Hawke's War

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  They turned upriver to see Sonny Hawke, Yolanda Rodriguez, Perry Hale, and a stranger, all four soaked to the bone, followed by Ranger Bill Gasch and his squad. Sonny walked with the aid of his son Jerry and Perry Hale, but shrugged off their hands when he neared the cluster of lawmen.

  Hatless, with his hair standing on end, the ashen-faced Ranger looked to be on the edge of death. Badge haphazardly pinned onto his shirt and his signature Colt .45 stuck in the waistband of his torn jeans, Sonny stuck out his hand and shook with his commanding officer. “Thanks, boss.” Sonny scanned the crowd. “Ethan, have you heard from Kelly and Mary?”

  “They’re all right.” Sheriff Ethan Parker joined them. “There was some trouble, but everyone’s just fine. Herman was there. He was injured, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Well, he’s a tough old hide.” That short sentence seemed to take the last of his strength, and Sonny’s knees went week. He sagged against Jerry, who helped him settle to the ground as two emergency medical responders pushed through.

  Sonny wasn’t through. “Ethan, how’s my horse? Did anyone find Red?”

  “Yep. Just heard on the radio he was fine and dandy, found trotting down the road.”

  Major Parker made eye contact with Ranger Gasch. “All clean?”

  “Yessir.”

  The major nodded a response and watched Arturo and his step-dad Santiago Estrada talking beside the kids’ Bronco. The angry youngster jabbed Estrada’s faded blue shirt with an index finger, clearly telling him off. The man listened, his head hung low. When Arturo ran out of steam, Estrada wrapped his arms around the boy, who finally relaxed and returned the hug.

  The clouds broke and a single shaft of sun broke through, landing somewhere in the national park to the west.

  Major Parker turned to look across the river. “Glad to have you back, Ranger Hawke.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are always people to thank when a book finally comes to completion. Of course, friends and family are always there to support this writing endeavor, but there are a few others from outside the circle that I need to recognize.

  Thanks also to Jennette Jurado, Park Ranger, CUA Coordinator, and Public Information Officer for Big Bend National Park. She offered a number of valuable suggestions on the locations both inside and outside the park, and they completely changed the ending for the better. I took a few liberties with the topography of the northeast corner of the park itself in the interest of entertainment. Also, the real topography of the Rio Grande itself is a little different from what I described, especially both ends of the blocked bridge at the end of Highway 2627, and the real ghost town of La Linda, Mexico, that I renamed Paso la Carmen.

  Thanks to the folks in Marfa for letting me use their town (also under the name Ballard), and especially Vicki Lynn Barge and the folks at the El Paisano hotel for the same. West Texas folks are salt of the earth, and y’all’ve proved it over and over again.

  Some names keep turning up, and those are folks who are always there to read, offer suggestions, or answer questions. Thanks to my sister-in-law Sharon Reynolds, my boy Adam McKay (USMC), Sgt. Chris Grall (former Special Forces Operations, U.S. Army), Steve Knagg, and Steve Brigman. Joe Lansdale, C. J. Box, Jeffery Deaver, Craig Johnson, Marc Cameron, and Sandra Brannan have all offered advice and friendship. I’m honored to call you friends.

  Thanks to my outstanding agent and good friend Anne Hawkins, who continues to guide me in this bewildering world of publishing.

  My editor, Michaela Hamilton, is so full of energy and enthusiasm that she makes everyone else look like pikers. Thank you, ma’am, for believing in me and Sonny Hawke. Working with you and Kensington is an absolute pleasure.

  And you’ll see this name over and over again as I continue to thank my brother from another mother, John Gilstrap. Thanks, my good friend, and I’m looking forward to the next of our many adventures together.

  The love of my life, Shana, is always right there for me. Thank you, babe.

  Don’t miss the next Sonny Hawke thriller

  Hawke’s Revenge

  Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

  Chapter 1

  The eastbound desert highway shimmered under a hot afternoon sun. I thumbed off the Dodge’s cruise control at the sight of the blocked two-lane up ahead. The opening riffs of “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones were too loud at the slower speed, so I cranked the volume down a couple of notches and studied the backup of vehicles.

