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

by John Turney

  He slipped into the brush and rocks.

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  Barend Jilt woke to the sound of gunfire. His hand slipped under the pillow and grabbed the Smith & Wesson Model 41. His fingers wrapped around the wood grips. He chambered a round. Though a .22 caliber, he loved its accuracy. Great weapon for up-close wet work.

  Taking the extra few moments, he slipped on a pair of desert camo pants and tan military boots. He had slept in a black undershirt. No need to change that. He picked up his Nextel.

  “Jilt here. Report.”

  List’s voice came over the device. “Dawlsen got loose somehow.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I thought a dozen men could handle it.”

  “Listen. The man’s ex-military. He’s been through some tough situations. Now he’s here, and you thought you’d let me sleep?”

  “Whatever. Get to the Communications Room. I need you there to be my eyes. It’s time to evacuate the premises. The copters will be here in short order.”

  Trying to trap me is what you’re doing, telling me to go to the CR. I ain’t buying. And I ain’t taking the fall for this. “Where’s Junior?”

  “He’s scouting the front.”

  Yeah. Right. He’s running. “I’ll be at the CR in three.” He cut off transmission before List could reply. “But I ain’t staying for long. Just long enough to get intel and find out what’s going on.”

  For a moment, he stared down at the handheld. If Dawlsen was loose, that meant the Feds probably weren’t too far behind. The whole plan began to unravel just as it neared completion, and he didn’t want to serve time. With a yell, he hurled the Nextel against the glass. The radio shattered; the bullet-proof window wobbled.

  Minutes later, he stood outside the CR and typed his password into the keypad. The door slid open. When he entered, the two men at the consoles raised their Colts in his direction.

  “Stand down,” he commanded.

  “Mr. List told us …” one of the security men said.

  “We have a situation that is deteriorating,” the other security man cut in. “We had hostages, but they’ve escaped and set up a guard post at the compound’s front exit. Several of Dawlsen’s people are inside the building, and we’re trying to monitor their …”

  The room plunged into blackness.

  “CRAP!” the other tech yelled at the blank monitors.

  The emergency exit lights came on, filling the room of lifeless computers with soft light.

  “Had to happen sooner or later,” said the guard, next to him. “I’m surprised it took them so long. But where’s the backup generators? You can’t stop them unless …”

  “Unless what?” Jilt gripped one of the man’s shoulders, not sure he wanted to hear the reply. “Unless what?” he repeated.

  “They’ve hacked into our system.”

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Rye peered around the corner into the lounge area. Empty.

  Numerous TVs sat silent. Racked balls waited on the pool tables. No one sat in any of the many couches. Just ’cause it looked void of people, didn’t mean it was.

  “On my three,” he whispered. “Tex you go left. Oakmann, go straight. I’ll take the right.” They nodded. Rye took a deep breath and breathed out. He held up one finger. Two. Three.

  Inching his way around the corner, Rye discovered a couch and several chairs blocking his path. Possible places for a shooter to hide.

  He reached the furniture. With finger ready to pull the trigger, he peered over the couch. No one. Yet a set of muddy footprints suggested someone had recently been there. He knelt down for a closer look. He’d seen this type of imprint often enough. Military boots.

  “Clear,” he said. “But someone was here in the last minute or so.”

  The other two reported their sections cleared.

  “Got another room over here,” said Tex, standing next to a closed door.

  This door did not have the wood finish of the other doors. Rather, it had a dull iron gray color of a metallic utilities office. He would have assumed the architect would have matched the door to the décor. But then, assumptions got good cops killed.

  With Rye on one side of the door and Oakmann on the other, Tex tested the doorknob—unlocked—and flung it open. They rushed in. Tex to the left. Oakmann in the middle. Rye to the right.

  Empty. Yet, unlike the other barracks, this one contained one unmade bed, a nightstand, a closet, a footlocker, and a shattered walkie-talkie.

  Rye stepped into the room and headed towards the footlocker. His hand brushed over the name stenciled on its lid. Barend Jilt.

