by Tom Abrahams
Pico had walked farther west than needed so he could approach from the south and east, as if he’d limped in from Rising Star. Two blocks east of Walnut, he’d rolled around in the dirt and ripped his shirt at the collar and along one of the shoulder seams. He pulled at his cracked lips with his fingers, aggravating the hairline splits in the skin to produce thin tendrils of blood around his mouth. He favored his right leg, which was actually bruised, and held out his arms.
“It’s me,” he croaked, “Salomon Pico.” He waved his hands as he held them high. It’s me. Don’t shoot.” He limped another half dozen steps and dropped to his knees.
Cyrus Skinner flicked a cigarette to the street and walked towards Pico. “Put down your guns,” he said, motioning with his head toward Pico. “He’s one of ours.”
“You got water?” Pico asked, looking up at Skinner when the captain neared. “I need some water.”
“Bring me a canteen,” Skinner called over his shoulder. “Pico here needs some water.” Skinner squatted down onto the toes of his boots, resting his forearms on his thighs. He squinted and held Pico’s gaze.
Pico blinked first but kept his eyes on Skinner. He knew this was a test. Skinner was trying to read him.
“So,” Skinner said and peppered Pico with questions. “What happened? Where is everybody? Didn’t you leave with Rudabaugh? Did you ever see Queho?”
Pico swallowed hard. He was about to speak when a grunt appeared over Skinner’s shoulder, holding out the canteen so the captain could grab it.
“Hand it to him,” Skinner said, his eyes still trained on Pico. “I ain’t the one who’s thirsty.”
The grunt reached across Skinner’s shoulder and stretched the canteen to Pico as if he might bite. Pico took it, flipped the cap with his thumb, and chugged the warm water.
“Whoa,” Skinner cautioned. “You drink too fast, you’re gonna make yourself sick. We wouldn’t want that.”
Pico slugged back another swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed the canteen back to the grunt. Skinner motioned with his head for the grunt to go back and join the others. He did.
“So you were about to tell me what happened to my men?”
Pico was matter of fact. “They’re dead.”
“All of ’em?”
Pico nodded. “All of ’em. I couldn’t tell you the number. They’re all dead.”
“How do you know that, seein’ as how you got yourself back here without a scratch?”
Pico’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but I’m hurt. I barely made it out of that…hell.”
“That so?”
Pico smoothed his mustache and swallowed. “Yeah, that’s so. I nearly died. Took everything in me to get back here to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“He’s coming for us,” Pico said. “Mad Max. He’s coming. He wants the boy.”
“What boy?”
“That redheaded woman. Her boy. He’s coming to get him.”
“That so?”
Pico nodded.
Skinner leaned in, his face inches from Pico’s. “How do you know that? I mean, if you was running for your life. If you nearly died and everyone else did, how would you know what his plans are?”
“I heard him,” said Pico. “I was playing dead. He was only a few feet from me. I heard him talking to the woman. They said they was coming here.”
“They ain’t gonna find him. He’s gonna be headed to the Jones.” Skinner licked his teeth. “Tell me how everybody died.”
Pico shook his head. “I don’t know. I know there was a lot of gunfire. There were booby traps everywhere.”
“So you were with Rud, right?”
Pico nodded and wiped the sweat beaded on his forehead.
“You survived the booby traps and gunshots,” said Skinner, his voice low like an idling engine. “And then what did you do until Queho got there?”
Pico searched Skinner’s face for an answer. He ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s such a blur,” he rambled. “I hid near an oak tree for what was hours, I reckon. I lost my shotgun. I was afraid of stepping into one of the traps, so I hid. Then Queho showed up. He and his men attacked, but Mad Max was ready.”
Skinner nodded slowly. “Huh.” He stood and spun on his boot heels. “I need some help over here,” he called to the grunts. “My man Pico needs some water and some food.”
Skinner turned back and offered his hand to Pico. Pico reached up and took it with both of his and heaved himself to his feet. Skinner nodded toward his men, motioning for Pico to follow him.
