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

by John Turney

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  Rye looked skyward. Heavy clouds rolled overhead, squelching dawn’s light. He and Manny sat with their backs against the brick grill, hidden from any inquisitive eyes in the church.

  Rye cleared his throat. “Manny, I’m gonna ask you to do something, I wish I didn’t have to.”

  “Okay.” Manny’s voice quivered. “Anything to help Mom.”

  “That’s good. Mom needs our help.” Noting the fear in Manny’s eyes, Rye mussed his hair. “I need you to take this rifle and use the scope to watch the windows. I’m going to have to cross the parking lot to get to the church. If List or his Mexican buddies glance out, I’ll be an easy target. They will attempt to kill me. I’m depending on you to have my back.” Rye held his son’s gaze. “That means … shoot to kill.”

  “You mean … I’ll get to be like a SWAT member or something?”

  Rye suppressed an emerging smile. “That’s right. I now deputize you to be the official Whiskey Police Department SWAT Captain. All that target practice we used to do is going to come in handy.”

  “I miss that … I miss you, Dad. I mean, living with Mom is cool and everything. But I miss having you around to do, you know, like guy stuff.” He laughed. “Mom tries, but she’s not very good at throwing a football.”

  “I want to be a family again. I’d really love to have that happen. But right now, we got to focus on rescuing the captives.” Rye changed his voice to command mode. “You got that, Captain?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “This here rifle is a Smith and Wesson M&P15. It holds 30 rounds. I hope you won’t need more than that.” The rifle had been in a sleeve on the Piebald’s saddle. “Can you handle this weapon?”

  Manny leveled an exasperated blank stare. “Dad, you know I can.”

  Rye set the bow and quiver next to his son. “Take care of this for me. And, Manny, one last thing.” He removed his gun from his holster and stared into his son’s eyes. He chambered a round into the gun. “I love you.”

  Using his arms and good leg, Rye rose from behind the grill and limp-ran for the ATV. Any second he expected to hear a shot ring out and feel hot lead smack into his body. Each puddle felt like muck grabbing his ankles. The splashes sounded too loud in his ears. Like a herd of mustangs. The closer he came to the ATV, the further away it seemed.

  Then he reached it and lowered himself to the pavement. Breath came in ragged gasps. He peered into every church window, one at a time, studying each for any untoward movements. He saw nothing suspicious. Did I make it without being noticed? He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. One last quick dash, and he’d be inside the building.

  Stay alive, Dee. No matter what you have to do. Stay alive.

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  Manny sighted down the rifle barrel, searching from window to window. Closed blinds hung in each, except for the stained glass in the white clapboard section. Manny decided to ignore those windows, unless one of the lower panes opened.

  He breathed a sigh of relief when his dad reached the ATV. Moments later, he watched his dad disappear inside the building.

  “Oh, God, protect my mom and dad. I don’t want to lose them.” He pointed the rifle at another window.

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  Inside the church, Rye leaned against the wall beside the side door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the thicker darkness. It didn’t take a forensic genius to tell, by the destruction of the doorjamb at the strike plate, that the side door had been forced open. List and his cronies were here. The building smelled closed up, the air, stale. An air conditioner hummed, struggling to maintain the inside temperature to what felt like 80 degrees. He heard no other sound. He clenched the P226, ready to use it.

  In one direction, the hallway went about fifteen feet to three stairs that led to a closed door at the top landing. Rye tiptoed that way. On the top step, he tried the door. Locked. He peered through the window in the door. It led to the sanctuary. A tiny platform. A piano. An altar railing separated the stage from twenty-five or so rows of hard wooden benches. No one’s there.

  He eased back down the hallway and passed the side entrance. Five steps further, an alcove intersected with the corridor. He stopped, hugging the wall. Signs indicated the restrooms were located in the recess. He risked a quick glance. No one. With head cocked, he strained to listen. Seconds ticked away. Hearing only the wind whistling through an unlocked window, he figured the restrooms were empty. The hallway ended in several steps at another doorway. He tried the doorknob …

  Whistling came from the men’s restroom.

