Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  “Qué?”

  “Oro cosida en mis botas.”

  Gold sewn into my boots, or at least that’s what I hoped I was saying. I might have been proposing, though. We’d already gotten dangerously close to intimacy in the bathroom.

  Rain intensified again on the roof, sounding like millions of soft hammers. The woman in cast-off clothes was easy to lure with the mention of gold. She stepped forward and unconsciously bent toward my feet.

  I should have felt bad about nearly kicking her head off, but I didn’t. My right foot snapped out and up, catching under the jaw. Her teeth cracked together and she flew backward, instinctively reaching for the battered dresser to catch her fall.

  Instead, her skull slammed against the sharp wooden edge. Blood flew and her black hair exploded against the peeling finish. She collapsed onto the gritty floor without another sound. I yanked her onto her side and snatched the pistol free. She may have been dressed in cast-off, oversized clothing, but the gangsters had given her new technology in firearms.

  It was a Glock 43, and the little 9mm fit my hand like it was made for it.

  I eased back the slide to see the gleam of brass in the chamber. Thumbing the release, I dropped the magazine. It was loaded. I snicked it back into place and glanced out the open door, breathing hard.

  A tooth was stuck on her bottom lip and blood ran from her mouth. Though the kick wasn’t as hard as I would have used on a full-grown man, it was enough to put her lights out for a long, long time. I stepped over her still body and peeked into the hallway.

  The radio blaring Tejano music came back into focus, louder with the door open. I was never a fan of accordions and brass, but didn’t mind it right at that moment. It covered my crunching footsteps as I edged through the doorway, looking past the little pistol.

  Chapter 54

  The hallway was empty, but I was wound tight as a mainspring. It’s one thing to clear a house with a SWAT team behind you, or with another professional. It’s a completely different animal to do it alone and as beaten up as I was.

  Despite Chino’s tape technique in the desert, hundreds of tiny, hair-like stickers were still in my jeans, and in the skin of my legs, itching like fire. They were a distraction I had to grit my teeth and ignore, though. A closed doorway on the left was a problem. I could pass it by, but if there was a bad guy inside, he’d be behind me.

  I couldn’t have that.

  Turning the knob as quietly as possible, I cracked it open and peeked inside. A cold chill ran down my back when I saw a naked young woman lying on the bed. One arm was duct taped to the metal bedframe that Teddy Roosevelt slept on, the other covered her breasts.

  Eyes wide with terror, the Hispanic girl twisted sideways to keep me from seeing her business. She probably wasn’t much older than my own daughter, and a hot rage took over, drowning the minor cactus issues that’d been plaguing me.

  A quick glance down the empty hallway said I had a few seconds. I stepped inside and gently closed the door. The room was so dim I could hardly see her, which was both a blessing and a problem. Opening the blinds helped, but she squinted, moaned, and used her bare heels to push herself into a curl against the headboard in a defensive position.

  “Shhh.” The universal finger against the lips had an effect. She quit whimpering, but kept one eye on me. The room was thick with the odor of sweat, fear, and sex. I swallowed down rising nausea and crossed to her. “It’s okay. Está bien.”

  “No!”

  “Easy, girl.” I tucked the Glock into my back pocket and held out both hands. “I’ll get you loose.” Up close and in better light, her damaged and bruised face told even more of her story.

  “No más!”

  “That’s right. No más. No more. I’m going to help you.”

  She struggled out of where she’d been hiding in her mind and finally saw an Anglo in the room. I probably looked worse than she did right then, but it was a lead-pipe cinch I wasn’t one of the gangsters who’d been abusing her for God knows how long.

  “You’ll help me?”

  “Shhh. Quiet. You speak English?”

  “Probably better’n you. I’m from Midland.”

  A fire lit in her eyes and I knew that little gal had spirit. “Good. Listen, it’s me and you right now. Hang on while I get this tape off.” It had been on for quite a while. Whoever had duct taped her to the bedstead had looped it several times around her raw wrist, and the metal. She was lucky in a way—it could have been wire. Several wraps spread out the pressure, but there was layer after layer.