“Thanks.” Pico followed Skinner, favoring his left leg as he limped to the group.
Skinner walked ahead, his feet kicking up dust as he moved, then halfway to the men he stopped. He cocked his head to the side and put his right hand on the revolver at his hip.
“Pico,” he said without turning around, “tell me something.”
Pico limped another step and stopped. “Yeah?”
“How come you’re favoring the wrong leg?”
A chill ran through Pico’s slender frame. “What?”
“You was limping on your right leg when I seen you coming here,” Skinner said. His head was turned now so that Pico could see his sharp profile. “Now it’s your left.”
Pico froze. He didn’t move either leg. Skinner rapped his fingertips on the handle of his revolver.
“I shoulda known that Mad Max fella wouldn’t have found our Humvee on his own. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have figured out where I live. Ain’t that right?”
Pico tried to speak. He couldn’t find the words. There were no words.
“So then,” Skinner hissed, “seems we got ourselves a real problem.”
Gravity pulled on Pico’s legs, cementing them to the asphalt. He stopped breathing. His eyes focused on Skinner’s long, nicotine-stained fingers as they trilled atop the gun.
“Now I could let you live, Pico,” Skinner spat. “I really could. And I could pick you clean for every bit of information you got about Mad Max. That ain’t what I feel like doing.”
An involuntary shudder racked Pico’s body. Every bit of him trembled.
“’Cause I got a stinkin’ feeling you either don’t know much, or you wouldn’t tell me,” Skinner said. He was flexing his fingers above the revolver. In and out. In and out. “Any man who’d cheat on his own, find comfort with the enemy, then come back here as a traitor looking for something ain’t worth the time.”
Pico found enough control of his body to speak. “I ain’t a traitor,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I came back to tell you all about Mad Max. I can tell you everything you want to know.”
Skinner’s eyes narrowed. He snorted and then spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the street in front of him. “That so?”
“His name is Battle,” said Pico, the words pouring from his mouth as fast as he could form them with his lips. “He’s got the woman with him. They want the boy. They’re armed.”
Skinner chuckled. “Battle, huh?” He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. “Good name, I reckon. That other stuff, I coulda told you that. Ain’t no news in what you’re selling, Pico.”
Pico waved his shivering hands in protest. “I got more,” he said. His body was beginning to tire from the shivers coursing through his body, wave after wave. “Let me live and I’ll prove it. I got more.”
Skinner closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his chest filling with air. He slowly exhaled and his eyes opened. He looked at Pico, a smile worming its way across his stubbled face. “Boys,” he called to the grunts over his shoulder, “never mind the grub. Our friend Pico here ain’t gonna be needing nothing to eat.”
Pico’s vision blurred. His arms tingled from his shoulders to his fingers. Fresh beads of sweat bloomed on his forehead and on the nape of his neck, streaming into the folds of his cheeks above his mustache and down his back. A flood of nausea washed over him when Skin
ner turned to face him. The grunts coalesced into a single mob behind their captain. Pico knew he was done. His play hadn’t worked.
***
Battle was moving toward Pine and Third Streets on the western corner of the post office. He and Lola were walking south from Fourth Street, scouting the best entrance along the building’s front entrance. Along the top of the facade, the lettering read FEDER LDING ST OFFI E AND RTHOU E.
“This was more than a post office,” Battle said, surveying the brick exterior. Most of the tall narrow glass windows were intact. Those that weren’t were covered with pressed plywood boards. “It was the federal building and courthouse too, built in the 1930s. It’s more than a hundred years old. Kinda funny.”
“How’s that?” Lola’s limp was more pronounced as she worked hard to keep pace with Battle’s long stride.
“This was the place scum like the Cartel would meet their makers,” he said, nodding at the wheat-colored brick. “Figuratively, I mean. They’d find justice here. Now it’s where they store their ill-gotten arsenal. Good thing they’re not smarter.”
