand. His gold tooth sparkled.

  “Calaka says that you talk too much and I’m being too good to you. He may be right. We were supposed to bring back your head in that bag, and that’s all. He wants to finish the job and go.”

  All of a sudden, I felt like a mouse, knowing that if I moved or raised my eyes to Calaka, he’d kill me as quick as that rodent. I stared downward, already soaked, trying not to shiver from the sudden chill from the rain. They may have taken it as fear.

  “I don’t know why I don’t.” Javier dug in his ear. “Maybe I want Chatto to have the pleasure of killing you himself. Maybe I can get more money for you all in one piece.”

  My usual smart comments stuck in my throat. I was afraid to speak.

  “I don’t know what to do now that Abdullah is dead.” Javier dug in his ear again. I hoped for a roaring case of MRSA. Maybe the staph infection would travel from his ear directly into his brain.

  More silence.

  “My name is Javier, if it matters.” He quit digging. “Right now, I think we walk. This storm is just what we need to wash away all the tracks.”

  There. I was right. Now I had all their names. Asia was Chino, Calaka replaced Fat Face, and the last guy was Pepito, a name I remembered from my childhood watching The Real McCoys television show.

  The little guy reappeared, and they leaned in together for a minute before Javier pointed with his light. I guess he’d taken over as boss, now that the Beard was attracting flies. “Calaka, vámonos. Chino, deyaa.”

  I was trying to figure out what language deyaa came from when Javier turned and led off. The Chinese-looking Indio, Chino, fell into line behind him. Calaka shoved me between the shoulders, causing my bullet wound to catch fire again, and I followed. He walked drag.

  Six steps into our walk, the blisters on my feet felt as if someone was holding a blowtorch against the backs of my heels. Calaka shoved me a third time, causing me to stumble and land on my knees.

  “Rapido!”

  “Got news for you, partner. My top speed’s gonna be half of what I figure you want.”

  He raised a fist and I braced myself, knowing I probably wouldn’t get back up.

  “Espera!” Javier came back and they launched into an argument I couldn’t understand, so in response, I sat down to wait them out. It seemed to be the prudent thing to do.

  Chapter 40

  Marc Chavez was indecisive and despite his OCD, the obsessed man was usually in complete control of any situation. To him, every fiasco had to do with someone else, and Abdullah’s failure to check in was another example of weaknesses they should strive to overcome.

  Though Chavez promised himself he wouldn’t call the satellite phone Abdullah carried, he couldn’t help himself. He dialed the number and paced his expansive living room as it rang and rang. He snatched the remote control wrapped in a Ziploc bag to prevent contamination and flicked the enormous flat-panel TV to the Weather Channel.

  The female meteorologist smiled at him and launched into the forecast for the southwest portion of the country. “This stream of moisture will continue for at least another twenty-four hours, pumping moisture from the Gulf of California up and over Mexico and into the Big Bend region of Texas.”

  The gray plume on her map stretched all the way to Abilene and west to Lubbock.

  Chavez lowered the volume and ended the call. He dialed a second number that was answered on the first ring. “Yes.”

  He dispensed with normal formalities, because the gangster on the other end hadn’t yet deserved such courtesy. Chatto was an employee, and nothing else. “Abdullah hasn’t called in. I don’t don’t don’t know what’s happening.”

  His tendency toward repetition, especially under stress, was getting away from Chavez, adding to his frustration.

  “We haven’t heard from him, either.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You assured me this man knew his business.”

  “We both made decisions on the information we had at hand. Abdullah came highly recommended, and the men I sent with him are the descendants of the greatest fighters who ever lived. Let them do their jobs. They will contact you when they have the Ranger’s head.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  Chatto chuckled. “Then they won’t.”

  The phone went dead in Chavez’s ear, and he carefully placed it on the granite counter instead of throwing it against the wall.

  “They won’t won’t won’t. That’s what he said.” He nodded at the meteorologist who smiled at him again. “I can wait. Yes. I can wait wait . . .” Chavez clamped his jaw.

  I am in control.

  I am in control.

  I am in control.

  Chapter 41

  My captors’ new pace wasn’t as fast as when they’d started out, but it was almost too much to handle. Besides the blisters on my heels that were probably bleeding, my left side and arm felt hot. I was sure infection had already set in, and if I didn’t get some medical assistance, I was gonna be in a world of hu
rt pretty damn quick.

