A voice said: “Easy now, keep your hands visible. We’ve got three weapons on you, so don’t do anything stupid.”
Morwood froze. He could see the tiny red dots of laser sights playing on their chests.
“Keep your hands well away from those guns, Sheriff.”
“Yes, sir,” said Watts.
Now a tall man strolled out of the darkness, halfway between the two lights. He wore a duster and cowboy hat and carried a rifle and sidearm. When he reached the middle of the street, between the newcomers and the activity at the far end of town, he stopped. Morwood stared at him. Something about the man was familiar, although the voice was not. Two other figures partially emerged from the shadows on either side, rifles aimed, flashlights in hand. When one of the lights briefly flickered across the first man’s face, Morwood suddenly realized who it was.
The man wearing the duster was the MP in the hospital video.
“All right now, gentlemen,” the man said in a laconic drawl. “Sheriff, you first. Just ease out those two six-guns from their holsters, slow as molasses, just two fingers on each. Hold them out arms-length and let them fall to the ground. You understand me, pardner?”
“Yes, sir.”
With just thumb and forefinger, moving with great slowness, Watts crossed his left arm over the right, plucked the two
revolvers from their holsters, and held them out, dangling.
“Now drop them.”
“Drop and roll left,” Watts murmured to Morwood out of the corner of his mouth.
Morwood tensed.
“I said drop them, pardner.”
Watts began to release the guns, but then—with a lightning-fast flick of both wrists—caught them and brought them back up, firing in two directions simultaneously, elbows tucked in. He struck both men on either side, sending them spinning into the dirt. Watts broke left and rolled, even as the man in the duster raised his rifle to fire. Morwood followed the sheriff, pulling his Glock as he rolled and fired at the man still standing.
But Morwood missed, and the man in the duster got off a shot that hit him in the right hand. It was like being clobbered with a bat, his gun spinning away. Dazed, in the dust, Morwood could hear more shots and shouting, and he felt himself grabbed and violently dragged into a small ruin. There was more shooting and the dull thud of rounds striking the adobe walls.
Watts crouched down over him, holding Morwood’s gun.
“Damned good shooting,” Morwood managed to say.
“You’re hit,” said Watts.
“Yeah.”
Watts was already tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt, which he used to bind up Morwood’s hand. By now the FBI agent’s head was clearing and the shock of the injury was turning into pain. Which, in its own way, was good. “Give me that gun. I can still shoot with my left hand,” he said.
“Damn glad of that,” said Watts.
“I just can’t hit anything,” Morwood said. There was an eruption of more gunfire, bullets whining overhead or smacking into the wall. Judging from the places where the rounds were hitting, they were pinned down in cross fire. Then came a sudden, concentrated sound of shots, not directed at them—followed by the hissing of tires and the sound of a vehicle horn, quickly silenced: the men had found their vehicle and neutralized it.
“How many?” Morwood asked.
“I’d guess half a dozen. Not counting the two guys I shot.”
Morwood grunted.
“I’ve got twenty-four rounds of ammo in my belt plus six in the cylinders,” said Watts. “You?”
“Fifteen.” Morwood took a deep breath, keeping his mind off the pain. “We’ve got to scope out their cover, locations, and fields of fire. That means putting our heads up.”
“Right.”
“Some of them have rifles,” Morwood said.
“Yeah. That’s going to be tough.”
Another fusillade of rounds slammed into the walls around them.
“Here’s what we do,” said Morwood. “We both rise and engage in suppressing fire just long enough to see what’s what. Fast, less than a second.”
“Understood.”
“On three.” Morwood counted, and they popped up, firing furiously, then dropped back down. Another monster fusillade followed in response.
“Don’t know about you,” Watts said, “but what I saw is, they’ve got good cover all around, clear fields of fire, we’re surrounded, and they’re advancing.”
Morwood grunted again.
“I’d say we’re fucked,” Watts said.
Morwood closed his eyes, mastered the pain as best he could, then reopened them. “I was thinking the same thing.” He took a deep breath, let it out. He had to focus.
“Maybe,” Watts said, “we should be shaking hands and wishing each other goodbye, like they do in the Westerns.”
Morwood grimaced. “Not yet.”
53
NOW THAT THE treasure—and its location—seemed a reality, Corrie knew that sleep was going to be almost impossible for a third night in a row. There was a chance, of course, that the treasure was gone, someone having found it years ago. But she doubted it—a treasure like that would be hard to keep secret, especially on a missile range. Sixty-two mule loads. A mule, according to Nora, could carry about a hundred-and-fifty pounds max, so one-fifty times sixty-two equaled over nine thousand pounds of treasure. Not anywhere near the sixty tons of legend, but the historic and artistic value alone would be immense. Tomorrow, she thought with satisfaction, it would all be over: there would be an immediate, public, and official search, and the treasure would be found and secured. And the general, if he was involved, would be shit out of luck.
Her cell phone rang. Nora was on the other end.
“Corrie?”
“Hi, what’s up?”
“I’ve made a discovery that changes … changes everything. You’ve got to come over.”
“What?”
