Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  There wasn’t much time before those guys shot their way into the room. Voices yelling both in the house and outside told me they were forming up, and things were about to happen pretty damn quick. I glanced into the hole, expecting to look into a yawning black void. Instead, the sophisticated tunnel was more than a burrow. Electric lights lit up the skim-coated walls and a substantial steel ladder led to the bottom way down below.

  All right, buddy boy. This table don’t go up and down by itself. Find the switch and give yourself some time to get to the bottom of that ladder.

  I’d read about agents finding a tunnel in Arizona that operated off the turn of a water faucet. Since there were no faucets in the room, I scanned the walls. Light switch by the door, five electrical outlets, and switch by the closet door. All pretty standard, except one of the walls had an extra outlet in a strange place, and it was smudged in the middle.

  Javier’s voice came through the closed door. “Ranger! Give yourself up. You cannot get out of that room. Do not cost me any more men or the Grinder will take even more time with you. I will have him keep you alive for days, so you can feel him peel off every inch of skin.”

  He obviously thought the billiard table was in place on the floor, and not above my head. Someone had fallen down on their job, and it was most likely the guy I’d killed in the hallway. That’s why he looked so surprised. He’d come up in the middle of a gunfight, or maybe he’d seen Phoebe standing there where she shouldn’t have been. Either way, it was a fatal mistake.

  “Go.” I pointed. “Shinny down that ladder. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The slender little gal moved up in my estimation when she went down that hole like a rabbit.

  “Hey, did you see a switch of some kind down there to close this up?”

  She answered two beats later. “No.”

  I knelt by the wall outlet, the .45 pointed at the door, and felt around with my fingertips. “There’s gotta be one somewhere.” It didn’t twist, but it made a slight click when I pushed in the middle. The hydraulics hissed and the table descended.

  “Out of the way, gal!” I took two running steps and slid over the edge and onto the ladder.

  Wrapping one leg around the ladder’s side rails to hold myself steady, I aimed at the outlet, firing two shots. One looked as if it struck the plastic plate and it probably did, because the slab holding the table dropped the last few inches, almost hitting me in the head as I ducked and descended the ladder.

  As usual, my idea seemed a little hasty in hindsight. After the slab landed with a thud, I wondered if there was a switch to get out at the opposite end. The odds were fifty-fifty I’d sealed my own grave.

  Boy, sometimes you need to think things through.

  Yeah, Pop, but there wasn’t a whole lot of thinking time back there.

  Another thought popped into my mind, leaving me hoping there wasn’t some bad guy down below aiming a gun up at my nether regions.

  Chapter 58

  The shooting had subsided and Pepito peeked around the house. He pointed across the river toward the Mexico side. “Look over there.”

  Four Humvees full of Mexican soldiers in tactical gear appeared on the dirt road and turned into the ghost town. It wasn’t unusual to see them in the area. They showed up from time to time, scouting for any sign of the cartels.

  Chatto had bought off most of the officers through the years, but a few were still loyal to the country. Not all of Chihuahua’s officials and politicians were on his payroll, but that number had increased in the past year as Chatto spent seemingly endless amounts of drug money to rebuild the dilapidated buildings, claiming Paso La Carmen to be his new project designed to provide job opportunities for the locals.

  The only problem was there weren’t many locals still in the area, and with no way of making a living, they weren’t likely to return. It didn’t matter. It was all a cover for his newest experiment in moving drugs by constructing tunnels under the border.

  Two of his tunnels came up in El Paso, on the U.S. side of the border, but this new system of moving drugs through La Carmen was showing more profit with less chances of being discovered. After several years, he’d finally made contact with one of the border patrol agents who manned the permanent check station south of Marathon.

  Border Patrol Lieutenant Rafael Fuentes had a pretty good side business going, finding thick packets of cash in his trash can back in Alpine on the first day of each month. His job for the past eight years, according to the cartel, was simple. Instead of checking the odiferous Pando Honey-Dipper each time it went north to allegedly service dozens of nonexistent septic systems, Fuentes made cracks to his men about the stench and waved the truck through.