Lola moved a step ahead and then slowed. “How so?”
“If they were smart,” Battle said, “they’d have consolidated everything inside that building. It’s much better fortified than the hardware store across the street. That was too soft a target.”
Battle reached the corner and stepped to the building. He motioned for Lola to join him and hugged its southwestern corner to peer east toward Walnut Street. Lola tapped him on his shoulder as he inched along the southern wall step by step.
“What are you doing?” she mouthed.
“Pico should be here,” he whispered. “I’m just checking to see if there’s any action on this side before we go back and pry one of those loose plywood boards from the ground-floor window.”
Lola tapped his shoulder again. “I don’t know if that’s—”
Battle raised his hand, his arm bent ninety degrees at his elbow. His fist was tightly closed. He was at the eastern edge of the southern side of the building. He had a good look north around the corner of the building. He leaned around the brick edge and then whipped back to Lola.
“Pico’s in trouble,” he said. “Stay still. No matter what, stay hidden right here.”
Lola’s eyes popped wide. “What?”
“If things go bad,” he whispered, his eyes boring into hers, “you run. Got me? You run back to my place. You run north. You run south. Just run.”
“But—”
Battle crouched low and leveled his rifle in front of him. He inched around the corner and pulled the scope to his eye. Pico had found himself in a gunfight with no knife. It looked to Battle like a high-noon duel at thirty paces.
Pico’s back was to Battle, a dark sweat stripe running down his shirt. Opposite Pico was a tall man in a white hat. He had an incredibly thick, muscular neck with a broad chest to match. His right hand was hovering above a pistol on his hip, his legs less than shoulder width apart.
A white hat. Skinner!
Battle dropped the pack from his shoulders and lowered one knee to the ground to set himself. He drew Inspector tight against his shoulder and set his finger on the trigger, ready to apply pressure.
Skinner was talking to Pico. Pico waved his hands in front of his face and said something Battle couldn’t hear. The throng of grunts behind the white hat moved closer.
Battle took another glance at Skinner’s hand and then moved the scope along with Inspector’s barrel to the center of his target’s face, above the bridge of his nose.
“As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.”
He exhaled, let his breathing settle, and pulled the trigger. The instant Battle applied gentle pressure, the rifle’s hammer slammed against the firing pin. It struck the cartridge primer and the powder charge ignited. That explosion thrust the bullet from the muzzle. The recoil thumped the rifle deeper against Battle’s shoulder and the single round ripped through the damp early morning Texas air at a blistering twenty-nine hundred feet per second. Less than a second after Battle engaged the trigger, the 5.56 caliber shot tore past Skinner’s head, snagging the edge of his right ear as it zipped past him and struck the neck of a grunt standing twenty feet behind him.
It was that same grunt who’d seen Battle the millisecond before he fired. That grunt pointed at Battle and yelled a warning to Skinner, who shifted his weight and turned his head enough to escape the incoming volley.
The grunt sank to the ground, holding his neck as he died there in the street. Skinner found his pistol and returned fire. He quickly unloaded his six shots and yelled for the grunts to take aim at the intruder. “Get him!” he yelled, the anger contorting his face into a monstrous mask. The veins in his neck bulged and he yanked the Browning from the hands of the grunt closest to him.
Battle held his ground, picking off grunts one at a time. He worked his way from left to right.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
It was like a shooting gallery. Grunts trying to take aim and return fire, only to find themselves contorting from the impact and searing heat of the hollow-point rounds.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Another three grunts joined the macabre dance, clutching the sucking wounds and collapsing to the asphalt. Battle scanned right and then left again, searching for Skinner. He didn’t see him.
Pop! Pop!
A pair of shots whizzed past Battle, blasting the brick wall above his head. Battle found the shooter and sent a shot zipping into his chest. Battle swung back to the right. Skinner was hiding behind a pair of dead bodies. The captain was reloading.