  I gotta take this guy out. Can’t have him coming up behind me.

  In the alcove to the bathrooms, Rye stopped outside the men’s. Gun in hand, he eased open the door. A sink cabinet. A urinal. And a restroom partition hiding the toilet. A sheet of plastic held up with duct tape covered the broken window. The man stood at the urinal. In two steps, Rye stood behind him.

  “¿Quién está alli?” the man asked. Who’s there?

  Rye pressed the barrel of the gun into the small of the man’s back. “Make a wrong move, and I’ll blow away your lower spinal cord.”

  The man’s water stopped flowing. “No hablo Inglés, señor.”

  “You better learn fast.” Rye pressed the gun harder into the man’s back. Spotting the shape of a handgun under the man’s shirt, Rye took the weapon, slipping it into his own waistband. “How many hombres are there?”

  “Just me and a friend. We’re landscapers.”

  Rye slammed the handle of his handgun into the man’s kidneys. He groaned and almost went down.

  “That’s your last wrong answer! ¿Comprende?” When the man didn’t answer, Rye shoved the gun barrel into the man’s back. “That’s my wife in there. Mi espousa. I’m one pissed off hombre, and I’ll kill you in a heartbeat. We got an understanding?”

  “Si, señor. An understanding. But after this is over. I come back for you.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Now how many men are with you?”

  “Seis. Plus Señors List and Amo.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Contesta,” Rye snarled. Answer me. He jammed the handgun into the small of his prisoner’s back.

  “Taking a leak.”

  “I mean, what are you doing here at the church?”

  The man waited for several long seconds before answering. “We wait for trucks.”

  “What trucks?”

  The man laughed. “You think you destroyed all our merchandize at List’s house? Nada. That was just—how you say—the iceberg tip.”

  With sudden clarity, it all made sense to Rye. The fandango at List’s residence was only part of the shipment. List trafficked drugs and guns back and forth across the border. But he never put all his pills and bullets in one basket. The shipment they stopped last night would have been flown in under the cover of a stormy night. The rest would be trucked over the border. Chances are, both shipments would not fail to cross. List might be a crook, but he was a clever one.

  “Don’t move,” Rye said with a growl. He glanced down at the cabinet below the sink. Without removing the gun from the man’s back, Rye reached over and swung open the cabinet door. Cleaning supplies, toilet paper, garbage bags … yes! A couple rolls of duct tape among some sponges in a bucket. Maybe Dee was right after all, and there really was a God in heaven.

  He snatched up the tape.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” Rye commanded.

  “At least let me tuck myself back into my pants.”

  “Better yet, drop them drawers. Remember, no false moves.”

  “How can I forget with your gun in my back?” the man snapped, letting his pants fall around his ankles.

  “See, your English is improving already.”

  The man put his hands behind his back. Rye wrapped the tape around his wrists several times and secured a piece over the man’s mouth. Then he b
ound the prisoner’s ankles making sure to include the hairy legs. That’ll hurt coming off. Rye turned him around to face the door and taped the prisoner’s arms to the urinal’s plumbing.

  Bending over and not taking his eyes off his prisoner, Rye searched his pockets. The guy carried some loose change, a well-worn wallet, and a cell phone.

  “I’m going to borrow the phone.” He held it in front of the man. “Don’t go anywhere,” Rye said. “I’ll be back.”

  Rye peeked out the door. One down. Stepping out the bathroom, he pushed three numbers on the cell.

  “911. What’s your emergency?”

  “Gabs, this is Rye.” She started to say something. “Don’t interrupt, I just have a second. I’m at the Whiskey Baptist church. Send backup ASAP.” He hung up.

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  Rye glanced through the window of the door that led to the dining area. What did churches call this room? Fellowship Halls. By the dim light leaking through the outside windows, he spotted several folding tables lining the wall like ordered soldiers. Chairs were packed into some kind of cart. Falling ice cubes clunked in an icemaker he couldn’t see. A Coke machine had been unplugged from the wall and angled as if someone was doing repairs and hadn’t finished.