Nora sounded almost tense. “The phone isn’t good, just like you said. We have to do this in person. You’ve got to come by my place in Santa Fe.”
“It’s eleven o’clock. It can’t wait till morning?”
“Please come. And bring the parchment. I’ve got to go now.”
And she hung up.
Corrie put down her phone. That was a strange call, for sure. What could she have found? It must’ve really upset her, judging from the tone of Nora’s voice. But then, her own voice probably sounded the same way, under the circumstances.
Corrie opened the safe and took out the evidence envelope containing the two pieces of parchment. She glanced at her service weapon, remembered Morwood’s lectures that carrying it always should be second nature, and holstered it. She went to her car for the drive to Santa Fe.
*
Nora’s condo was on Galisteo Street, just south of Paseo de Peralta. Her car was in the driveway and the lights were on, curtains drawn. Corrie parked behind Nora’s car, went to the door, and knocked, holding the envelope.
“Come in,” Nora called. “Door’s unlocked.”
Corrie entered and immediately felt herself seized and immobilized in a hammerlock. She struggled, trying to scream, and was hit hard against the side of the head.
“Get her weapon,” someone said.
She was disarmed with great efficiency, her purse and ID taken, her wrists handcuffed behind her back, and she was shoved, half-stunned, from the hall into the living room.
There was Nora, taped to a chair. Lying on the floor was Skip, hands cuffed behind his back, face bloody. There were a handful of soldiers in the room, along with Lieutenant Woodbridge and General McGurk. One soldier had an M16 pressed to the back of Skip’s head.
Without a word, the general tore open the envelope and removed the two pieces of parchment, looked at them, shoved them back in, and handed them to Woodbridge.
“He was going to kill my brother,” Nora sobbed. “I’m so sorry, he was pointing that gun at Skip’s—”
A soldi
er smacked her across the face. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Where’s the translation?” the general asked.
Corrie stared at him. His calm control frightened her more than anything else. She realized that he hadn’t just tapped her phone—he must also have bugged her apartment. What exactly had they said and not said? Had they spoken the name of the Mockingbird Butte? She wracked her brains, trying to remember.
“I don’t have it,” she replied.
The general considered this a moment. He looked at Corrie. “But you know where the treasure’s hidden.”
Corrie didn’t answer. The general made a gesture, and the soldier with the M16 to Skip’s head gave him a jab with it.
“Your last chance to answer.”
“Yes,” said Corrie. “We know where it is.” Despite everything, her initial panic was being replaced by a feeling of scorching clarity. The bastard wasn’t going to get away with this.
“If you kill him,” she said calmly, “you’ll never, ever get the information you want from us. You’ll have to translate that old Spanish document on your own, and, believe me, it won’t be easy. It will require experts. Experts have questions. And they don’t know the desert like Nora does. But if you let him live, we’ll tell you where the treasure is.”
The general gazed at her. “Tell me? No, thank you. You’ll lead me to it.”
Corrie returned the stare. “And then?”
A long silence ensued, and then the general said, “You’re a cool little bitch, considering the circumstances. We’re not going to kill anybody if you cooperate. If the treasure’s where you say it is, you’ll be fine.”
Bullshit, thought Corrie.
McGurk turned to Woodbridge. “Lieutenant, call in the transportation.”
She got on the radio, and three jeeps soon pulled up. Everyone got in, and they drove south out of town a few miles on I-25, to the U.S. Army Reserve National Guard base. A helicopter was waiting on the tarmac. All three hostages were silenced with gags and tape; the soldiers pushed them into seats, and the chopper took off into the velvet night.
54
HUNKERED DOWN AGAINST the wall, Morwood struggled to forget about the pain. The cloth wrapped around his hand was already soaked with blood.
Watts had been keeping the shooters at bay by shifting back and forth behind the wall and popping up at unpredictable intervals to fire a round. The idea was to keep them behind cover, making it difficult for them to advance. But the strategy could last only so long, and meanwhile it was depleting their ammo.
There came a lull in the firing, and then a voice called out. “Sheriff ?”
Morwood was startled. That was a voice he recognized: Fountain. He could see the shock in Watts’s face.
“Sheriff ? It’s Charles Fountain.”
“I know who it is,” said Watts. “And you’re a goddamned lying son of a bitch.”
“It would be foolish to deny such an obvious statement,” said Fountain. “But more to the point: You’re in a heap of trouble. Maybe I can help you get out of it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’d hate to have to kill you, Homer. Let’s talk.”
Watts was about to reply, but Morwood touched his arm and said, in a low voice: “Keep him talking.”
After a hesitation, Watts nodded. He turned and yelled, “So talk.”
“You don’t have to die. We can work something out.”
“Like what?”
“A share in the spoils. We could use a county sheriff on our payroll.”
“Spoils? You mean like the Victorio Peak treasure?”
At this Fountain chuckled. “No need to play games with me, Sheriff. We don’t bother with fairy-tale treasures. We go for the real stuff. And I mean real.”
“Like what? Something up here?”
“Oh yes, something here. Something of tremendous value—our research is crystal clear on that. Now: Would you like to join us?”