  Over in the shotgun seat, Buster frowned when I lowered the volume. He likes that song, and especially ZZ Top, that little band from Texas, which was up next on my playlist. Buster’s my black Labrador retriever.

  The engine brake growled, slowing the dually pickup, but the sound was so familiar neither of us paid it any mind. It was the cars overflowing from the Marfa Lights viewing area’s parking lot and lining both sides of the table-flat highway that had my attention.

  “Again?”

  Buster turned his brown eyes toward my side of the cab and woofed.

  “You’re right. Ethan’s gonna be right in the middle of this one, too. It looks bigger’n the last.”

  I slowed to a crawl when I reached the clot of cars. A few people were hanging around the packed parking lot, sitting in the viewing center’s shade and smoking. They were a mix of our part of the world out there in far West Texas—white, brown, and American Indian. I figured they were there to protest the existence of the Trans-Pecos pipeline for the second time in a month.

  Trying to be friendly, I raised two fingers from the steering wheel in a wave, because that’s what Texans do, but no one lifted a hand in return. At least no one used a similar gesture to tell me I was number one.

  They watched with impassive faces as we rolled through the corridor of vehicles. Once past, I mashed on the foot-feed, knowing that in less than two miles I’d find the drivers, and the action.

  The highway ahead was completely blocked with protestors who had the light traffic choked down to a standstill. Half a dozen sheriff’s department and highway patrol cars idled with their lights flashing both on the shoulder and the pull-out in front of the BranCo’s pipe yard, an enclosure full of pipe and drilling equipment, scraped clean of vegetation by bulldozers. A handful of pipeline workers watched from behind the chain-link fence.

  Since the road was blocked, I pulled onto the dusty shoulder and crept past the line of cars until it too was blocked by highway patrol cars and other vehicles I figured belonged to the television and news crews. There was an open space between clumps of prickly pear and yuccas. I steered onto the hardpan and stopped at a knot of people milling between the highway and a bob-wire fence that ended at the pipe and continued into the distance on the opposite side.

  My cell phone rang. I would have ignored it, but it was Major Chase Parker, my commander. I pushed the screen. “Yessir.”

  “I need you to come to the office. We have a little situation that’s gonna be your baby.”

  “I’m feeling fine, thanks.”

  He was silent on the other end. “Okay. I get it. How’re you healing up?”

  “Like I said, fine. What’s up?”

  He sighed like he usually does when we talk. “We have someone crossing the country, executing people who’ve gotten off murder raps on technicalities, or out on pardons. It looks like he’s gonna be here in Texas any day now, from what we’ve been seeing. This one’s right up your alley.”

  “You want me there today?”

  “If you can get here.”

  I scanned the chanting crowd. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Fine. See you at three o’clock.”

  “Hey . . .”

  He hung up. I pitched the phone onto the dash in frustration and opened the door. Riding shotgun, Buster rose to follow me out of the truck, but I shook my head. “I’m gonna leave this AC going for you, but don’t get over here and lock the doors on me.” />
  He woofed an answer and sat back down to stare out the windshield.

  He’d locked me out a year earlier when I left the big dummy in the truck cab with the motor running. Annoyed that he couldn’t go, Buster pawed at the driver side armrest and hit the electronic lock. After Ethan finally showed up with a Slim Jim, a thin piece of metal he inserted between the glass and car frame to pop the lock, I took the spare key from the fob and kept it in my pocket from there on out.

  Even with so many people around, I wasn’t worried about leaving the truck running. Nobody was going to get inside with those white fangs of his showing.

  Once outside I was met by angry looks from both the trapped travelers in their automobiles and the protestors between them and the yard gate. A dozen or so activists turned at the slam of the truck door and stood shoulder to shoulder with the intention of blocking my way.

  Knowing better than to show any emotion to the angry collection of anti-pipeline marchers, I locked eyes with an American Indian demonstrator in a blue bandana, who looked to be ten years younger and sixty pounds heavier than me. Ignoring the man’s ALL LAND IS SACRED poster, I headed directly toward Big Boy, maintaining a steady pace.