  He opened the footlocker. Several desert and jungle camo uniforms of the Mexican army lay folded in neat stacks. Several army caps sat of top of the stacks. Odd, Jilt was never in the Mexican army. So what’s with all the Mex army duds?

  A pair of muddy footprints stained the carpet next to Jilt’s bed. He touched the mud and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb. Moist. He raised his fingers to his nose and rubbed it again while sniffing. It smelled of … stables.

  Rye rose to his feet. “We just missed Jilt by a minute. Get this. His footlocker has several army uniforms. Mexican army uniforms.”

  “Makes no sense to me,” Oakmann said. “I’ve read Jilt’s rap sheet. He hates Mexicans.”

  Tex cleared his throat. “We’ve seen this along the Texas border. Some less than patriotic US citizens working with the cartels by posing as Mexican army.”

  They exited Jilt’s room, crossed the lounge, and headed down the next hallway. At the next room, Rye opened the door and stared into darkness. He held out his handgun and flicked on the flashlight. He pointed its beam into the room.

  “What the—”

  Jumping backwards, he let out a curse. A grizzly bear stood in the back of the room, mouth frozen open and paw raised ready to strike.

  Rye aimed his handgun at the creature, laser beam dotting the bear’s chest. His finger itched the trigger. The animal just stood there. With a wry grin, Rye shook his head in embarrassed understanding and lowered his gun. This was one of List’s hunting trophies.

  “Don’t feel bad,” said Oakmann, Hand over her mouth to suppress the mirth beginning to spill out. “I’d have blasted the thing.”

  “I just about peed on myself,” Rye said.

  “In Texas,” Tex said, “our Chihuahuas are bigger than that.”

  Flashing his light around the room, Rye observed the many creatures whose heads decorated the walls: wolves, antelopes, longhorn sheep, and a moose. Their glassy eyes stared back at him in their death gaze. Hunting rifles bid their time in racks, stocks gleaning with meticulous care. His beam crossed over a hunting bow, and he stopped.

  He stared at it for a moment, breaking into a smile.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he murmured then fetched it off the wall. “A Hoyt ProElite with XT 3500 limbs and the C2 Cam. Consider this baby recompensed.”

  “Hey, Dawlsen,” Oakmann said, standing next to him. “What are these?”

  She held up a box of cone shaped devices.

  “Those, my dear, are explosive arrowheads. As is, they’re not armed. But you take one of these arrow shafts,” he held up one without the head, “and screw the arrowhead onto the shaft,” which he demonstrated, “and you have created one very lethal weapon. I’m going to assemble me a few of these.”

  After he finished, he spotted a leather quiver decorated with beaded Native American designs and beaded fringe. Taking it off the wall, Rye stuffed it with over a dozen arrows.

  Slinging it over his head, he joined the others waiting for him in the hallway.

  That’s when the gunfire erupted.

  CHAPTER 24

  SUNDAY MID-AFTERNOON

  Zach hopped the railing and plummeted into one of the guards. Gunfire exploded in his ears, and bullets whistled past his face. His upper back struck the cement floor just as the lights went out.

&nbs
p; In the sudden cave-like darkness, Zach rolled away from the guards. He hoped. Backing into the corner, he pushed to his feet and waited for his eyes to adjust. Pale light leaked from under the door. He reached for his gun and realized he’d dropped it.

  The light from the exit sign came on.

  One guard lay still on the floor. The other man, bigger than Zach, spat out a stream of tobacco. He wore the brown and tan desert camo of the Mexican army. Zach noticed the prison tat of an Aztec bird on the back of his hand. So we got a tattoo-wearing member of the Mexican drug Cartel, el Águila. The Eagle.

  “You kill mi hermano, cerdo.” Pig. The man rotated his head back and forth, neck cracking at every move.

  Zach shot a glance at the man’s “brother” on the floor and noticed the odd angle of the guy’s head.

  “Now, you die. Lentamente.” Slowly. He tossed his pistol with a clatter to the floor and drew a 12” long Bowie knife. The rasp of steel blade against steel sheath sounded ominous echoing up the stairwell.

  Zach reached for his duty belt and grabbed his ASP, the expandable wand. Mr. Aztec Tat stepped over his companion to trap Zach in the corner.

