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

by John Turney

  When she turned, so did he. He raced to intersect her. He longed to breathe in the exhilarating scent of her spilt blood. The more blood the better. To watch her draw her last breath. To hear that final exhale of air. To sense her soul exiting.

  Then he’d finish off that Whiskey pig. Rage seethed through his veins at the mere thought of the man. Perhaps he’d take him back over the border. Make him suffer. Skin him slow.

  Through the undergrowth, he caught a flash of movement. The witch. Her accelerated heartbeat sounded loud in his head. He dashed across a patch of bare earth, gaining on her.

  What’s that?

  A breeze carried the scent of the car and its warm engine. Along with a taste of perfume. Dawlsen’s wife. Another opportunity presenting itself. He could barely believe his good luck.

  Take down the witch. Get the artifacts. Kill the Dawlsen woman. Then start my war. The squaw’s headed for the car. Must stop her.

  She changed course again. Demonio raced into the clearing mere seconds behind the woman. Steeling his legs, he sprang and tackled her. They fell to the wet ground together. She grunted as he slammed on top of her. He rolled off her and leapt to his feet.

  The Navajo rose to kneel on all fours, gasping for air. She turned her head towards him. Loathing oozed from her eyes.

  “You are not Diné,” she said. “You are Nakai. You desecrate my people.”

  “Screw you, Injun,” Demonio said, and kicked her in the side. Pain shot up his leg. She wears the feather. Its magic protects her.

  He spoke her name in Navajo. “I take my magic back.” He reached down but she clawed his hand. He stepped back clutching his bloody wound, and she rose to her feet. With a curse, he attacked. They traded punches in a furious exchange. She swung her claws at his face, but he blocked it and returned a solid blow to her chin. Her eyes rolled back up into her head, and she collapsed. Reaching down, he tore the shield and feather from her. Their shamanistic power coursed through his veins and charged his muscles.

  He snapped a two-inch thick dead branch from a tree. Swishing the heavy limb back and forth, he relished his newfound power.

  She watched the limb, her eyes widening. The scent of her fear overwhelmed his nostrils, and he smiled. “I will kill the Dawlsen woman and return for you. If you survive this.”

  He swung the branch like a baseball bat, enjoying the smack of wood against her skull.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Junior lurked in the undergrowth, slithering like a freshly fed viper towards the car.

  Through the foliage, he spotted the pastel color of her blouse. The faint fragrance of her perfume danced on the breezes. He loved pretty-smelling women. Not like the ones he took in Phoenix or Tucson and their cheap perfume. Heavy Mexican twenty-somethings or scrawny white runaways. Though he did enjoy beating them.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, he waited. When the pounding of arousal slowed, he eased through a wide opening in the brush. A dozen more steps, and he’d be clear of the undergrowth. He estimated three more would take him to the car.

  She turned like she sensed something, and he stopped in mid-step. Don’t move. Movement gets you noticed. She peered into the underbrush, staring directly at him but didn’t see him. Junior didn’t blink. He held his breath and ignored the trickle of sweat rolling across his cheek.

  Her gaze swept on. If she saw him, she gave no indication. Then Junior spotted her gun and the practiced way she held it. She’s prepared to shoot. Too bad she’s looking the wrong way.

  He pushed the rest of the way through the copse, making no sound, and emerged into the open. Too late, Junior realized there was a kid in the car. The twerp stared right at him.

  “MOM!” the kid screamed, pounding on the glass.

  The Dawlsen woman wheeled, but Junior swept upon her. Before she could bring the gun into play, he punched her in the mouth. She collapsed, blood pouring from her split lip. Junior stood over her a moment, gleeful he had knocked her unconscious. He ignored the kid pounding on the car window, yelling at him.

  Junior bent over to take the gun from her. As his hand started to close on the barrel, she opened her eyes to stare right into his.

  “Eat lead, Junior,” she said and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded.

  Junior screamed as the bullet tore through the GSR-blackened skin between forefinger and thumb. He raised his arm to see half his hand was gone. The shock kept the pain at bay. He flung out a string of curses.