  Telling evidence of non-church activity lay with the empty bags of junk food and beer cans that littered the floor in a circle of chairs. The rubbish bothered Rye. Church people wouldn’t leave their room trashed like this. Especially the beer cans. Someone’s been naughty.

  At the far end of the dining room, another door beckoned.

  He opened the door and stepped into the dining area. Muffled talking came from the direction of the other egress.

  Rye hurried across the dining area to the far door. This led down another unlit hallway which dead-ended at a door with “Music Department” stenciled on its frosted window.

  Suddenly, a scream came out of nowhere that sent shivers down his spine.

  Dee!

  Rye never expected this. But, he figured, with Dee involved, unexpected things just happen.

  From the last room, an angry shout followed the crash of falling drums and cymbals. Someone cursed in Spanish, then someone else in English. A fist punched the wall. He smiled. Only Dee can make a man that mad.

  Leaning against the wall, Rye pondered his best approach. How to free Dee and Sunflower? How to capture List and the others? How to keep their guns outta the warzone called northern Mexico? How to do all that … and come out alive at the other end.

  Then he remembered the supplies on the ATV.

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  “Police! Don’t anybody move.”

  Rye’s words cut through the cacophony in the music room. He stood in the doorway, holding a flash-bang for everyone to see as he aimed a P266 at List.

  “That’s right,” Rye snarled. “You move, you die.”

  Silence so overtook the room, dust bunnies could have been heard. List’s men studied him with cold eyes while the mayor sat on the piano bench. Both his hands clenched in white-knuckled fists. A dozen Latino males, decorated with various martial accouterments, lounged in chairs or on the floor. Rye could read in their eyes that they itched to reach for their weapons.

  “Can’t you just feel the love in this place?” Rye said.

  Dee and Sunflower were slumped on the floor, away from the men. Dee gave him a slight nod, and Rye understood she recognized what he held. Good. She’ll know what to do if I have to set this off.

  One of the men reached for a handgun at his waist. Rye swung the P226 in his direction, his focus drilled into the man. “You ready to die? Then do it. Hell waits for you.”

  For several long heartbeats, Rye’s focus zeroed in on the man’s hand hovering over the handgrip. Nothing else mattered. The man’s fingers twitched, began to reach for the gun, then he lowered his arm away from the weapon. Rye sighed in relief. His gaze bore into the man’s eyes, the twin pools of hate rippling there. Given a chance, the Latino would kill him without thought or regard.

  Rye heard a rustling of cloth. He swung his gun in that direction. One of List’s men had pulled a revolver and sought to bring it to play. Rye moved faster.

  Rye fired three rounds at the gunman.

  List’s man screamed, flowers of crimson appearing on his chest. He looked at his chest, then at Rye and collapsed.

  A second ticked past.

  “KILL HIM!” List yelled and pounded the keyboard with a fist.

  As one, List’s men moved for their weapons.

  Rye tossed the flash-bang in List’s direction. He dove out of the room just as several gunshots tore chunks into the closing door.

  The flash-bang exploded with a luminous burst.

  Rye pushed off the floor and limp-ran back into the music room.

  Pungent smoke choked the area.

  Men lay on the floor, stunned by the explosion.

  Their eyes leaked tears.

  Several moaned.

  In rapid fashion, Rye bound the gunmen, using duct tape to secure their wrists and ankles. The man he shot lay unmoving.

  With no means of dissipation, the cloud of smoke lingered in the room. Rye’s eyes watered as he struggled to see through the smoke. Breathing became difficult. He forced aside his desire to rush over to Dee and hold her.

  Secure the area first.

  When he reached the piano, he found the bench overturned but no Richard List. He stared out into the smoke. “Dick List, you’re under arrest. Give it up.”

  A roar came out of the fog. The mayor steamrolled into Rye, crashing him against a chair and onto the floor. His weak knee buckled and twisted. A shriek ripped from his throat.

