Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets.

by John Turney

  Tossing back his head, the Skinwalker howled; primeval, raw, and hungry. Dread-filled shrieks from the group pleased him. Dropping to all fours, he pounced from the undergrowth and onto the gravel path. He stood and drew back his hands, claws out.

  The humans stood rooted to the path. He sniffed in their terror as if the scent was a fine wine.

  Hunt is over. Time to kill.

  His leg muscles prepared for the leap. He opened his mouth and issued a snarl, saliva dripping from his teeth.

  He snapped his mouth shut. What was that? Something rushed through the underbrush towards him. Who? No! It can’t be! I killed that woman.

  From the undergrowth, this other Skinwalker howled its defiance at him.

  She dare challenge me? Where is the she-dog?

  Then he saw her stepping onto the gravel.

  The female snarled at him, back hunched and clawed hands held out to her sides. She turned to the humans.

  “Run,” she growled at the group and turned to approach him.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  “Time to cowboy up,” mumbled Rye as Oakmann and Tex joined him, at the side entrance to the second floor.

  He peered into the smoky glass door.

  “See anything?” she asked.

  Rye shook his head. “Looking through that tinted glass is like peering through a mirror.” He turned his gaze back down the way they came, the stairs cutting into the canyon wall.

  “The door locked?” Tex said and grabbed the door handle, a large chrome-plated arch. The door opened with a slight tug.

  “That would be a nope.” Tex flung open the door and stepped inside. “Clear.”

  Rye followed with his gun pointed downward. Oakmann followed and stood close to her deputy.

  The entranceway opened into an unlit hallway. No movement. No sound except for the cool air flowing from the overhead vent.

  “Kinda quiet,” Rye said. “I don’t like quiet.”

  He nodded for them to move down the hall. Guns poised in double fisted holds, the trio eased their way down the hallway.

  Rye’s heart pounded in his chest. Careful here, cowboy. He fought to maintain a steady breathing pattern. Don’t hyperventilate. Breathe in and out. Despite the AC, sweat beaded on his forehead. Just like the search and destroy missions in Iraq. House to house.

  A TV droned from somewhere ahead. With every step, his foot pressed into the soft carpet. The paint on the walls smelled fresh. The swish of their clothing sounded loud in his ears. Where was everybody?

  They came to the first door, solid wood. Rye tried the doorknob, and it turned in his hand.

  “Unlocked,” he mouthed. The other two nodded.

  Rye flung open the door and stepped inside. Nothing happened. After shining his flashlight about the room, he rejoined the other two.

  “These appear to be military style sleeping quarters.” Rye cast glances between the two, receiving blank stares in return.

  “What are you saying?” Oakmann said, keeping her voice low.

  “Looks like we’ve bitten off a large wad of chew,” said Rye, shaking his head. “So, let’s see if we can’t cut down the size of that chew.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  “Whatta we got here?” Johnny said. The two men halted outside the gaping black opening leading off the main tunnel.

  He shone his flashlight inside, played the circle of light over a couple dozen gun racks of rifles and pistols. Wooden crates of ammunition sat stacked in the center of the grotto. The scent of gun oil and wood mixed with the dry-dirt smell of the tunnel. DePute whistled.

  “Dude,” said DePute, drawing out the word. He shifted the rifles he carried on his shoulders. “List’s got more AKs and Draco pistols than Hawaii has righteous surfers. That doofus must be getting ready for the Second Mexican War.”

  “Yeah. Remember the Alamo and all that stuff. Ya know …” Johnny nodded to the weapons. “Those are the same types of guns walked over the border.”

  “Wooh! Why store all this?”

  “Can’t rightly say, ’cepting there’s a boat-load of C-4 that’s primed to explode.”

  DePute stepped backwards and examined where Batts shone his flashlight. “Dude, you’re right. That’s one gnarly boatload. Why?”

  “List is up to something more than collecting guns.”

  “Bro, I’m not liking this setup. Guns walked across the border wired with explosives.”