  The Dawlsen woman let loose with a feral yell. He glimpsed her swinging the weapon a moment before it caught him on the cheekbone.

  Stars exploded in his skull. He staggered backwards. Touching his good hand up to his cheek, he found the wound already swelling. A sticky wetness covered his fingers. He stared at the crimson dripping from his fingertips. His mouth formed a snarl.

  The Dawlsen woman moved backwards, keeping a firm grasp on the gun.

  Junior stumbled after her, intent in stripping the gun from her.

  “Mister.”

  The kid’s voice came from right behind him.

  “No!” screamed the woman, “Run, Manny!”

  Junior spun and saw the kid just a few steps away. He pounced on the boy, seizing his thin shoulders. Pain shot through his wounded hand. The kid went limp. Junior lost his hold at the sudden dead weight.

  Junior cursed and cradled his damaged hand.

  Lying on his back, the boy drew a leg towards his chest then lashed out. The foot caught Junior in his groin. Shock engulfed him. Anguish paralyzed him. Then he heard a gun blast the same moment a hot searing spasm struck him in the back.

  Junior remembered spinning and falling. Then blackness.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Gunfire roared in the hallway. Rye dropped to the floor. Bullets smacked the wall above him. Dry wall and splinters rained upon him. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung like a heavy cloud. Rye’s senses tunneled down the hallway.

  “Police!” he shouted. “Put down your weapons.”

  Another round of automatic gunfire answered his request. Rye spotted movement down the hall and fired several shots, spent shells pinging off the wall.

  Silence. Except for the ringing in his ears.

  “I’m hit,” said Tex through clenched teeth. Rye glanced his way and saw blood soaking the man’s shirt at the shoulder. “Can’t move my arm. Hurts like a son …”

  “Shhh,” said Oakmann, kneeling besides him, her hand pressed against the wound. Tears moistened her eyes.

  Rye heard a distant rumble, one he’d recognize anywhere. Copters. Several. He rubbed a knuckle across his lips.

  “Watch the hallway,” Rye told Oakmann. They switched places as Rye knelt next to the wounded man. “Anyone got a knife? List took mine.”

  She fetched a Schrade knife from her pocket and handed it to him. Rye cut open Tex’s shirt at the wound. The bullet had left a deep furrow across his outer shoulder. Bloody and painful, but not fatal if the vic didn’t bleed out. Fortunately for Tex, the bleeding had slowed, only oozing from the wound. Dangerous enough if not taken care of.

  “Oakmann,” Rye said, “hurry over here. I need some material to make a dressing. His bleeding’s slowed, but I need to staunch the blood loss.”

  Keeping an eye on the hallway, she backed towards Rye. He pulled her shirttail out.

  “Hey,” she complained.

  Rye sliced off two widths from her shirt.

  “Nice abs,” he said.

  “Dawlsen, you’re such a pig,” she said.

  “I’ve been told that.”

  He finished bandaging the wound. It wasn’t pretty, and it’d need to be redressed soon. However, for the immediate time, it’d do the job.

  “Thanks,” mumbled Tex.

  Rye helped him to his feet. “No problem. Tex, were you in the service?”

  “Yep. The Corp. Hoo-Rah.” Tex held his injured arm close to his body.

  “Oakmann?”

  “Army Ranger,” she said over
her shoulder.

  Drawing out his words with a suspicious tone, Rye asked, “Does the actions of List’s men strike you as a familiar tactic?”

  Tex studied Rye for several seconds. “As a matter of fact, it does. We used similar methods to extract troops out of a hot zone.” Understanding spread across his countenance. “Y’all might be on to something there, Dawlsen.”

  “So. List is abandoning his house?” said Oakmann. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree,” Rye told them. “But I can’t shake the feeling that List and his men aren’t fighting to keep us out.”

  “They’re fighting to keep us in,” added Tex.

  “Whatever. We got copters coming in,” said Oakmann.

  Rye said, “We don’t have much time. Once List leaves the state, it becomes an FBI case. And if he flees to Mexico …” He left the implication unspoken.