  Repetition breeds blindness and laziness. Even when he wasn’t on duty, the Pando truck passed with the wave of a hand. It wasn’t loaded then with drugs or illegals on those days, because the officer in charge might decide to break their routine and use the dogs.

  Javier and Pepito, still numb from the loss of Chino, watched the heavily armed soldiers disgorge from the vehicles and scatter along the road running parallel to the river watching for whatever might come across. With all the gunfire on the Texas side, and the arrival of the Mexican army, the entire ghost town was sealed off. One man Javier assumed was an officer stood in front of a truck, holding binoculars to his eyes.

  Dreading that he had to phone Chatto and explain that the very-much-alive Ranger had disappeared down their tunnel, Javier reached into his pack between his feet for the satellite phone. He jolted when his fingers wrapped around what was once a piece of high-tech equipment and now suddenly was a useless piece of plastic. “Chinga tu madre!”

  “Qué?”

  Javier held up the dead phone with a bullet hole through two sides. “We can’t call Chatto.”

  Pepito glanced around the barren desert as if looking for a pay phone. A gray curtain of rain hid the low, barren hills to the west. “What do we do now?”

  “Get in the truck and drive.” Pepito slipped behind the wheel of a four-door Ford pickup registered to the owner of the house. He started the engine and flicked on the brittle wipers that threatened to break apart.

  They pulled onto the northbound farm road, and Javier chewed his lip in thought as the tires hissed on the wet pavement. He flipped though his mental files, selecting and discarding a dozen scenarios in which they made phone calls from cell phones they’d take off tourists or unwary locals.

  For the first time since he was tattooed, he wished the art on his face and neck was gone so they could move without notice. The extensive tattooing was ignored south of the border, where most people averted their eyes whenever he or the other gangsters passed. In the U.S., and especially the border region of Texas, the citizens often stared. Once he saw a woman taking his photo with a professional-looking camera.

  There was only one solution he could see. “Drive until we’re out of sight.”

  “We can’t go into the park, and we can’t risk the Border Patrol check station.”

  “We’re not going that far. There’s a dirt road that splits off from this one. We’ll get out of sight and leave the truck. Chatto has two men in a house about five miles that way.” He pointed over his shoulder toward Mexico. “We will get out of sight and cross. They will take us to a phone.”

  Hiking through the desert was no challenge for either of the Apaches, who grew up walking wherever they went. Javier thought of the distance they’d have to travel to reach the phone. It would take longer than he wanted, but it was their only option other than the hazardous trip to the pay phone in Stillwell’s country store, which they couldn’t chance, or Marathon, beyond the check station.

  He hoped the river wasn’t high enough with the recent rains to be a problem.

  Chapter 59

  Taking advantage of the most recent lull in the rain, Sheriff Ethan Armstrong and the three Texas Rangers gathered outside the CP. The sheriff pinched a dip from a container of Skoal and tucked i
t into his bottom lip. It was a habit he’d almost broken before the Ballard Incident. “There’s a crop of people in there. It’s good to get some air.”

  Major Parker unwrapped a cigar and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. “Too many for my money.”

  “I figure you have some men working on this, other than here.”

  “You figure right.”

  Ethan sighed. “Look, Major, I’m not supposed to know a whole lot about what I’m gonna say, but a little birdy told me something I’d like to talk to you about, alone.”

  Major Parker’s eyebrow rose in question. The impassive Rangers adjusted their ties at the same time, either a signal or ingrained training, and left. Parker watched them drift away and then leaned toward the sheriff. “What are you referring to?”

  Ethan spat to the side and smoothed his brush-pile mustache. “Sonny’s Shadow Response Team.”

  The major’s face hardened. His deep voice rumbled. “Who told you about that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You need to remember, there are no real secrets in a small town.”