  “I tried to chew free a hundred times, but it’s too strong.” She bit at it as if to demonstrate. “Those bastards saw it and laughed whenever they came in here. I hated when they laughed at me.”

  “All right. Hang on.” I dug out my handcuff key again and used the looped end to pick at the edges in a tedious process that finally gave me enough of a flap that I could peel the layers back. From there, it only took a couple of minutes to unwrap her wrist.

  Thunder rumbled. She lay still, watching my face as I worked. “They beat you, too.”

  “They worked me over some.” I took her upper arms and pulled her into a sitting position. “You good?”

  “I’ll be better when I’m out of here.”

  “That might be a few minutes.” I palmed the Glock again. “I have to make sure it’s clear to the door.”

  She stood, and I turned toward the door. Lithe as a doe, she tiptoed to the closet and dug around on the floor. I heard the rustle of clothing. “Do you have another gun?”

  I turned around to find her in a pair of jeans that were obviously hers, and a sleeveless western shirt. Her question was a pleasant surprise. “Wish I did.”

  “Get another one so I can kill those sonsabitches.”

  “Easy, girl. I’d rather us just get away.”

  “You weren’t raped.”

  I met her gaze. “No. I’d kill ’em all if I had the chance, but we’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “Where’d you get that one?”

  “Kicked some ugly gal’s head off and she dropped it.”

  “Valeria! Hope you really kicked it off.”

  “Came damn close, but listen, we can’t stand here and compare stories. We gotta go.”

  “Right behind you.”

  “Nope. You stay here and listen. I’m going to make sure the way is clear to the front door and then I’ll call you so we can get gone.”

  She didn’t like the idea of being left alone. “What if you don’t make it?”

  “Go out that window and run like hell.”

  “You’ll call me when you get to the door?”

  “Yep.”

  “My name’s Phoebe. Holler it loud.”

  “Phoebe how much?”

  She blinked for a second. “Oh, Yelverton. Phoebe Yelverton.”

  “Damn, that’s a mouthful. Okay, Phoebe. Wait and listen.”

  I started out and she took my arm. “Hey, who are you?”

  I sighed. “Sonny Hawke.”

  “Why’d they take you?”

  “They don’t like Texas Rangers, I guess.”

  “You’re a baseball player?” She looked at me from head to toe. “Why would they work a ball player over?”

  “I wouldn’t shave points.” I sighed again. “I’m a lawman. A real Texas Ranger.”

  Phoebe smiled with her eyes. “You don’t look like a Ranger.”

  “Missing the hat. I’ve looked better.”

  “Badge, too, I see. I’ve heard of you guys. One riot, one Ranger. Right?”

  “Yep, and they’re about to find out. Right now, I’m feeling like they did back in the day.”

  Chapter 55

  The music grew louder as I advanced one room at a time through the empty house. Two more bedrooms held backpacks and cast-off clothing, but no weapons. Each foot of real estate I covered gave me more confidence. By the time I reached the large open living room it looked like me, Phoebe, and Slee
ping Beauty back there were the only ones in residence.

  The living room would have been bright had the cloud cover not been so thick. A wall of windows overlooked the Rio Grande that began only yards beyond a covered flagstone patio. Water the color of chocolate milk roiled below. At one time the house was a showplace, built to take advantage of the view.

  Two pallets of flat rocks told me someone was renovating the patio and matching fireplace. That clicked with the bare, open yard littered with construction materials.

  Probably half the reason for the dirty floors.

  Hope they ordered a new toilet.

  I checked the front door to make sure it was unlocked, keeping an eye on the other end of the sprawling house I hadn’t yet cleared. Tires crunched on the caliche outside.

  Dammit!

  Indecisive, I backed up against the wall, thinking I’d hide behind the door until they were all inside, and then shoot ’em in the back. No shame in that. The idea of a Hollywood fair fight was the last thing on my mind. I simply needed to kill ’em all so I could live and check on my family, but I heard the Old Man whispering in my ear.