  Rye and Oakmann proceeded down the darkened hallway, pistols held in front of them. Rye fired a glance over his shoulder. Tex languished behind, his gun hand hanging straight down as if the weapon weighed too much for him to lift. Rye thought the Texan looked too pale. Like he was going into shock. We need to get him medical attention. Soon.

  Rye refocused on the 8x4 opening in front of him. Any movement in the hallway, he was prepared to shoot.

  They reached the intersection where the shooter had hidden. In the small circles of light provided by their flashlights, they found a substantial pool of blood on the carpet. Blood splatter decorated the wall.

  “We got at least one of ’em,” said Rye.

  “Yeah,” said Tex with a wince. “So did they.”

  They eased down the dark hallway. Sweat beaded on Rye’s forehead and his mouth dried to where he could spit sand. This was too much like doing a building search in Iraq. The helicopters grew louder, and Rye cursed under his breath. The birds drowned out any slight noise that might warn them of the presence of List’s slimeballs.

  The hall emptied into a lounge larger than most buildings in Whiskey. The ceiling must have reached two stories in height. Western paintings, buffalo skulls, furniture with Native patterns, and pillars made of river stone radiated the aura of a wealthy cattleman. Half a dozen groupings of lights revealed the approach of the copters. The lead copter turned on a searchlight. Its beam searched the lounge.

  “Get down!” yelled Rye.

  Just then, the side door to the copter opened, and a man with a large caliber machine gun commenced firing into the lounge. For several moments, the bulletproof windows resisted the pounding of large rounds. Rye watched fractures spiderweb across the glass. A hole blew in shards of glass seconds before the window exploded under the impact. Hot lead chewed up furniture, sending up plumes of stuffing. Bullets tore holes into the walls. More glass shattered. Things fell.

  All the while, Rye heard someone screaming, then realized it was him.

  The gun stopped firing. Over ear-numbing quiet, Rye heard shattered items tumbling to the floor and the thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades. With bow in hand, he sprang to his feet and, nocking an arrow, stepped into the remains of the lounge. Someone from the copter played a searchlight about the room. Papers from shot-up magazines fluttered about in the backwash of the helicopter blades.

  Rye dodged the light until he reached the center of the room, where he had a clear shot of the helicopter through the shattered windows. He took a few moments to get in the correct stance. He calmed his breathing with a quick inhalation exercise. He pulled back on the string and aimed at the gunner.

  Everything else faded away until he saw only the figure in the open side door of the copter.

  “There,” someone in the copter yelled when the searchlight found Rye.

  “Eat this,” Rye said, and he released his fingers from the string.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  When Amalia had told Zach “niñas,” he’d never expected this.

  Zach held his flashlight by his ear as if he were going to stab someone. Within its beam, Missy sat with her unconscious sister, Mel’s head in her lap. Bloody rags wrapped the girl’s legs, arms, and torso. She appeared feverish and sipped in breaths of air. Her skin reminded him of desert sands bleached white by the sun.

  Getting Mel out of here—alive—became his number one priority. Everything else took a back seat.

  He shone the light beyond the twins. A dozen or so Latino pre-to-early teens dressed in rags, huddled in a group against the back wall, their eyes wide in fear. Just like abused kids.

  “¿Usted bueno o malo?” asked a rail-thin boy. Are you good or bad?

  “He’s good,” answered Missy. “Bueno. He’s a friend. An amigo.”

  Amalia pushed past Zach and knelt beside the wounded girl. She rubbed Mel’s forehead and shot a look at Missy. Spanish flew between the two girls like staccato automatic arms fire.

  “Hate to interrupt you two,” said Zach, sensing an urgency to get everyone to safety, “but we need to evacuate the premises.”

  “Mel shouldn’t be moved,” Missy said, sadness coloring her voice.

  “Right. But she also needs immediate medical care … in an ER. And I mean like yesterday.” He handed the flashlight to Amalia and held out his arms. “I’ll carry her. You’ll have to watch my back.”

  “I take you to road,” said Amalia. “I know way.”