  “Ranger Hawke and I’ll have a talk when . . .”

  “It didn’t come from Sonny. Higher up. But that’s not the important part.”

  “There’s no one higher in this but the governor.”

  “I won’t say it was him or . . .” Ethan stopped talking when he recognized two young faces in the supply tent, sitting close to the coffee and donuts. Both Jerry Hawke and Arturo Alonzo saw the sheriff at the same time and froze like deer in headlights. Keeping an eye on the boys, the sheriff continued with his thought. He jerked his head toward FBI Agent Landon McDowell, who was on his cell phone. “You and I both know he was out here investigating that triple homicide, and even though it’s on federal land, it ain’t the FBI that’s digging the deepest.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sonny and his wife were good friends with those folks, and it’s personal to him. You need to know he has these gut feelings that usually turn out to be right. I think he stumbled onto something at the crime scene that led him away. In fact, I know I’m right, because I got a text telling me he’s in La Carmen, or Paso La Carmen.”

  “Text from who?”

  “It came a roundabout way from one of your former Rangers, Herman Hawke.”

  The major’s face relaxed, and the deep crow’s-feet in the corners of his eyes smoothed out. “How’d Herman find out?”

  “You’ll hear soon enough that gangsters tried to break into Sonny’s house last night to kill his family. Herman was there with a couple of friends—one was Yolanda Rodriguez—and they shot it out. Dead bad guys were scattered all over hell’s half acre when they got through with them. Nobody hurt on our side. But when it was over, they had fresh info about Sonny.”

  “So he drove to La Carmen? Good God, there’s nothing but a blocked bridge there.”

  “Far from it. He was taken there by a gang called the Coyotes Rabiosos.”

  Parker used three fingers to reposition the still-unlit cigar. “I’ve heard of ’em.”

  “Well, I hadn’t, but the info I’m receiving says they’re some bad dudes.”

  “The worst. We need to get out there.” Raindrops snapped on their hat brims and the taut canvas tent nearby. “Which La Carmen for sure?”

  “We don’t know. Perry Hale is out there right now, scouting around.”

  Parker chomped down on the cigar. “How’d he find out?”

  Ethan wanted to grin at the confirmation about Perry Hale. Sonny had told him some, but not enough to know how their trio was to operate, just enough for Ethan to have a grasp on the Shadow Response Team if he was ever needed. “You’ll have to ask him that question, but since he’s part of the SRT . . .”

  Major Parker pulled a phone from his back pocket and punched in a number. Lucky for him, the area’s spotty cell phone service didn’t include the area around the command post. The call went through, and he spoke for a moment before waving the other two Rangers over at the same time a light shower began to fall.

  “Now I know. We’re heading for Paso La Carmen.”

  “That’s about sixty miles away. It’ll take most of an hour.”

  The major adjusted the cigar in his mouth. “We won’t be driving the speed limit.”

  “I figured you’d say that.” Sheriff Armstrong glanced into the tent where the park rangers and rescue team were updating the search area. “I should tell them what we know.” He wanted to go inside to see what he’d missed, but he also needed to speak to the boys, who’d obviously cut class and driven to the park. He completely understood why Jerry had come, and figured Arturo had tagged along for moral support, or worse, because he’d gotten a taste for excitement and adventure. “There’s a possibility that all this info’s wrong. We don’t want to pull everyone off right now. Let’s confirm first.”

  The volume from those inside the CP increased and they heard Park Ranger Rivera’s voice over the others. “That’s enough. Settle down. Search Team Six, Hector Robles and Vincent Taylor, found a body. The apparent gunshot victim is near coordinates . . .”

  They moved back inside. Ethan stuck with his Rangers as they took up their original positions. A magic hole appeared in the crowd as everyone moved aside to make way for the Texas Rangers’ presence.