  “Think of what’ll happen when that C4 goes …” Johnny gestured a mushroom-like explosion cloud. “Boom.”

  DePute’s eyes widened. “That blows chunks. Let’s a move on. I’d rather not be here when that stuff explodes.”

  “I don’t want to be in Arizona when it blows.”

  A dozen yards further on, their flashlights played across the dull steel of a closed garage door. A security keypad shone like an evil red eye in the dark. DePute spit out a curse. “A dead end. We’re like so dunzo.”

  Johnny flashed his light on the keypad and shook his head with a rueful smile. “No problema.” He brandished a credit card sized item. “I got me a free pass in.”

  He swiped the card in the keypad slot. The red light turned green. Mechanisms to the door rumbled a complaint, and the door began to rise. Johnny turned off his flashlight and stuck it in his back pant’s pocket. He removed two of the handguns from his waistband.

  “Ready to par-tee?” Johnny grinned.

  “Dude, you’re freaking nuts-o. I like that.” DePute slung one of the rifles from his shoulder. “Partner, this’ll be epic. A dance of mayhem, up to death’s portal.”

  They moved to opposite sides of the door while an expanding rectangle of light appeared at their feet. When, the door reached halfway up, the two men ducked under it and raced into the room.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Zach held out a hand, stopping Amalia. Her face paled, and she cringed like a puppy about to be beaten. Two Spanish-sounding voices echoed from the stairwell below them. Zach wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of their cigarettes. He hated the things, but at least they alerted him to their presence.

  He motioned to the girl for silence. He listened to the men’s banter for several seconds to appraise his situation. Only two of them. Unfortunately, they blocked the only way out.

  When Amalia had babbled about two sisters, Zach figured she had seen the Visser twins. Nobody can match their Barbie doll meets John Wayne persona. From Amalia’s description—pieced together from her smattering of English and his smaller smattering of Spanish—one of the sisters had suffered a serious injury. That had clinched it for him. If this girl could locate the twins, he planned on getting them outta here.

  He eased down the stairwell one cement step at a time. With the guards’ conversation drifting up to him, Zach winced at every whisper of noise he generated. Breathing evenly became a struggle. He could have shot them, but that would have set off alarms, so he holstered his weapon. He peered over the edge. One flight down, at the base of the stairs, stood two men dressed in desert-fatigue pants and black shirts. They carried themselves like ex-military. He drew back and stared straight ahead.

  Just what I need. Screw it. It’s just like executing a play on the football field. Hit your opponent hard and often.

  Zach risked another glance downward.

  “Hey,” one of the guards said.

  Zach found himself staring down into the dark eyes of a killer. The blank stare of a person without a conscience. Spitting out a vicious string of Spanish, the guard swung his gun upward. Zach sprang over the railing as a spattering of gunfire rang out.

  CHAPTER 23

  SUNDAY EARLY AFTERNOON

  “Mrs. Dawlsen,” Whitewolf said, arms folded across his chest. “You and your son will stay with the cars.”

  Hands on hips, she returned his glare. She didn’t put up with that tone from Rye, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now with his subordinate. “I’m a journalist, and I have a right to report what is going
on. It’s important for the American people to know.”

  Their eyes stayed locked on each other, both refusing to look away.

  “And I’ll let you know what happened when it’s all over. Now, please, stay with the cars.” Whitewolf nodded towards Manny. “I don’t want your son in the line of fire. And it’s not a good idea to leave him alone out here.”

  With a grudging scowl, Dee had to admit … that made sense. If she went with the cops, Manny would have to go as well or stay by himself. It’s just that this List creep made her seething mad. She rubbed a hand through her tangled hair. Calm down, girl.

  Heilo slammed shut the trunk to the Crown Vic and strolled over to them. She carried several handguns and boxes of ammunition.

  “Here,” Heilo said, thrusting a revolver into Chee’s hands with an extra box of bullets. “I assume you know how to use this.”

  Then she turned to face Iona. For several seconds, the two women glared at each other.

