Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  There were plenty of places to hide in the dark semi-rural neighborhood, and Herman felt as nervous as a cat in a doghouse. Lightning flickered in the distance beyond Ballard, and another storm fractured the clouds in the opposite direction. The wind freshened and he was glad he’d worn a flannel shirt.

  He was thinking about the row that ate up too much time when Kelly found out that Jerry and Arturo had cut school and left for the national park to help in the search for his dad. She called Jerry’s cell phone that rang until the automated voice said he was unavailable. Turning his phone off in such a crisis sent his schoolteacher mom into a tizzy, and Mary quietly suffered the lecture meant for both of them.

  Jerry was just like his dad, and Herman couldn’t help but grin, despite the situation.

  A late-model sedan passed on M Street, traveling past the side of the house. The car California-Rolled the stop sign at the intersection. Taillights angling inward gave the shadowy car an irritated look, as if they were angry eyes. The driver wasn’t much more than a silhouette. Herman wouldn’t have seen anything at all, until the bright light from a cell phone below the level of the window came on and illuminated the man’s face to reveal the driver’s Hispanic origins.

  Other shapes moved inside the car as it accelerated to the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit and disappeared eastward. The retired Texas Ranger casually reached out and picked his shotgun up from where it leaned on a porch post. He laid it across his lap and waited.

  Chapter 43

  Calaka was gone, and I figured I’d pay the price for it. Pepito took off down the arroyo with a flashlight, looking for ol’ Fat Face. I took the opportunity to lay there in the rain while everything throbbed, and that included my already broken nose that’d slammed against the ground while Calaka tried to climb my leg.

  Asia and Javier squatted nearby. The anguished looks on their faces told me that despite being cold-blooded murderers, they still had a few human qualities. I lay still, hoping not to draw their attention, wondering how they were all connected.

  Most of that particular storm had moved past when Javier stood and came over. He squatted beside me. “I know you’re not unconscious.”

  “I was just laying here, enjoying the rain.”

  “Humph. You are lucky again tonight. I should be carrying your head to Chatto. Maybe if I had done that, Calaka would still be alive.”

  “You said Izel.”

  “Yes. We all have nicknames. His means skinny, or skeleton, like little Pepito who is looking for Calaka’s body, or Chino . . .”

  “Who looks Chinese.”

  He looked surprised. “Yes. That is what Chino means. You are a funny man.”

  “What’s your nickname?”

  “I don’t have one. I am more Mexican than nnee.”

  History was coming alive right there in the desert night. “That means the People.”

  “Yes. We are all related in some way.”

  “Mind if I sit up?”

  Javier shrugged.

  He didn’t help, so it was a struggle to get my knees under me, then wriggle upright. Grinding my teeth, I blew hard through my broken nose, clearing a thick clot of blood, and finally breathed clearly.

  I tilted my head up to let the rain wash my face and it was all I could do not to whimper or groan. I didn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction, so I sat there for a long moment, just drawing air.

  Javier nodded, as if I’d said something profound. “Bien.”

  “You’re sure talking a lot all of a sudden.”

  He shrugged and met Chino’s eyes. “You are a fighter. We respect that.”

  So they got talkative when one of them died. I hoped I’d get the opportunity again soon to get rid of another rat so this guy would spill his guts. “What’s this all about?”

  Chino perked up, telling me he knew a little English after all. He unloaded a string of complaints that I couldn’t get the gist of. Javier answered back and their voices rose. Chino stood and jabbed a finger at me, then the arroyo, before turning and extending his arm with one finger pointed into the distance.

  Their argument faded as quick as it had begun and Javier returned to our conversation. “It is nothing personal for us. It was for him, though, Abdullah.”

  I took a wild guess. “Because I killed his brother.”

  Javier was surprised again. “Yes. That is right.”

  You could almost hear my mind gear up, like a turbocharger. “I killed his brother and he killed three innocent people to draw me in so he could shoot me.”

  Javier nodded like a judge behind a tall bench. “Yes. But he missed and shot a bird.”

  “He didn’t miss by much.”

  “It was too much. We are ready to return home to our green mountains. This desert was once the home of our ancestors, but today it holds nothing for us. Our roots have rotted here, but they thrive in the Occidental.”

  “Turn me loose and go home, then.”

  His face fell and the sadness in his eyes almost made me feel sorry for the guy. “We have made a promise to Chatto. He is the leader of our clan, but he is sick with the disease of money. He made a promise to the head of the Cervantes cartel. Two of our brothers remain behind as . . . what do you call it . . . insurance to complete the job. There is more at stake here than that chiini rotting back there. Chatto owes another in Houston.”

  The guy actually looked at me with pity. “That is another part of the story. The man who truly wants your head lives in how-stone.”

  “You mean Houston?”

  “Sí, Hooston. A coyote keeps his word.” Javier shook his head. “It is all we have left.”

  A flashlight beam pierced the darkness and the little guy, Pepito, returned. He rattled off something I couldn’t understand and Javier put both hands to his head.

  “Aieee!”

  It was the damndest thing. I’d killed one of their guys back where this whole thing started, and from what I could tell, they hadn’t given a fiddler’s fang-dang. But old Calaka drowned, and it was a tragedy.