  Rivera turned to a park map they’d placed on an easel so everyone could see. There was so much crosstalk in the CP that she had to wave a hand and shout. “Listen up!” She waited until the crowd settled down. “They’ve retreated from the body and will maintain a position here.” She pointed at the map and reported the new coordinates. “This is now a crime scene . . .”

  Ethan waved at his deputies who joined him and the Rangers.

  Her radio awoke again. “Team Eight. We’ve found an individual who appears to have drowned. A Hispanic male who is caught in debris.” The man gave her the coordinates and she marked it on the map. “They say he’s covered in gangster tattoos.”

  “That’s a long way from the first body.” Ethan crossed his arms. “Maybe a hiker, or an illegal?”

  Rivera shook her head. “Look at this arroyo. There’s a hiking trail that crosses here, but it narrows down, making it hard for someone to cross while the water was high. I’d bet it’s someone who got caught much further up.”

  “That expands the search area even more.” The Major adjusted his unlit cigar. “You want to bet Sonny didn’t have something to do with that?”

  “I won’t take that bet.”

  Chapter 60

  Bare bulbs in the tunnel lit the way all the way down to the base of the ladder. The air was thick with dampness and mildew. Scrambling down the rungs using mostly my right arm and shoulder was a chore. I was so high, though, that I couldn’t risk a fall, so my left hand went to work about a third of the way down, the needling pull of the wound adding to the workout.

  I must have been making all kinds of grunting sounds, because Phoebe called up to me. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” My answer was more of a gasp. “I got a lot of hurtin’ going on up here.”

  Her voice was distant, telling me she was already on the ground. “You need help?”

  “Probably, but there’s nothing you can do. I’ll be down directly. Gravity’s trying to help more than I want.”

  Down safe. Down safe. Down safe, became my mantra as I descended. Both legs grew weak and quivered harder the farther down I got.

  If this is such a sophisticated tunnel, why haven’t they put in an elevator?

  It wasn’t fanciful thinking. Some of the super tunnels that border agents found in the past had elevators on both ends. One they’d found in Arizona was as well-engineered and finished as a subway. I hoped they’d followed the same blueprints and installed an elevator over on the Mexican side to help me get out.

  The tunnel had electric lights and fresh air from a system of PVC pipes. Puffs of cool air from holes drilled in the PVC periodically caught me in the face as I descended. I passed anoth
er series of jets ten feet from the bottom, and then I was on solid ground. I glanced around. I’d seen that kind of workmanship before, but in professionally constructed public buildings. The curved ceiling three feet overhead increased the stability of the hand-dug tunnel.

  Phoebe was waiting with a water bottle in each hand. “Here. You look like you need a drink.”

  The tunnel looked to have been made by a professional construction company and I saw that long booger was empty. Relieved for a minute, I unscrewed the cap and gulped the water down. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Over there.” She pointed at half a case of Ozarka water bottles only feet away, the plastic covered with dust. I grabbed half a dozen more and opened Chino’s backpack to drop them in. I dug around a second and found the Colt’s extra magazines. I really wished my badge was in there, too, but Javier was wearing it the last time I saw him.

  Fighting a rising tide of emotions, I also came up with a satellite phone. Squatting with my back to the ladder, I turned it on and waited for the shakes to quiet down. The screen lit up, but the device couldn’t connect underground. I sat back and saw Phoebe with her nose in the air like a bird dog winding quail.

  “I smell grass. It’s what the tunnel was built for. Grass is bulky, so a nice big tunnel like this one’s the best way to get it into the country. I’d bet they store it down here for a while every now and then.”

  “You know a lot.”

  “I told you. I’ve been here for over a week. They took me just outside of Stillwell’s store. I hitched a ride there and was on my way to the park when they pulled over on the side of the road and drug me into a truck. One of those bastards hit me and they pushed me down on the floor until we got here.”

  We sat there for another quiet minute before she started talking again. “I kept hoping someone would come looking for me, but who’s gonna think anything’s going on in a regular house somebody’s renovating out in the middle of BF Egypt?”