Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Herman couldn’t see Gabe’s muzzle flashes on the opposite corner of the house, but a second later the flash from a different firearm from behind a car down the street gave him a target that would have to wait because the man behind the yuccas raced across the street toward the porch, edged steel glinting in his hand. He must have seen the slight movement of Herman’s head as he turned toward the muzzle flash across the street, because he ran straight at the old Ranger.

  That moment brought back everything Herman had learned about knife-wielding attackers. The hell with the twenty-one-foot rule.

  The shadowy form closed the distance with breathtaking swiftness and frightening silence. The wraith raised a machete in his right hand at the same time he leaped for one foot to land on the top porch rail. Herman leveled the shotgun. The blade in his hand reflected a distant lightning bolt, warranting Herman’s response.

  He pulled the trigger. Nine .32-caliber slugs shredded the man’s chest at the same time his foot touched the wooden rail. Already dead before he landed on the porch, the limp body dropped onto the painted boards at Herman’s feet. The gangster’s foot twitched once, his sightless eyes fixed on the source of his death.

  Herman shucked another shell into the chamber and waited.

  A second muzzle flash from behind a parked car across the street gave the man’s position away. Herman took a step back around the corner and dropped to one knee. Another shot split the air and a bullet splintered the corner of the house where he’d been standing.

  Herman caught the muzzle flash in his peripheral vision. The shooter didn’t stay still, though. Apparently thinking he’d hit what he aimed at, he charged the house, holding the trigger down on a machine gun that spit noise and death.

  The old Ranger snugged the shotgun to his shoulder and acquired the moving target. He fired, pumped another shell into the chamber, and fired again as the man fell with a splash in the wet grass.

  From inside the house, the shrill bark of the Shih Tzu Willie brought a deeper bellow when Buster the Labrador retriever opened up. The barking dogs gave Herman a half second of warning to register footsteps thumping on the wooden porch from behind. He snatched the 1911 from the Brill holster on his hip and spun. At least he would get one shot into the ambushing son-of-a-bitch who wanted to kill his family.

  Window glass exploded outward when rounds from Yolanda’s AR-15 caught the assailant as he rushed past. The impact of the 5.56-ball ammunition cut him down, and the lifeless body crumpled and slid to a stop. Gabe’s shotgun spoke again from the other side of the house. A split second later the ranch hand fired as fast as he could pump shells into the chamber.

  Chapter 47

  Inside the house, Yolanda had a difficult decision to make. If they were attacked by people coming after Kelly and the kids, where should she be? Gabe was on the north side, near the northwest corner. He had a clear line of sight to M Street in front of the house, the empty Lucien place beside them, and N Street on the west.

  There was no alley on the old, narrow block. Only houses facing east.

  Herman was near the front door the last time she saw him, but she heard footsteps that told her he’d moved to the southeast side of the house, on the diagonal corner from Gabe. That gave him a clear view of M Street, the side, and down to N Street, if he looked that way.

  She bet on the back of the house, and moved into the dining area, where they’d eaten spaghetti the night before. The open-concept kitchen, dining, and living areas worked to her favor. She pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing the back door. From there she could see through the window to the south side of the house on Herman’s right. If someone came from that direction, she could cover for him. If they came through the back door or window of the dark house, she was in place to take them out.

  Her instincts were right.

  Gabe’s shotgun blast jolted her upright and the next detonation made her think they’d brought explosives. Through the window she saw a distant light wink out, then heard the crack of lightning that took out a transformer somewhere.

  Herman’s twelve-gauge spoke. They were coming from two directions.

  Buster’s low growl told her a lot more than she could see was happening outside. As the “rover,” her job was to move into position to back up the other two outside. She saw where Buster’s nose was pointed at the same time Willie yapped at the sound of footsteps on the porch. Rifle shouldered and ready, she stepped to the window to check outside when a moving shadow caught her attention. Buster roared when a short man rushed down the porch, passing two of the four south windows.