  For them anyway.

  Chapter 44

  Gabe Nakai waited in the deep shade of the porch, slumped in an antique shell-back lawn chair on the north side of Sonny’s house. A Remington pump 870 lay across his lap. His running buddy Sonny was on his mind and he worried for his safety.

  The old Ranger around the corner was as close as any of Gabe’s relatives who still lived south of the border. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. He crossed the Rio years earlier, carrying his toddler daughter, Evangelina, to find a better life for the both of them after the death of his young wife. He was a youngster himself, still in his teens, but much more experienced in life than the American boys his age.

  He hadn’t used a coyote like most who crossed, but had talked to enough people in his small village not far from Parral to understand the dangers from both his own people and those he was sure to encounter on the Texas side.

  The chances of being left alone in the desert by a coyote was too big a chance to take with a baby in his arms. Another danger of being robbed by thieves before he crossed was just as likely. Bandits prowled the wild country on the Mexican side like jaguars, preying on those who chose to cross.

  Gabe waited for a dark, rainy night just like the one beyond the porch, and floated across in a makeshift raft made of empty plastic bottles. No one saw him slip out of his aunt’s house with Evangelina in his arms and make his way to the river. The water was warm that night, and she delighted in splashing the dimpled surface with her tiny hands as they made their way into Texas.

  A battered pickup truck driven by his distant cousin waited near Del Rio and took them to a friend’s house. The street was dark and empty, and the house with all the windows open looked as inviting as his own bed.

  He and Evangelina joined a group of migrant farm workers and soon made their way to Ballard. The first person he met there was Sonny Hawke, who introduced him to Herman, who hired him on the spot after bein
g taken with the dark-eyed, expressive little girl. Gabe had been his top hand and adopted family member ever since, and was a natural-born cattleman.

  Gabe tensed when a dark car without headlights appeared at the far end of the block and pulled to the curb. It was the same one with the distinctive taillights that passed earlier, going the opposite direction. “Jefe.”

  His soft voice carried across the silent porch with enough volume for the old Ranger to hear. His response was just as quiet. “Yes.”

  “A car at the end of the block.”

  There was a long pause, and Gabe imagined the old man leaning forward to peer into the darkness. “That’ll be them.”

  Gabe rapped on the wall behind him.

  Yolanda’s voice came through the open window behind his shoulder. “We on?”

  “Posiblemente.”

  “Great.”

  He heard a rustle as she moved away and knew her response was nothing but pure sarcasm.

  Chapter 45

  Showers came and went, while we just went. Every step was excruciating, and I kinda wanted to ask Javier why they were keeping me alive if all this guy Chatto wanted was my head, but then again, I really didn’t need to know that much.

  I’d finally figured we were headed west, not by any frame of reference or outdoor skill, but by catching the Spanish word, oeste, in their mixed-language conversation. We’d eventually cut a road where we might be seen. It wasn’t that I hoped to come across civilians, because those three would kill them as quick as a housewife stepping on a roach. I wanted to be seen, so it could get back to the command post I was sure they’d activated, where my buddies were probably working right then.

  The heavy clouds cracked every now and then with lightning. For the next few hours, it was Pepito, Javier, me, and Chino in that order. I didn’t like that murderous little bastard behind me with that long knife that he’d kept, but there wasn’t anything to do about it.

  At least he didn’t keep whacking me in the back, trying to hurry me up. I was doing the best I could to stay up with the other two, and after a while, my brain disengaged and went off on its own.

  I tried to imagine what Search and Rescue was doing. They’d have Hasty Teams already up and at ’em, experienced SAR pros who were the first boots on the ground. I figured they’d have finally found the truck. Ethan and the Old Man were most likely working together, and I prayed that they’d see mine wasn’t a simple disappearance and figure out that something was up. Maybe Kelly and the kids were at the CP. I prayed for that. No civilian could handle a gang of assassins headed to the house.

  The twins were close to being grown, and Jerry had developed into a stout young man. His problem was the temper that I’d cursed him with. Mary, on the other hand, was like her mama, quiet and thoughtful.

  Even if they were home alone, I didn’t think anyone could sneak up with the dogs in the house. Hell, they heard the refrigerator door open no matter how quiet I tried to be at three in the morning. Our lab, Buster, had a deep voice that could wake the dead if someone strange came to the house. And Willie, our little Shih Tzu, tuned up every time Buster barked, egging each other on until I had to holler at ’em to be quiet. I hoped they were watching, then I remembered Willie hated rain and thunderstorms, so he’d be on Kelly’s bed, shivering hard enough to keep her awake.

  Those two dogs might be their only chance.

  With an effort, I yanked my thoughts back to the quiet desert. The rain had everything huddled down, and the only thing I heard was the ringing in my ears and the sounds of our footsteps. It was a lost time right then, like back hundreds of years when things with teeth ruled the night.

  Or raiders.

  Focus there, Boy.

  Right, Dad. Thinking here.

  Who are these guys?