  With one massive hand, List grabbed Rye by the front of the shirt and lifted him bodily off the floor.

  “Richard List,” Rye’s voice choked, “you have the right to—”

  “I’ll show you my rights,” List snarled and smashed Rye against a wall. “I have the right to kill anyone who interferes.”

  Rye grasped for a breath of air, but failed. With his head swirling, Rye croaked out, “… to remain silent.”

  “Listen, smartass.” List slapped Rye across the face and dropped him to the floor. Rye sucked in precious air through his ragged throat. List leaned over him and continued, “I’m going to mess you up real bad. Then I’m going to take your woman and do her right in front of you. I’ve been waiting for—”

  “That the only way you get women?”

  “I hate your sarcasm.” List slapped Rye again. “See how you like this.” He lifted Rye off the floor and shoved him into a window hard enough to crack it. Broken glass sliced his back. Rye grimaced at the warm stickiness of blood flowing down his back.

  Don’t shoot, Manny. It’s me.

  List tossed him aside like a bale of chaff.

  Got to do something. Darkness swirled to overcome him. I can’t take much more of this.

  Just then, the broken window shattered, glass shards flying inward, followed a split second later by a gunshot.

  List grunted a curse and collapsed to the floor.

  Rye forced himself to stand. Red spread from List’s shoulder, soaking his shirt, and pooling on the floor.

  Rye muttered a faint, “Thanks, son. Good shooting.”

  Using the overturned piano bench, List rose to his feet. His good hand clenched his wounded shoulder. Blood leaked from the wound and around the fingers.

  “I’ve been shot!” he yelled. “I can’t move my fingers.”

  “Too bad.” Rye grabbed List by the wounded arm, and struck him hard above the chest with the flat of his other hand, fingers grabbing a handful of shirt. Yanking forward, Rye swept List’s leg out from under him. His knee again exploded in anguish. When the big man fell, Rye rode him to the floor. List crashed, face first, into the hardwood, his nose popping with a loud snap. Rye, on top, punched the man several times in the kidneys.

  “Rye,” Dee called. When he looked up, she tossed him the roll of
duct tape.

  In swift motions, he bound List’s feet and hands. “I guess this means you won’t be sending me any Christmas cards this year.”

  “My nose is broken,” List cried into the growing circle of blood.

  “Stay down,” Rye said, “or that won’t be the last thing that gets broken.”

  “Rye?”

  He peered upwards to see Dee offering him a hand up. She wiggled her fingers. He took her hand and rose on one leg as she pulled. He drew her into his arms and stroked her hair. Whispering soothing words in her ear, he closed eyes already welling with tears.

  Click!

  Rye’ eyes snapped open at the chambering of a pistol.

  “You forget me, amigo?” Demonio stood in the doorway. Rye stared down the barrel of a very large handgun held by a very ugly Skinwalker.

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  Rye loosened his grip on Dee and eased her behind him. His throbbing knee forced him to hobble on one leg. Demonio glared at them through the empty sockets of the wolf-head. Yet, Rye could not remove his gaze from the gun barrel pointing at his chest. At this range, a round of that caliber would go through me and hit Dee.

  “You are one persistent hombre,” Demonio said, his voice tone-dead.

  “And you’re one ugly effing wolf.” Rye spotted the leather shield worn on the wolfman’s arm and the feather stuck in the wolf’s fur. From the museum.

  “Ahhh, Chief Dawlsen, don’t be crude. Okay?” Demonio Amo stepped into the room and held up a radio. “My trucks are almost here. I will kill you and the women when we leave. That’s your penalty for all the trouble you cause me.”

  “Let the women go, they have nothing to do with this.”

  “How noble.” Demonio laughed. “First I shoot squaw. Then your wife. But you … I kill you not right away. No, I make you hurt. Now call in your man that’s outside. Him I kill first.”

  No, not Manny! Think, Dawlsen, stall him.

  “You’ll not reach the border. FBI has helicopters swarming this area. You might kill me, but they’ll get you.”