  That’s a Glock 43, Son. Only seven shots. You may not have enough gun for the situation.

  There it was again, a mantra he’d beaten into me throughout my life. Use enough gun.

  I had two choices. Leave through the open sliding patio door and escape down the bank and follow the river, or use the unexplored hallway that probably terminated at a garage, or at least a carport exit that would get me out the side. Phoebe would have to tough it out a little longer until I figured out what to do.

  The river it was. The bank was only twenty feet away, and if I ducked outside and angled away, I would put the house between me and the bad guys. I was halfway to the patio when my heart almost stopped. Someone was slumped down in a wide chaise lounge facing the Rio Grande.

  They’d left a guard after all, but he’d been loafing under the overhang while it rained, instead of keeping an eye on me. He rose at the sound of his friends opening the front door. It was armed all right, and at the system’s beetle-beep sound, he swung his feet onto the patio.

  It was Chino. Asian eyes, sneer, and the trail of tears down his cheek. I was caught in the open.

  He spun, reaching for the weapon, hard, black eyes as dark and depthless as the old Devil himself. “Pendejo!” The Cobra’s muzzle rose.

  Without thinking, I lined up the pistol’s front and rear sights and fired at his center mass. His snap-front shirt jumped and puffed from the impact. Chino oofed and folded in the middle. He stumbled backward, collapsing over the lounge.

  A shout from outside startled me. I made a little half jump, then whirled and threw a shot toward the first person coming through the front door. It was that little monkey Pepito. The round missed, gouging a chunk from the dark vanish and ricocheting off the heavy wooden door. He fell back with a holler and snatched a semi-automatic handgun from his waistband, sending a handful of random shots that spiderwebbed the patio doors behind me.

  In the enclosed space, the concussions were deafening hammer blows to my ears. I fired again at the crack of cloudy daylight and rushed as fast as I could in my condition toward Chino’s body.

  He had my Grandaddy’s Sweetheart pistol, and I wanted it back.

  Chapter 56

  Someone kicked open the front door, stuck a Cobra around the edge, and held the trigger down. The rounds shredded the living room, blowing huge chunks out of the cold limestone fireplace.

  You’re just adding to the renovation workload, buddy.

  The patio glass doors and windows exploded behind me as the bullets walked from left to right. I half-slid, half-fell behind one of the pallets of rocks, landing hard on one hip and cussin’ a blue streak.

  Still not giving up the ghost like he would have if I’d shot him with enough gun, Chino rolled onto his side and came up with my Grandaddy’s .45, swinging it in my direction. At least it seemed slow, but in explosive situations, time lags. My own little pistol rose and Chino absorbed two more rounds, one at the base of his throat and the second about six inches higher, entering just under his nose.

  The pink spray from the back of his head told me my Chinese-looking friend was out of the game for good. I twisted toward the front door and emptied the Glock’s magazine toward half a body angling for a shot with a Cobra. The ugly little machine gun disappeared. I snatched my .45 from Chino’s limp hand.

  Goddlemighty that big ol’ familiar pistol felt good. I steadied myself and pitched another round through the door, the heavy report telling those on the other side that the game had changed. There was more shouting from out front, but they’d changed their mind about coming in that way, at least for the moment.

  Chino’s backpack was lying beside him, along with his Cobra. A lit cigarette was burning a hole in the thick material when I picked it up by one strap and threw it over my good shoulder, hoping the extra mags for the pistol were inside. The guys on the far side of the house were quiet, and that meant they were planning something. I tucked the Colt into the small of my back at the same time a shot from the river almost parted my hair.

  Despite the distance, the muzzle blast was a physical push and I ducked. The round whizzed overhead, passing through the broken glass patio door and knocking a gangster off his feet. He wasn’t one of the original quartet and that told me I was probably wayyy outnumbered once again. The war opened up in the next few seconds with bullets flying through the broken doors and burying deep into a cedar support post only inches away from where I crouched.