  His glare held solid until I was close enough for him to see the cinco peso Ranger badge on my shirt. Big Boy’s eyes flicked up to my new straw O’Farrell hat, then down to the hand-tooled double-rig belt holding the 1911 Colt .45 semi-automatic.

  I was banking on the Texas Ranger reputation to work its magic, and when I was close, he waved a turkey-wing fan. “You Rangers think you’re something.”

  “We just represent the law.”

  “Your law is allowing this!” A young woman spat in the dirt beside my black Lucchese boot. She held a sign saying, Save our Land! “It isn’t our law.”

  “I don’t like this pipeline any more than y’all, but I have my job to do, just like you.” I waved a hand toward a local news crew filming the protest. “They got what you wanted. Let’s just do it without any real trouble, how ’bout that?”

  Big Boy took my measure for a beat before stepping back to let me pass. I nodded my thanks. “Much obliged.”

  I kept walking, ignoring a barrage of comments thrown at my back, and hoping none of those folks were violent. I couldn’t hold my own right then because I hadn’t fully healed up from a bullet wound on my side.

  There was more rattling and yelling behind me, but it was for the benefit of the camera that swept in our direction. A cluster of officers gathered around half a dozen demonstrators who’d chained themselves to the pipe yard’s access gates.

  Looking cool and collected, Presidio County Sheriff Ethan Armstrong knelt on one knee, talking to a female protestor. Gathered in a semicircle around them, the demonstrators of varied races in bandanas, feathers, and matching T-shirts were all waving signs, flags, and Indian totems. Seeing me, Ethan rose and tilted his Stetson back. “Howdy, Sonny. Somebody call you?”

  Despite his calm voice and demeanor, I saw the fire in my high school friend’s eyes. “Nope. I’s headed to Alpine when I came up on this little demonstration.” I scanned the ring of shouting protestors. “Most of these folks are strangers.”

  “Might near everyone.” Ethan leaned in close so I could hear over the noise. “We’ve sent for some bolt cutters.” He shrugged. “Loaned mine out, and then I’ll clear this bunch out.”

  “You taking any of ’em to jail?” I didn’t see anyone in cuffs.

  “Not yet. I’m gonna get these dummies free and give ’em a chance to leave on their own. If they don’t, then I’ll cuff ’em up.”

  Just like the last time, the crowd was there protesting the new pipeline going through our county and under the Rio Grande, a hundred miles away. In a way I was kinda with them. The pipeline was an eyesore, and we’d already seen that those kinds of cleared dirt highways through the desert brush were custom-made for illegal immigrants who simply followed them to the interstate and beyond.

  The easement made it easier for drug smugglers to travel north from the Rio Grande. Both drug smugglers and illegals follow landmarks, traveling dry creek beds, power lines, and even railroad tracks to disappear into the American fabric.

  We’d already caught a red Chevy Avalanche packed full of marijuana following one of the temporary access roads. One of the BranCo construction crews called it in and the bust made national news. The 500 pounds of grass had a street value of over a million dollars and was the first time we’d caught drug runners using the new “superhighway” over the buried pipeline.

  I took a good long look around. The mixed group waited on the shoulder and in the highway to see what would happen next. A couple of the deputies were urging them to clear the highway while the drivers caught in the protest were getting increasingly irritated.

  Ethan held a hand up to a shouting demonstrator who shook a sign. DEFEND THE SACRED! “Hold your horses, bud. We’re gonna be here for a while yet.” He turned back to me. “You look like you’re feeling better. I guess you’re still riding the desk?”

  I rolled my shoulders in answer. “Better. Still a little stiff. I’ll be on the desk until the major turns me back out.”

  “You’re doing a lot of that lately. You’re the only Ranger I know who spends more time off-duty than on. Maybe you need to stay out of trouble.”

  “Well, I’m trying. I’ve been out of circulation for a while, but then again, when I’m on, it’s intense.”