  Hybrid throwbacks. Part raiders from over a hundred years ago, and part gangster, cartel members, a mix from Hell itself. The desert has always been deadly, but they added an element that should have disappeared decades ago, yet it had gotten worse.

  Javier said they were from the Occidental. That meant the Sierra Madre Occidental, the real wild west sitting right on America’s back door. I could think of no mountains as rugged and steep as the canyon-slashed country south of the border of Arizona and New Mexico. That’s where these guys called home, and it was a helluva long way off.

  They weren’t taking me there, even though we were walking in that direction.

  The Lost Apaches south of the border had lived there for over a hundred years, raiding Mexican villages well into the 1940s. It was a way of life that predated the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores.

  I remembered the Old Man telling me of the last Indian raid in the United States. It was this same band who crossed the border into New Mexico back in 1924. They killed ranchers, stole horses and mules, and robbed everyone they could find, leaving them bleeding their lives out in the sand.

  Posses formed and chased them into Arizona, and finally across the border into Mexico. That’s where the pursuers stopped and the Indians never stepped back into the United States again, or at least best anyone knew.

  My mind trailed off from there, following rabbit holes that did nothing but block out the forced march that was slowly killing me. I could feel my heart pumping in the gunshot wound that throbbed hot and angry. With each beat, I felt it pulse there, and in my broken nose.

  Pepito stopped so suddenly I walked into Javier. He shoved me back with an elbow and I stood there, swaying. It took a few seconds for my mind to reset, and I realized I could see. Dawn had arrived.

  The next thing I knew, Chino kicked my feet from under me and I hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of me. My three captors dropped just as fast, and I lay there, gasping for breath.

  It took a while, but I finally got enough air to roll over. “What’n hell was that for?”

  I didn’t get to ask anything else, because Javier whirled and clamped his dirty hand over my mouth, hitting my tender nose in the process. My eyes watered and I tried to breathe, but he had his full weight on that hand. There was no way to get enough air through my once-again blood-clotted nose, and I thrashed like a fish on a hook.

  The next thing I knew, Chino was laying across my legs and Javier whispered in my ear. “I will remove my hand. Make one sound and Chino will cut your throat. Comprende?”

  It took more self-control than I thought I had, but I finally got ahold of myself and nodded. He removed his hand, put a finger to his lips, and raised his head to stare into the distance.

  From my position, I had to look between his ass and the ground to see a pair of headlights about fifty yards away.

  We’d come to a road.

  Chapter 46

  Dawn defined the Hawke house on the corner. Afraid that his Silverbelly hat was going to reflect light and give away his position, Herman put it crown down on the floor under his chair. He moved to the corner of the house, the four-o’clock position if one considered the porch facing north to be the number twelve on a clock.

  Rain pattered the porch roof above and dripped off the eaves. He’d told Gabe to cover the diagonally opposite corner, the ten-o’clock position. Lightning fissured the clouds, the flickering light strobing the yard and street.

  Herman held the Remington 870 pump at port arms and backed into a pool of deep shadow created by the porch cover and a spreading Texas madrone, or Indian tree. He leaned against the wall, his shirt and jeans blending into the darkness. The house across the street was dark as well, because he’d spoken with the Wilsons earlier in the day, suggesting they stay at the Posada for the night, at his expense.

  Kelly and Mary were there also, checked in under assumed names. He grinned at Jerry’s impulsive action to cut school and go to help in the search for his dad. Jerry was Sonny made over, and Herman had seen his son do worse in the past. Much worse. Playing hooky didn’t seem so bad at first, but now that they were concerned with the entire family’s safety, having the youngster out of p
ocket was worrisome.

  Herman took no chances. His longtime friend and owner of the hotel, Andy Clark, was under strict orders to deny any inquiries if someone should call for the Hawkes. The odd little proprietor would, too. He kept a Judge under the counter. The Taurus handgun was chambered for .410 bore shot shells and the .45 Colt cartridge. It would shred anyone or anything that forced its use.

  The house on Gabe’s side was empty. The Luciens were visiting relatives in Dallas. There was no house directly behind.

  A surprising number of frogs croaked their conversations in the still air, drawn out by the wet weather. Thunder rumbled as a backbeat over an occasional cricket that joined in the chorus.

  Herman taught all of his boys, and that included Gabe and Ethan, how to be still when hunting. He hoped Gabe remembered those lessons. Movement gives you away every time.

  The only thing that moved on the old man were his eyes. He waited.

  No other cars passed in the quiet pre-dawn shower.

  Something caught his attention. A rustle. A scrape.

  He consciously slowed his breathing, taking long, deep breaths through his mouth to remain calm. He flicked the safety off the twelve-gauge. A dark form broke free of the house across the street and moved as fluid as a lion to stop behind a cluster of yuccas growing near the street corner in the xeriscaped yard.

  Herman became stone. The man was probably watching the house just as intently as the Ranger watched the potential assailant, waiting for a signal of some kind.

  The sudden report of Gabe’s shotgun shattered the night with a heart-stopping clap at the same time lightning cracked half a mile away, arcing down from the low clouds and exploding a highline transformer in a detonation of sparks that rained downward. He fired the shotgun twice more in a rolling rumble of man-made thunder similar to that coming from above.