  She squeezed off a burst from her AR-15, cutting the man down in a fully automatic blast of lead and glass. Behind Yolanda, Kelly had an old-fashioned metal kitchen step stool chair at the end of the counter. A soft scrape told her she was no longer alone. She whirled in time to see a dark shape sidestep away from the chair.

  Buster charged across the room, snarling. His white teeth startling in the dark.

  A shadow stopped short at the sound of the rushing dog. “Mierda!”

  He raised a stubby-looking weapon, but before he could fire, Yolanda emptied the AR’s magazine into the shape. Strobelike, the muzzle blasts illuminated a short-haired, heavily tattooed Hispanic man who absorbed most of the rounds. He went down at the same time Buster buried his teeth in one arm.

  Without uttering a sound, the limp body smacked into the tile. Changing the mag with the smooth efficiency of practice, Yolanda took a knee in the dark room. Not sure if the furious Lab would obey her command, she hissed an order anyway. “Buster, off!”

  As if trained, he released his hold and waited for more movement, growling.

  The moment Yolanda’s knee touched the floor, Willie rushed over and leaned against her leg, shivering.

  More gunfire came from Gabe’s position, and confident that Buster would warn them of anyone else in the house, she cleared the utility room to find out where the man had entered.

  Chapter 48

  Javier and Chino were arguing in soft voices as I lay there in the darkness and waited. Pepito kept a lookout for more vehicles while a soft drizzle collected on the leaves and cactus pads around us.

  The desert looked the same as before, with nothing recognizable in my sightline. I sure wished I’d taken the time to learn where the national park’s most iconic landmarks were located. The rangers I knew could have glanced around and told within a mile of where they were.

  I could have just as well been on the moon.

  Heavy, gray clouds pressed down on the low mountains that seemed to squeeze out the moisture. The filtered morning light was hazy. It wasn’t a fog necessarily, but the air was full of water.

  I was lying on hardpan, and enough moisture had collected in a low place that I could turn my head and sip. The sandy-tasting water was delicious and it felt as if the tissues in my mouth were swelling like a sponge. The landscape around us defined itself on that cloudy morning. Continuous rain was uncommon in the Big Bend, and I figured the storms were about done.

  At least I hoped it was true.

  The gangsters whispered, their voices so low that I couldn’t make out anything they said, but Pepito startled me when he rose and took off in a crouching run. I struggled to sit up and we watched him dodging the prickly vegetation as fast as a roadrunner. He reached the road in seconds and scrambled up a slight incline to a jumble of boulders. The little guy scaled them like a monkey up a palm tree and found a point where he could see up and down the road winding between rocky cliffs and still another deep canyon.

  He waved, telling my captors that it was clear for us to follow. Javier rose and tugged under my arm. “Vámonos. ”

  “Look buddy, I’m about done. I couldn’t run that far if there was a bear chasing me.”

  “Then we’ll carry you.”

  I had a vision of hanging upside down over his shoulder. “I don’t think there’s enough of you to do it.”

  “I don’t mean all of you.” />
  That short little inspirational sentence brought me to my feet. Pepito waved again telling them it was all clear and we took off. Javier and Chino had a hand under my arms and they half-carried, half-pushed me along. Ten steps later I realized the whole support thing was a bad idea.

  In places the cactus grew so thick that there was barely enough room to thread your way through them—they didn’t care. Those guys had mountain goat feet, and they seemed to always place them in exactly the right spot to miss the cactus spines.

  On the other hand, they didn’t care if I stepped over or around them. The way they were carrying me, I was forced to run directly through some of the clumps. Thick spines pinned my jeans to my calves above the protection of my boot tops.

  The pain from my shoulder and the fresh white-hot jabs were enough to make me holler out loud. I wrenched my good arm away from Chino and stopped. Javier turned loose then and pointed at the path leading to the road.