“What about my partner?”
“We could use an FBI agent as well.”
Morwood doubted this. They might think they could turn a county sheriff, but not an FBI agent. They were going to kill him, of course, as soon as they could. And likely Watts, too.
“So what’s in it for me?” Watts asked.
“A lot more than your crappy county salary.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Toss your guns over the wall and come out of there with your hands up. We’ll treat you real nice. We’ll find what we’re looking for very soon. You’ll get your fair share, I promise.”
Your fair share of a bullet between the eyes, thought Morwood. He and Watts exchanged glances, which told him Watts wasn’t taken in, either.
“What do you say?” Fountain pressed.
“Tell me more about this thing you hope to find,” Watts asked.
“Enough talk. I’ll give you sixty seconds to make up your mind to join us—or you’re dead. Starting now.”
Watts leaned in to Morwood. “You know they’re going to kill us,” he said.
Morwood nodded.
“Thirty seconds!”
“My only thought is we rush them and take as many of the bastards out as we can,” Morwood said.
“You mean like Butch Cassidy?”
“Ten seconds!”
Watts swore under his breath, popped up, and fired in the direction of the voice. He was back down just before the guns roared all around them.
“You lost your chance, Watts!” called Fountain. “You and your family always were a bunch of self-satisfied prigs! Hear those crows? They’re going to be pecking out your eyes like maraschino cherries.”
Morwood looked at Watts. “What about it? If we rush Fountain together, we’ll get him, at least.”
Watts shook his head. “Let me give this a think.”
55
THE HELICOPTER THUDDED through the night. They were flying south: Nora could see the glowing thread of towns along the Rio Grande, a wandering ribbon of light in the darkness of the desert. They passed to the east of what Nora assumed was Socorro and headed toward the vast well of blackness that made up the White Sands Missile Range. Woodbridge was the pilot, and the general sat next to her in the copilot’s seat, while the three of them were jammed together with three armed soldiers in canvas jump seats behind.
Nora glanced over at Skip. He returned her gaze, his eyes filled with apprehension. They had broken his nose, and blood was crusting all over it and down his shirt. Corrie, on the other hand, kept her expression carefully neutral. The soldiers were alert. It was clear from their shining, eager faces that they were anticipating a big payday. And Lieutenant Woodbridge, piloting the chopper, was chilling in her efficiency and competence.
The general, Nora thought, had chosen his people well. A small, elite group, handpicked for a very secret, very unusual assignment.
Leaving the Rio Grande behind, the chopper followed the backbone of the Oscura mountains. As it came over their crest, she could see an illuminated landing zone on the desert floor. The helicopter circled and came in to land on an asphalt pad near two heavy, canvas-covered trucks. A single crew member stood on the pad, gesturing the chopper in. A moment later they had settled, the rotors thudding down. The general got out and the soldiers followed, yanking the three by their cuffs and marching them out beyond the rotor wash.
“Line up there,” said a soldier, pushing them alongside one of the trucks.
The soldiers stepped back, and the general came forward. Woodbridge exited the chopper and joined the general.
“Remove the gags and restraints,” said the general.
The tape over their mouths and bindings were removed.
“You realize that—” Corrie began, but Woodbridge quickly stepped up and slapped her hard across the face.
“You will speak when asked a question, and at no other time,” the general said. “Consider that we’re in the middle of the largest military reservation in the country—three thousand, two hu
ndred square miles. This area is uninhabited, closed, surveilled, and patrolled. I am the commander in charge, and I have a thousand personnel at my beck and call. In preparation for this evening, I have ordered an MQ-9 Reaper and an RQ-7 Shadow drone, along with their support platoons, to be ready on the flight line at a moment’s notice. As you can see, cooperation is your only choice. Fail to cooperate, and you will be terminated. Is that understood?”
No one said anything. The general said calmly, “When I do ask a question, I want a yes sir or no sir out of each one of you. Or there will be consequences. Now, do you understand? Dr. Kelly?”
Nora hesitated, and Woodbridge struck her across the face so hard she staggered.
“Yes, sir,” said Corrie and Skip.
Nora gasped, trying to collect herself from the blow, face burning, tears springing into her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now let us begin by your telling me the name of the peak in the Oscura range where the treasure is located.”
Silence fell.
The general said, “I will ask the question again, and if I don’t get an immediate and correct answer, Lieutenant Woodbridge will fire a round into that individual’s head.” He pointed to Skip.
“Once you shoot him,” said Corrie, “you’ll lose all leverage with us, and you know it.”
The general looked at her. “You’re right.” He made a gesture, and a soldier stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into Skip’s solar plexus, dropping him to the ground with a gasp of pain.
“Wait,” said Nora. “Corrie?” She stared at the FBI agent. “We’re going to cooperate.” She turned back to the general. “Mockingbird Butte.”
Corrie said nothing.
The general smiled. The soldier who had hit Skip now helped him to his feet. He was clutching his stomach and gasping.
“Mockingbird Butte,” the general repeated. His eyes glittered. “Such an insignificant little hill. Who would have guessed? Let’s go.”
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 28