  Sonofabitch! There’s more of ’em!

  The rifle on the river fired again. I was in a crossfire. I had to get gone. The unexplored part of the house was the only direction that looked safe and led away from Phoebe. A voice shouted from the river, sounding like they were calling for reinforcements to cut me off. I slung the Cobra under my arm and sprayed the riverbank using the stream of bullets to drive the rifleman back down again. The small explosions stitched the muddy bank and I caught a glimpse of his head and shoulders at the same time he ducked.

  Missed!

  The gun ran dry and I ducked back into the living room and around the hallway to the right, fumbling for the eject button. I had some relief when I turned the corner, if only for a few seconds. The ill-fitting doorway at the end of the short hall offered just what I was looking for. Dim light came underneath and along one side, telling me it led outside. I stumbled into a side yard full of weeds, an abandoned car, and a rusty toolshed, all surrounded by a chest-high stucco fence.

  Praying I had enough gas left to get over, I headed toward the river side once again, intending to use a stack of cinder blocks to launch myself up and over in a roll that would get me out of sight.

  A rifle appeared exactly where I was headed. I still hadn’t reloaded the Cobra and snatched the .45 from the small of my back at the same instant still another machine pistol opened up on my left. Rounds cracked through the air like snapping fingers. The River Guy missed me again and hit one of his own boys. I saw a pink mist explode from the back of the machine gunner’s head before he dropped out of sight. I vowed I’d kiss River Guy on the lips before he died, if I ever got the chance to shoot him down.

  They needed practice, but I was glad those boys were shooting each other instead of me. Unfortunately, more people popped up along the fence separating me from the caliche drive, followed by machine pistols spitting fire. The saving grace was that none of them were aiming, just sticking the guns over the top and pulling the trigger.

  Even then the whole side yard was a kill zone. I stumbled back into the house through the hallway, and dammit, there was another gangster raising still another machine gun.

  My sudden return startled him so much it gave me just enough time to level the Colt and crank off three rounds. The gangster fell back, dead as a dinosaur, and I saw the door crack open to my left. A bare arm waved at me. “In here, Ranger!”

  The arm belonged to Phoebe
, and I ducked inside what I expected to be a bedroom, slammed the door, and stopped, stunned at the sight of a billiard table tilted high on one end. I was looking at the bottom of a thin slab base held up by a hydraulic system that exposed a dark, rectangular hole in the concrete foundation.

  I didn’t know what to ask first, so I pulled Phoebe away from the door to the edge of the hole. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Trying to get out of this damned place. You didn’t holler and I heard all the shooting. I was going out the front door, but there’s about a thousand mean-looking bastards out there, all of ’em with guns.”

  “You could have padded that information a little better.” Out of habit I glanced through the clear inside Lucite grip on my 1911 to check the loads. I jerked my head toward the hole under the pool table. “What’n hell’s this?”

  “What these guys have been coming through ever since they brought me here. It’s a tunnel leading to Mexico. I heard one of them talking on a cell phone in English. This opens up across the river. They use it to smuggle drugs and people back and forth, then they put ’em in that stinking sewage truck outside. One of the guys told me later they were trying to sell my ass over there to some guy named Chatto if they got the right price.”

  It made sense. No one was going to search that god-awful honey wagon parked outside when the owner went to work. I could see moving drugs in that nasty smelling container, but the thought of putting human beings down in there for any length of time almost made me gag, and I wasn’t far from yakking up that water I’d drank.

  A commotion in the hall told me our time was up. “Come on, kid. Looks like we’re going to Mexico.”

  Chapter 57

  The “hole” in the floor was sure ’nough the entrance to a tunnel, and I saw pretty quick where all the grit had come from. A white trail of limestone footprints showed where people had been in and out hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

  Drug tunnels running under the border were nothing new. The Mexican drug lord Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzman had been the master of the conception and completion of what border agents had started calling “super tunnels.” The only ones I’d seen up to then weren’t much more than gopher burrows.