  “All right.” I bent, gasping from the pain and wishing I could use my dead hands to pull some of the spines from my legs, but Chino rattled something sharp and pulled that long knife free of his belt. It didn’t take but a second to realize I was leaning over in the perfect position for him to take a whack at my neck, and I straightened up right quick.

  “Come.” Javier took off again and I followed as fast as I could, wincing and hissing every step of the way. Chino followed.

  What I’d hoped was a road was nothing more than a two-rut dirt track. Since we were headed west, I figured it led down to the Rio Grande, but it wasn’t well-traveled enough to be a main road to Boquillas.

  I took a quick glance down at the ruts as we passed and saw only one set of tracks. No one was going to be coming back through for a while, and I doubted it was part of a SAR team. Half a dozen steps later, the opposite side of the road was mostly grass and short scrub, making walking easier.

  Pepito was down off the rocks by the time we arrived. He motioned that we’d have to follow the edge of a line of low eroded hills. None of them seemed too enthused about that because we’d be in the open and be close to the road for far too long.

  They shouldn’t have cared, because the drizzle turned to a light rain, and then became heavier. Our tracks across the road were sure to wash away, and with that, any chance of discovery. Stumbling more than walking, each step was agony. The edge of the hill was dotted with rusty-colored boulders that had rolled down over the years. We hung close, just in case someone came by and we had to duck around behind them.

  What seemed like hours later, we rounded a point, and a wide wash led in the direction we wanted to go. The runoff widened the stream zigzagging down the wash. Unconcerned about another flash flood, Pepito dropped down and led the way.

  Half an hour later, I’d had enough. I stopped.

  It’s hard to believe that animals and plants can thrive in such a harsh environment, but they’ve learned to flourish. Life is tenuous in the desert, and plants have evolved to defend themselves because it takes so long to recover from any kind of damage. Almost all have some kind of weapon. Some have spines as long and stiff as darning needles, while others are soft with hair-like stickers. Some evolved into tough and wiry branches and sticky leaves, and it seemed like everything I encountered drew blood.

  “Look. I can’t do this anymore.” I raised a leg full of cactus needles. My calf looked like a Chia Pet, and the only thing that saved me were the tall tops of my Luccheses that caught the worst of them. I’d found a new place in my head, and didn’t give a shit at that particular moment. “I need to get these needles out of my leg, and now. If you wanted to kill me, you’d have already done it, so yank them out so we can move faster.”

  The look of surprise on Javier’s face was comical. He translated for me, and Pepito nodded. Chino started to argue, but a long string of strange words cut him off. The truth was that I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, with the distant thought that maybe I could get away from them and find a phone to call Ethan to see if my family was all right.

  Chino’s eyes were slits as he slid the pack off his shoulder.

  “Don’t move.” Javier knelt in the wet sand and examined my legs. He reached out and yanked one of the larger cactus spines from the upper part of my calf. It had a small hook on the end that cut and tore on its way back out. I grunted at the sharp pain and held still. He yanked others while Pepito did the same.

  Though it was a relief for them to pull them out, each was a jolt, like they were actually pushing the spines into my skin. Gritting my teeth, I stood still while they plucked them from my jeans, the same way I’d plucked porcupine quills from the muzzle of my cousin’s dog way back when we were kids in east Texas.

  The idea of kicking Chino in the face and trying to crush his neck was a pleasant distraction as they worked, but it would have done nothing but earn me another beating. While they worked, I wiggled my fingers, flexing my wrists as much as possible to restore circulation. That my hands even worked at all seemed to be a miracle, but I was relieved to find the cuffs weren’t as tight as I thought, and blood had continued to flow. My fingers tingled.

  When they were finished, Chino opened his backpack and took out a thin roll of duct tape. He yanked off a strip and wrapped it around my jeans, pressing and smoothing the tape. Satisfied, he stripped it off and examined the sticky side. He held it up, and I saw it was covered with hundreds of tiny spines.