From the edge of his vision, beyond the boundary of the scope, he saw a figure running toward him. Battle swiveled and met the approaching grunt with his rifle. He applied pressure to the trigger, picked up his head, and recognized the man as Pico. He was huffing, his cheeks full of air as he hustled to safety.
Battle waved him to the corner of the building. “Hurry! Get back there with Lola,” he called and then focused on the scope. He felt Pico brush by as he scurried for cover.
Pop! Pop!
A pair of shots missed to the right, and Battle found the spot he’d last seen Skinner hidden behind that pair of fresh corpses. There was no movement. Skinner wasn’t there.
Battle looked over the scope, searching for the barrel-chested captain. He found him retreating into the HQ with a dozen grunts. Battle quickly focused, aimed, exhaled, and pulled. He held the trigger and released a trio of shots.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The first blistered what was left of the door frame leading into the HQ, spraying a burst of wood and plaster. The second two each found marks.
One of them drilled squarely between the shoulder blades of a grunt trying to slip past the crowd collapsing into the building. He arched his back, dropped his shotgun, reached for an itch he couldn’t scratch, and fell awkwardly against the cockeyed door frame.
The second hit a posse boss in the back of the head. He was a full head shorter than the grunt next to him and without much of his brain by the time he dropped to the concrete sidewalk. His brown hat flew off as he tumbled, revealing the circular, dark red hole bored into the back of his shaved scalp.
Battle unconsciously adjusted the hat on his own head, watched the last of the Cartel disappear into the building, and hopped to his feet. He looked over his shoulder at Pico and Lola. They were crouched low, their backs pressed flat against the brick building. They were pale, their eyes filled by their enlarged pupils.
“We should go after them,” Battle said, pointing toward the tattered HQ with Inspector. He was holding it with one hand around its handguard. The magazine rattled as he shook the weapon. “They’re in one spot. We can end this now.”
Both of his companions shook their heads.
“They’re not the only ones in Abilene,” said Pico. There are so many more. This is only one group of them.”
“Sk
inner’s with them,” Battle said. “You said he’s the leader.”
“He’s a leader,” said Pico. “You kill him and another one’s gonna rise up. I told you we can’t kill them all.”
Lola pushed herself to her feet, remaining against the wall. “What about Sawyer? If you kill them, we won’t know where Sawyer is. We’ll never find him.”
“Did you find out where the kid is?” asked Battle. “Before they tried to kill you for whatever reason.”
“I don’t know where he is now,” Pico said. “But I know where he’s headed.”
Lola gasped. “Really? So he’s alive?”
“I’m guessing he’s alive,” said Pico. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be headed to the Jones.”
“The Jones?” Lola echoed.
“Yeah,” Pico said. “It’s in Lubbock.”
Battle looked over his shoulder at the bodies in the street, tracing them to the HQ’s entrance. He knew the Cartel was regrouping. In a matter of minutes, Battle knew he’d lose his advantage. He turned back to Pico. “Lubbock? That’s gotta be one hundred fifty miles from here. At least. We’re talking a three-day hike.”
“We can take the Humvee,” Lola said, “as far as the gas will take us.”
“We should take care of Skinner and those men first,” said Battle. “We leave them here, it’ll come back to haunt us. I’m telling you.”
“That’s suicidal,” Lola said. “They outnumber us four or five to one.”
“I’ve got a plan.”
Lola and Pico exchanged glances and then nodded in agreement. “Fine,” they said in unison.
“Good,” said Battle. “Let’s get ’em. Then we go get the boy.”
CHAPTER 13
JANUARY 3, 2020, 5:24 PM
SCOURGE -12 YEARS, 9 MONTHS
ALEPPO, SYRIA
The men were yelling at Battle in Arabic. He understood a couple of words and immediately regretted not springing for Rosetta Stone when so many of his fellow officers had.
He tried calming them by speaking softly, using a couple of the Arabic phrases he had learned. He didn’t move and remained standing with his hands raised above his head.