  “You think you hurt me with little stick.”

  “No, I think to hurt you with big stick.” Zach whipped his hand back over his shoulder. With a crack, the ASP extended its full length. Before the other could take a breath, Zach whipped the wand against the outside of the man’s thigh. Yelping, the Águila dropped to the floor, aiming a weak jab with his Bowie. Zach dodged the blade and lashed the wand down on the man’s collarbone. A scream followed a snap of breaking bone, and his knife arm hung useless.

  “Stay down,” Zach said. “I’m WPD.”

  “If I get my hand on you, you’re DOA.” His face transformed into a mask of agony-filled rage.

  A scraping noise sounded on the stairs.

  Mr. Aztec Tat peered upward. Zach, not waiting to find out the source of the noise, flicked the ASP across the man’s nose. An enflamed welt rose across his face.

  The man let loose a string of profanity intertwining English and Spanish.

  “Drop the knife,” Zach said.

  They exchanged glacial stares.

  “Next swing,” Zach threatened by pointing the ASP at the man’s face, “and your nose will be a bloody smear.”

  Zach watched the fight go out of the man’s eyes, and he dropped the blade, the weapon ringing on the cement floor. He grasped his injured shoulder.

  Whipping his gaze upward, Zach called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Just me,” said Amalia, her voice a blend of tears and terror.

  “Stay put.”

  Zach grabbed the injured man by the collar. With the prisoner screaming, Zach forced him over to the stairs. Though the man whimpered pleas, he handcuffed his prisoner’s uninjured arm to the railing. Zach made sure no weapon lay within the man’s reach before turning his attention to the man he had crashed into. Bending over, he checked the guy’s pulse and found none.

  “All secure,” Zach called up the stairwell to Amalia. While listening to her feet slap against the metal stairs, he gathered his gun and the two guns dropped by the guards.

  When Amaila neared the bottom, Zach said, “You might want to shield your …”

  The girl poised on the last step, eyes fixated on the dead man. She snorted. “You think I not see dead men before.” With hands on hips, she leveled her gaze at Zach. “I live in Mexico. When gangs fight, they leave many dead bodies. Beinvenida para mi mundo.” Welcome to my world.

  “Okay … then,” Zach drew out his words. “Wait there.” He motioned for her to stay at the stairs then nodded at the door. “I’m going to check it out.”

  The injured man moaned for the girl to help him.

  “I hope you die many slow deaths,” she said in Spanish, her eyes narrowed into angry slits. She spat at him.

  Zach raised an eyebrow. Sticky note to me, never make a Mexican chick mad. He eased open the door and peered through the crack. The stairs led to a utility room with a boiler and AC units.

  “It’s clear,” Zach called over his shoulder.

  “This I know. Follow me,” Amalia brushed past him and marched into the room. An open seven-foot wide roll-up door cast dim illumination from the last throes of sundown.

  Zach slinked behind the girl in a low crouch. His gaze swept across the room.

  “This way,” the girl said, motioning with an index finger.

  “Wait,” Zach called out to her, but she ignored his soft cry.

  Muttering, he grabbed her arm. “Hold up, there.”

  She jerked her arm free of his grasp and started to say something. Zach clamped a hand over her mouth.

  She tried to bite him.

  “Be quiet,” he hissed. “Callate. Mal hombres.” He pulled her into the shadows behind a tractor just as two guards strolled past.

  Her soft, brown eyes went wide. She nodded.

  Zach eased his hand from her mouth. “¿Donde estan las muchachas?” Where are the girls?

  Amalia pointed at a door secured. A steel bar across the door ensured no one from the room would escape. “Allí.” There.

  They crossed the grease-stained cement floor, skirting around a pallet with a discarded boiler and HVAC apparatus. Lawn care equipment and yard decorations sat along one wall. In the center of the wall, between racks of tools, the door awaited them.

  “Esconde te.” Hide. Zach pointed to a hidden and secluded spot.

  He waited until Amalia crammed her body into the hiding place, and then motioned for silence. She nodded again.