  He repeated the process half a dozen times on each leg before rising and staring me in the eyes. He didn’t say anything, but it was clear that he was through with my demands.

  I winked at him, and the rage that filled that man’s face was stunning. He stepped forward and shouted, only inches away. I wanted to turn my head, because his breath would gag a buzzard off a tub of guts, but I held in there to make some strange point. I just hoped he wouldn’t hit me in the nose.

  Javier moved in close without touching either of us. He spoke softly and finally Chino cooled off and backed up. Pepito threw in his two cents’ worth and took off. Still mad, Chino swung his pack over one shoulder and followed, leaving Javier to ride drag so I wouldn’t just stand there and let them walk away.

  “Hey, do you have any aspirin or ibuprofen in your pack?”

  His eyes followed his friends as they struck off across still another wash. “Why?”

  “This infection in my side is getting bad. Anything to cut the pain will help.”

  He shoved my shoulder and pointed in the direction of his friends. “It won’t make any difference pretty soon.”

  I went with the shove, because to push back would only irritate both him and my wound. I followed in Chino’s footsteps and studied on what he’d just said.

  Chapter 49

  Morning light barely penetrated the thick cloud layer over Sonny Hawke’s house. The rain turned to a light drizzle as sirens wailed in the distance. Herman double-checked the bodies on his side of the porch and drew a huge sigh of relief.

  “Yolanda. You all right in there?”

  Her voice came through the shattered window. “Best I can tell. I got one down in here. You hurt?”

  “Nope. Two on this side.” He raised his voice. “Gabe!”

  “Sí.”

  “You still kickin’?”

  “Sí. I have a one down here, but he won’t last much longer. Another is farther out, dead, I think.”

  Herman ducked around the corner of the house to find Gabe on his knees beside a trembling man lying on the painted porch. The old Ranger leaned his shotgun against the outside wall and knelt beside the bleeding gangster.

  Gabe’s weight was on the man’s right arm, pinning it to the porch. The other arm was broken and useless, lying at an odd angle. The usually mild-mannered ranch hand’s eyes were glassy and he had the gangster’s throat in one bloody hand.

  “Who sent you to this house?”

  “No se. No comprendo.”

  Gabe hissed the question again in Spanish, almost throttling th
e wounded man and adding more to it than Herman could understand.

  “Son, he can’t answer with you choking the life out of him.”

  Gabe’s eyes flashed when they flicked from the gangster to Herman. “He’s dying anyway. I knew pendejos like this when I was a boy. They’re nothing but basura, trash, who prey on weak and old people! They kill by . . . hiding.”

  “Ambush.”

  “Sí.” Gabe inclined his head toward a razor-sharp machete lying only feet away. “This one won’t be doing much of that anymore. And if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know, I will use that machete to cut off this arm before he dies. Pendejo, I will send it to your family with a note.”

  The sirens wailed closer.

  “I want some answers before el diablo takes the sorry soul of this amount of shit.” He clamped harder, spittle on his lips. “Who sent you to kill my friends, mi familia?”

  “Said he don’t speak English.”

  Frustrated, Gabe asked again in Spanish. The answer was almost a gag. “Chatto.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a house in La Carmen, maybe across the river in Mexico in Paso La Carmen.”

  “Which one?”

  The man’s face turned red as Gabe ground tighter.

  “Son, he can’t talk with you squeezing his goozle so tight. Give ’im a little air.”

  “Uno momento.” Confused by rage, Gabe forgot who he was talking to.

  Herman understood though as Gabe let off on the pressure and asked his question again. “Que casa o pueblo?”

  Which house or town?

  “Paso La Carmen.”

  Herman picked out some of the conversation about houses on both sides of the river. Access to Paso La Carmen had been closed since 9/11, but families still managed to communicate. Locals organized an annual fiesta protesta with music on both sides of the shallow river focused on reopening the border. Called Voices from Both Sides, they shared music from the banks of the Rio Grande to protest the closing.