  The little guy led us across the slick hardpan as rain pattered my bare head, making me wish again for my hat. At first the water felt good, but the air cooled quickly as the night progressed and after a while I grew chilly in my drenched shirt and jeans. There was a moment of hope when I thought I could slip my wet hands free of the cuffs, but they’d clamped them too tight.

  I had no idea where we were headed, but the little guy led the way through the darkness by dead reckoning. He had a destination, and that worried me most of all.

  Memories rose as our group stretched along the trail, reminding me of stories I’d read when I was a kid of settlers captured by Iroquois Indians who were bound and led day and night through the wilderness and into Canada. I was in a modern-day nightmare of the same kind. My mind jumped to accounts of the Comanches who often took prisoners and traveled hundreds of miles on horseback, but the Apaches from our area usually walked—

  Apaches! That’s who these guys were. Descendants of those little bands of fighters who ran General Crook ragged back in the 1800s. That’s what I’d been trying to remember. Those four sweeping lines on their necks indicated where they came from. Rabid Coyotes were an offshoot gang of Apaches who still lived in the Occidental Mountains of Mexico and surfaced every now and then when killing needed to be done.

  There was no doubt now. Those guys were meaner’n snakes and would just as soon kill a person as look at them. I wondered why I was still alive. They’d knifed Beard, or Abdullah, pretty damn quick. He must have pissed them off somehow.

  I quickly learned to stay almost under Chino’s heels. Each time I lost ground and trailed him, Calaka slammed my wounded shoulder with his fist to push me ahead. Each time hurt worse than the last and I promised myself that I was gonna knock him in the head the first chance I got.

  They moved like animals, dodging all manner of plants with weapons. No one spoke and their silent communication reminded me of quail threading through the grass. Words can’t express how much I appreciated that. I didn’t need anything else to hurt. The cactus thorns and tiny needles I’d collected earlier were still in my jeans and skin, sending waves of pain and irritation up my legs at every step.

  Flashes of lighting fractured the clouds, coming closer with every minute. Rain increased, and we were soon hiking through a downpour. Desert storms are dangerous in the daylight. They’re worse at night when you can’t see where you’re going.

  Pepito flicked on a flashlight up ahead and paused. We’d come to a wash already churning with water. Hard rains run off the desert hardpan and even a shower results in a flash flood. The volume falling upstream guaranteed floods. That’s why we were moving so fast. They wanted to cross as many arroyos as possible before they filled with water.

  Calaka grabbed my collar like I was rushing ahead, nearly jerking me off my feet. The guy was really pissing me off, and I didn’t like being manhandled. Javier and Pepito studied the stream of dark water and conversed a few feet away. I couldn’t hear them, but it was obvious they were debating the depth and strength of the rushing water.

  They came to a decision as lightning flickered overhead and waved us forward. Calaka shoved me and I’d about had enough. I spun to find him grinning like he had good sense. He was just hoping I’d give him a solid reason to kill me, but it wasn’t going to happen at that moment.

  Choking down my anger, I stumbled down the slope and waded into the thigh-deep water that immediately filled my boots. Lordy, it felt good at first, because the cold water numbed the open blisters on my heels. The problems would come later when my wet socks pulled against the boots.

  Pepito waded ahead and reached the steep bank on the opposite side, but had to follow it downstream a few yards before finding a good place to climb out. It took both hands to scrabble up the sharp slope. His feet slipped, and he lost the flashlight that flickered once in the current before disappearing.

  Ahead of me, Javier struggled in the muddy current and with both hands cuffed behind my back, I was getting afraid. Boots full of water and no way to swim, I’d go under in a heartbeat. The water was noticeably rising. Walking was difficult enough as it was, but Calaka kept shoving me as if I could go faster.

  Javier dug a flashlight out of his pocket and shined it on the bank, then back at me. “Rápido!”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I had no intention of getting caught in the flash flood I finally heard. Out of sight in the dark, a low rumble and clatter of soaked wood being swept downstream told me time was almost up.

  Terrified, Javier aimed his light upstream. The intense beam skipping across the surface of the water lit the garbage carried along the ripples and waves that rushed past the steep, narrow walls of the arroyo.

  I broke into a splashing run, doing my best to reach the other side before the tangle of trash arrived to sweep us downstream. It’s hard to run in a strong current with your hands cuffed behind you. The steep gap leading up the edge of the wash seemed miles away. I lost my footing as the high water arrived, knocking my right foot out from under me. Water filled my mouth when I went down on one knee.