  “We had words,” Heilo said. “Now’s not the time to get into a pissing contest. Here.” She handed Iona a revolver and ammo.

  “Thank you. And about the other day …” Iona paused. “I was outta line.”

  “Okay. Me and Whitewolf are trusting you and the uncle to cover our backs.”

  Iona nodded, and Heilo turned to Dee.

  “You’re the Chief’s ex,” she said, “so I hope he’s taught you a thing or two about handling weapons.”

  Dee accepted the revolver and extra ammo. “If you’re asking if I know how to shoot one of these, then, yes I do. If you want me to take it apart blindfolded and reassemble it in ten seconds, then, no, I can’t do that.”

  Manny stared at the revolver in Dee’s hand. “Cooool. Do I get one?”

  Both Dee and Heilo glared a “no” response at him. Heilo turned back to Dee.

  “Stay here and stay safe.” Heilo turned away from her and motioned to the others. “Let’s go babysit the front gate.”

  A moment later, Dee found herself alone with Manny.

  Dee hated to see them go. The sudden isolation weighed heavy on her. The rain … the wind … the gloom brought a surge of melancholy. Like all those nights when Rye went out drinking.

  Manny grabbed her hand, and she peered at his anxious face. She smiled, hoping to ease his fears. Those eyes. The tilt of his head. I never realized that my son is a miniature Rye. She blinked away the wetness abruptly welling in her eyes. Oh God, please keep my husband safe.

  She wanted to do her part to help Rye. Yeah, their marriage had serious problems. Yeah, he could be a real jerk at times. Yeah, he hit the bottle way too hard … But she still loved him. And Manny adored his father. She couldn’t miss the look in her son’s eyes whenever Rye walked into the room.

  Whitewolf’s right. Staying with Manny is doing my part.

  Yet, it didn’t feel that way. Then a thought chilled her. What if List’s men succeed? Then we’ll be here alone.

  She grabbed Manny’s hand and hurried to the SUV. She opened the door.

  “Get in and lay on the floor. Don’t come out unless you hear my voice or your father’s.” She slammed the door shut.

  “But, Mom,” Manny whined, hands and face pressed against the window.

  “Don’t ‘but Mom’ me.” She raised the handgun toward the estate and sighted down its barrel.

  “Where you going?” Manny pounded a fist against the window. Panic colored his tone. Her mother’s instinct heard his tears forming.

  “I’m not going anywhere, dear.”

  She spun the cylinder. Mommy’s staying right here.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Demonio stood with his feet spread wide, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He tilted his head, staring down his opponent. “Ha! The señorita wants a fight.”

  The woman opened a canvas bag she carried. From its confines, she produced a round leather shield decorated in beads and a solid black feather tied to a black leather cord.

  After slipping the feather necklace over her head, she adjusted the shield on her arm and asked, “You were looking for these?” She tossed the canvas bag aside.

  Demonio’s lips curled into a snarl. “They’re mine, thief.”

  Sunflower shrugged. “I took them to prevent you from getting your hands on them. You came to the museum too late. I got there first.” She tensed, positioned to attack.

  “I will kill you and take them from you.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Snarling, she sprang for him.

  Demonio turned sideways to meet her rush. Ten yards away, she leapt, hands up by her shoulders. At the last moment, he raised an arm and deflected some of the force as she crashed into him. They both landed hard and rolled away.

  Before he could stand, she was on him, arms flailing like a rabid windmill. Some of her jabs, he managed to block. Others struck hard, the talons cutting, searing. Demonio struck back, but the magic in the talismans frustrated his efforts.

  Bleeding from several cuts, he shoved her away. Wheeling, he bounded like a canine, her breath on his heels. After a dozen jumps, he whipped back around swinging his fist and caught her on the side of the head. The force of his punch sent her reeling, and she crumpled into a mud puddle face down. But the power of the talismans sent icy shocks down his arm. The limb hung uselessly at his side. He had only momentarily stunned her; time to seize the initiative. Demonio vaulted onto her back, and with his good hand shoved her face into the puddle.