  With both hands, he strained to lift the steel bar. Muscles tensed at the weight of the metal, but Zach set it down against the wall without making a sound. Man, is that thing ever heavy. It must weigh over sixty pounds. Closer to seventy. Maybe even eighty.

  He opened the door an inch and said into the opening, “WPD. Don’t move.” Then he flung open the door the rest of the way.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Garcon DePute followed Johnny Batts, guns pointing down. They ducked under the door rolling upwards, exiting the tunnel, and dashed into an indoor pool area. The room’s moist heat smacked DePute like a girl-slap, sweat immediately beading on his forehead. An indoor Olympic-sized pool spread out before him. Lights from the pool sent dancing circles of illumination onto the walls and ceiling. Arrangements of plants and a manmade waterfall in the back of the room created a jungle-like atmosphere. Lounge chairs and wicker tables formed perfect military lines besides the pool.

  A dozen armed men, smoking cigarettes and lounging at the bar near the glass wall, spotted them at once.

  Holy Ungnarly.

  DePute dodged in one direction, failing to see where Batts went. Several shots rang out, bullets whistling overhead. He scrambled behind a bar with a shiny metallic front and tucked the handgun between his belt and his lower back. He lowered the rifles from his shoulders, laying them out before him. The clips of ammo he dropped beside the guns.

  He snatched one of the rifles and jammed home a clip. More bullets pinged the metallic surface of the bar. One struck a metal pole behind him and ricocheted off with a zing.

  He raised the rifle over the bar and, aiming at the shooters, emptied the clip in three burst spreads. A strangled cry acknowledged he hit someone.

  Maybe that’ll slow ’em down.

  A dozen bullets smacked against the bar.

  Then again, this is jacked.

  He leaned to peer around the side of the bar when the lights went out.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Cora Heilo heard them first.

  Kneeling next to Whitewolf, she noticed no fresh tracks cut through the muck. She patted Whitewolf on the shoulder.

  “No one’s been through here,” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  The first storm had passed into the eastern night. A new one approached from the western sunset, flashes of lightning on the horizon. A distant rumble of thunder registere
d in her mind. Frowning, she tilted her head to listen better.

  What the … that’s not thunder. She tilted her head, listening. “Hey, listen. Helicopters. We’ve got incoming birds.”

  Whitewolf glanced up at her. “They ours?”

  “How should I know?”

  “If they’re List’s … we’re like Custer.” Whitewolf shook his head. “I don’t like this.”

  “Oh. No. No no no no …” She threw looks between Whitewolf and the direction of the house.

  “Now what?”

  “The explosives in the truck,” she said, her eyes going wide.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t interrupt.” Cora held up a hand to stop him. “I’m thinking here.”

  Whitewolf ignored her comment. “I been wondering over the amount of resistance we’ve experienced here. I expected more. Much more. So far, the resistance’s been little more than token. Almost as if—”

  The thump-thump-thump of the helicopters’ rotors drew closer.

  “Hey!”

  Cora and Whitewolf spun around, raising their weapons, only to see Chee and Iona hurrying down the driveway.

  “Get back to the gate,” Whitewolf said.

  “No, wait—” Chee began.

  “You heard the man,” Cora added.

  Iona shouted, “Will you listen to him?”

  “I heard a strange thing when we were prisoners,” Chee said. He paused and looked at each of them in turn. “One of the guards said something about some wiring’s done. The other mentioned going home tonight. I had trouble understanding their Spanish accent. But I think they mentioned fireworks.”

  “Oh my sweet mercy.” Cora held her palms against her temples. “List’s wired the house with explosives. It’s a trap. We have to warn the Chief and the others.”

  CHAPTER 25

  SUNDAY MID-AFTERNOON

  The scent of the female Skinwalker dominated the earthy odors. She had the shield and the feather, and all he had to do was take them from her dead body. With the thought of gaining ownership of the totems, jubilation coursed through his veins.

  Sounds flooded his ears—the raindrops, the thunder in the east, the cops running up the driveway, the helicopters, the rabbit scurrying away. And the witch’s ragged breathing. She stopped. So did he. Moments later, she moved like a glider. Though muted, her footsteps exposed her exact location to him.