  He chuckled and scanned the crowd, which hadn’t stopped chanting from the moment I arrived, “Stop the lies, water is life, stop the lies, water is life!” That one was about the threat of oil leaks and the pipeline’s potential to contaminate the water table. Water is precious anywhere, but in the arid high desert north of Texas’ Big Bend, its value rose even more.

  I studied the crowd that was growing angrier by the minute. “How long ago did you send for the bolt cutters?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Half an hour.”

  “I have a pair in the truck.”

  His eyes lit up. “Good. We can have them loose by the time Malone gets back.” He whistled through his teeth and waved the highway patrol officers back to the gates. I went to the truck. The crowd around us parted like water around a rock as I cut through the pack. A DPS helicopter clattered overhead, circling the blockade.

  Like I figured, no one had bothered the truck and Buster was looking cool as a cucumber sitting there behind the wheel. He was keeping an eye on two young men who were leaning against a nearby car half on and off the shoulder. I knew if they so much as stuck a finger inside the truck, they’d draw back a nub.

  They’d already figured that out for themselves.

  I was reaching for the back-door handle when I looked past the young men’s vehicles to see a silver four-door Ford F-150 caught in the traffic jam. The windows in the back seat were blacked out, but I had a good view of the passenger through his open window. He looked familiar and I ran through my mental files, trying to remember where I’d seen him. It took a moment to recollect he’d been on a wanted poster.

  We don’t get the old-fashioned paper posters mailed to us anymore, but Ethan’s secretary always prints those that come through email and pins them to the bulletin board in the sheriff’s office. I also get them through email from the FBI and other entities, as well as from Major Chase Parker, my commander.

  The driver saw me looking in his direction. His head snapped back so fast I almost heard his eyeballs click. The passenger with a nose that looked to have been flattened with a shovel stared straight ahead. Raising his right hand to adjust his cap, the guy kept it against his cheek way too long.

  A name popped into my head. Miguel Torrez. Wanted for armed robbery, drug trafficking, and assault with a deadly weapon. I suspected the driver to be Eric Navarro, his cousin.

  “Buster, you have the truck.”

  I swiveled to find Ethan, but he’d knelt back down to speak with one of the people chained to the gate. The rest of the deputies were turned aw
ay from me, and I couldn’t catch anyone’s eye. Luck was on my side, because Navarro had stopped close to the Nissan in front and couldn’t back up because of a jacked-up white Chevy pickup right on his back bumper.

  Or so I thought.

  Torrez said something to his cousin behind the wheel, then swung back around to see if I was paying any attention. My eyes were still on the truck and that’s all it took. He snapped something to Torrez and reached down for what I assumed to be a weapon. Navarro shifted into reverse and slammed against the Chevy with the lift kit. The crunch of collapsing metal floated over the crowd as the Ford’s tailgate caved in under the Chevy’s high bumper.

  There was no subtlety at that point. “Ethan!”

  The people nearest me quit chanting. Their silence spread like ripples across the crowd and nearly every head there focused on the apparent accident. Navarro dropped his truck into gear and hit the gas, crunching the Nissan coupe’s back bumper and shoving it into a sedan in front.

  Navarro jammed the Ford back into reverse to make a three-point turn. I was fifty yards closer than any of the other lawmen who were rushing to converge on the scene. From those circling in the helicopter, it must have looked like filings drawn to a blue Ford magnet.

  I drew my .45, the smooth Lexan-covered Sweetheart Grips familiar in my hand.

  The entire situation was a nightmare. Too many cars, too many civilians, and a possibly armed felon who didn’t care about anyone but himself. That possibly armed qualification evaporated when Torrez stuck his arm through the open window and swung a Mac 11 subcompact machine pistol in my direction.

  My stomach dropped. “Everybody down!”

  He squeezed the trigger, streaming a burst of .380 caliber rounds in my direction. At the same time, Navarro spun the wheel to U-turn into the open lane and escape back the way they came. He stomped the gas, burning rubber. The truck jerked forward when the back tires shrieked on the concrete.