  “What’s that noise?” asked Missy.

  Zach listened. “My guess: copters. I’ll take her now.” Zach scooped up the wounded girl as if she were a loose sleeping bag. He eyed Amalia. “Tell the kids to follow us. And to be quiet.”

  With everyone gathered around him, Zach balanced Mel in his arms so he could open the door.

  “Quiet,” he repeated, and the room turned to silence. He grabbed the doorknob, eased the door open a crack, and peered out. He dropped his head and eased the door closed with a foot. Taking a deep breath, he released his breath slowly. “We have to wait a minute. There’s a couple of bad guys out there.” A couple dozen to be more accurate.

  <><><><><><><><><><>

  Richard List directed the stacking of munitions on the outside patio. Every box represented more wealth in his offshore accounts. To him, they weren’t cartons carrying death; they were a means to a fortune beyond his wildest expectations. A ticket away from this sandy pit. If he never saw another cactus again, it’d be too soon.

  Mentally checking off the remaining tasks, he ordered Demonio’s men where to set the final boxes of weapons and ammo. Men ferried supplies from their storage area. Whenever someone exited the patio doors, the chlorine from his indoor pool washed over him.

  “Start a new stack,” he ordered the men dragging the latest boxes. “Over there.” He pointed.

  Richard stared up at the three-story expanse of glass. Despite the appearance of luxury oozing from every wall of the house, he never cared for it. He built the house years ago for that nag he had married. Here she had died—no loss there. And here his worthless son grew up.

  The lights went out. Curses spewed from his lips, but it was something they had planned on.

  Scattering gunfire erupted in the pool area. What the …

  A security guard rushed over to him.

  “Señior List,” the man said. “We have two of Dawlsen’s anglos penned down by the pool. They’re not going anywhere.”

  “Keep ’em there. The explosion’ll take care of them.”

  He scanned the canyon. The copters would arrive soon. He’d evacuate, then blow the place. And forget this godforsaken desert. By the time the Feds got a handle on things, evidence would point to a Mexican army base in Arizona. The thought of the fallout between the two countries brought a smile to his lips. Sweet.

  But it was none of his concern. Once he got his money, he could care less.

  Jilt arrived, looking bent out of shape three ways from Kansas. Richard’s old man used to say that, and Richard never understood what it meant. But somehow Jilt’s mood reminded him of that saying.

  “What
?” said Richard, frowning in anticipation of bad news.

  “We got trouble,” Jilt said, staring at the ground between his feet.

  “I don’t like trouble. Explain.”

  “Our electricity was cut prematurely. Dawlsen and his people have escaped the stables. I found tracks of two more possible intruders. Might be backup.” Jilt shook his head and paused.

  “Go on.” I hate the way this fool takes his time to lay out situations.

  “From reports I received, we got Dawlsen’s men out along the driveway. Probably think they’re cutting off our exit.”

  “What else?”

  “Dawlsen is now searching the house,” Jilt looked up at his boss. “I’ve posted men to engage. Slow ’em down.”

  Richard turned around, walking a few steps. He removed his hat and rubbed a hand over his stubbled haircut. He made his decision and returned the hat to its position. “Okay. Okay. None of it makes any difference. The copters are on the way. I’ll proceed with the operations here. Make life miserable for Dawlsen. And make sure he’s in the building when it blows.”

  In the distance, lightning flickered with another storm moving in. Thunder rumbled far away. Then Richard heard them, the helicopters. Their thump-thump-thump blending in with the thunder.

  Jilt marched away, signaling a group of men to follow him into the house.

  Richard yelled at the remainder, “Hurry up and get the rest of the weapons. Apresurarse.” A spate of gunfire erupted in the pool area. A bullet whined past him. “And will someone kill those two?”

  One of the communications personnel strode up to Richard and handed him a headset. “Incoming is on the line.”

  Richard snatched the device from the man and put it on. He adjusted the mic. “This is Base Chief, come in.”

  Crackly noise sounded in the ear pieces, then a voice came through the headset, “Base, this is Incoming Main. We are one minute out. Are you ready? Over.”