  Regaining my feet was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Once upright, I couldn’t use my arms for balance, and every step was a struggle. Each time the leather sole of my boots came down, the sand below melted away. By the time I was within five feet of the steep bank, I was forced to plant my left foot and lean sideways against the torrent.

  There was no way to climb out without using my hands and I shouted at Javier, who had just reached the bank. “Hey! You’re gonna have to help me!”

  “No! Climb.” He started up and had to grab a young bush growing over the edge. “Use your knees!”

  It was obvious he intended to save himself first, and I couldn’t blame him. The rising water was terrifying and it was all I could do to stay calm and think. I stumbled against the crumbling bank, falling sideways, my legs almost pulled out from under me. Rocks and mud caved in on my good shoulder. I pushed off and leaned into the slope, losing my balance. The current grabbed my legs and pulled me sideways.

  Sliding down into the water, something big and hard brushed my shirt. Had it hit me full on, I’d have gone under. Still, my head and shoulders were barely above the surface. I turned my head, spitting water, barely remembering the word for help. “Ayuda!”

  It seemed like I was a goner, but then Chino made it across and grabbed me from behind. He wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me upright. Goddlemighty did things pull. I shouted in pain from the hot bullet wound and dug into the arroyo bed with my heels to help.

  We tried to climb in tandem, but it wasn’t working.

  Pepito and Javier leaned over the edge and reached down. Chino had me far enough up the bank for them to grab me under my arms. I shrieked as the bullet wound tore open, but without my hands, I was nothing but dead weight. Rain filled my eyes and I ducked my head.

  Chino managed to plant his feet and pick me up even higher. Little Guy and Javier were on their knees by then, straining downward. They each got a hold and fell backward, dragging me over the edge like someone pulling a lost swimmer into a raft. Physics took over and I was halfway up the bank, my legs dangling in space.

  Chino scampered up and past like a monkey. I guess he felt he’d done his do and it was time to save himself. Bent double on my stomach, I couldn’t get any traction. One foot kicked something, and I realized it was Calaka back there still in the water.

  A bolt of lightning lit the world, and I turned my head enough to see his terrified eyes. The black water was up to his neck, and he had a grip on a rock jutting from the bank. His mouth was open in fear. People notice the oddest things under stress. The ear necklace he had made with a leather thong was incredibly clear, while his face seemed slightly out of focus.

  Eyes wide in panic, he grabbed for anything to save himself. His free hand slapped my soaked knee, slid down my leg, and his fingers locked onto the upper leather throat of my right boot.
<
br />   If he’d gotten a good hold, he would have taken me with him when a dark log rose from the water. I saw it coming in the next flash of lightning and kicked out with my free foot, grazing his face, but it was enough for him to lose his concentration and slap the boot away.

  The submerged end of the soaked log caught against something underwater and rose at a forty-five-degree angle. It seemed to almost take a bead on him like a battering ram and slammed the guy in the side of the head at the same time I kicked one last time. Calaka flailed with one hand, but the Cobra around his neck got in the way and tangled his arm. His grip slipped off my boot and he gave a yelp that ended in a gargle.

  Chino saw him go under. “Izel!”

  Oh, you guys have real names.

  He rose, but his face didn’t break the surface of the water, just a hand and arm. Then he was gone.

  Pepito and Javier dug their feet into the slick mud and pulled me onto the bank. Once I was completely out of the arroyo, Pepito crawled past, looking for Calaka, who I hoped was already playing submarine and halfway to Mexico. Chino shouted at Javier, who answered in their same ancient language.

  I didn’t have to know what he said, because the tone of his voice spoke volumes.

  I’d have danced a jig if I coulda gotten up, but I had to stay right where I was on my side, trembling and hoping they hadn’t seen my part in Calaka’s drowning.

  Chapter 42

  Herman Hawke sat in the darkness of Kelly and Sonny’s front porch, watching the street as light rain splashed from the gutters and downspouts. He’d unscrewed the bulb in the porch light, just in case anyone inside flicked the switch without thinking.

  The house anchored the corner of a vast lot. The developers had apparently been impressed with the emptiness of the Big Bend Region, and built the houses on two-acre plots. Light pollution wasn’t a factor in the Big Empty, and the lack of street lamps made the neighborhood exceptionally dark, especially under thick cloud cover.