  Her arms flailed to free herself, but Demonio only pushed her down harder. A snarl escaped from his lips. He’d kill her, burn her body, and spread her ashes over a refuse dump.

  Then, too fast for him to prevent it, she reached up one hand and grabbed his side. Her nails dug in like ice picks. She ripped her hand away, taking a chunk of wolf skin and his flesh. Howling, he pulled back.

  With that fleeting respite, she bucked under him. Demonio fell sideways as the she-wolf pushed herself out of the muddy puddle. Thick water streamed off her face.

  “Look what you done, Loba,” he screamed at her. With one hand, he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

  “I know who you are.” She spat puddle water from her mouth. Rising from the mud, she yelled at him, each word sounding like a gunshot. “Demonio Amo. Drug lord. Killer. Terrorist. May your soul burn for all eternity.”

  “How you find this out, my name?” She knows my name. She could kill me with that information.

  “I may be a Navajo. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” She smiled, but her eyes glared at him. “It’s called the Internet.”

  With a bellow, he dove at her. How dare this insignificant female interfere with my plans! She will pay. I make her suffer long before she dies.

  She rolled away and out of the puddle. Springing to her feet, she fled into the underbrush.

  Demonio struggled to his feet. Wincing, he put a hand to his wound. When he drew it away, blood filled his cupped hand. But the bleeding had slowed.

  Raising his head, he sniffed the air and detected her scent. She might as well have painted her passage with fluorescent colors. This will be like finding a long piece of straw in a small stack of short needles.

  Letting loose a long howl, he gave chase.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Junior List found the unmarked cop car bridging the electric fence and stared at it as if he came across a field of primo pot. With both hands gripping his belt, he hoisted his sagging jeans to just under his beer paunch. He patted his stomach.

  That there’s a history of good beer drinkin’.

  He waited and listened to the rain-dripping woods for a sound out of place. Hunting had taught him patience. I ain’t no fool. This thing is going down, but it ain’t touching me. He figured the cop car belonged to the pigs that sought to bring down his daddy. Well, let ’em. I ain’t getting tagged with the old man’s crimes.

  Raising his all black .30-06 Remington 740 to his shoulder, Junior peered at the tangled undergrowt
h through the night scope. He might be running, but he wasn’t about to throw caution out the back door. No sir, not Junior List. He scanned his surroundings.

  No movement. Nothing out of place.

  He emerged from his hiding place and scrambled up the car. Halfway across, his foot slipped on the wet metal. He fell, both knees landing on the roof.

  Don’t want no fried Junior setting out here like roadkill.

  He knelt on the roof, his heart pounding like a galloping horse. Cold fear rooted him there. Yet, he couldn’t stay exposed as he was. Inching his way over the car, time crawled past like a snail on ice before he again stood on sodden ground.

  Rolling his eyes heavenward and muttering a word of thanks, he pushed his way through the last sliver of brush until he came to the blacktopped road. He planned to cross the road and hide out at the shack they used when branding time came. Maybe I can come out of this without my record being tarnished. Any further that is.

  With a smile, he dreamed of assuming his daddy’s role and taking over the List enterprise. Sweet! He wouldn’t have to listen to all those insults from the old man anymore.

  Then he spotted the other car with Whiskey Police emblazoned on its side. Just waitin’ fer my takin’. Something moved at the vehicles. Junior sought refuge behind a large rock, rested his jowls against the gunstock and sighted through the scope. The car zoomed into close proximity.

  Come on. Come on. Frigging show yourself.

  A woman stepped away from the SUV. Dark hair. Attractive. He couldn’t see her body, but his mind imagined it and what he’d like to do to her. His excitement grew.

  Wait, I’ve seen her before … that’s Dee Dawlsen!

  He grinned. Time for some REAL fun. He’d abduct her to the shack, have his way whether she was a willing partner or not. Hopefully not. Give me an excuse to kill her. For several minutes, he watched her as his desire hardened. She’s an alert one. When she ducked back down, he sprinted across the side road carrying his Remington one-handed.