Hawke's Fury
Page 1
Praise for REAVIS Z. WORTHAM
and his SONNY HAWKE thrillers
“If you look for the voice of authenticity in your books like I do, you’ll swoon over Reavis Wortham. He’s Texas true, and that’s a fine thing to be.”
—C. J. Box
“There’s a term we use in the West, the genuine article, and those words fit Reavis Wortham to a Texas T.”
—Craig Johnson
“Think: Elmore Leonard meets James Lee Burke.”
—Jeffery Deaver
“The most riveting thriller all year!”
—John Gilstrap
“Reavis Z. Wortham had us all night. Hawke’s Target is his best work yet, filled up with some of the finest quirkily entertaining characters we’ve read to date. Entertaining isn’t the half of it. Think shades of Edward Abbey mixed with McMurtry.”
—Michael and Kathleen Gear, #1 New York Times bestselling authors
“The modern-day Western has captivated writers for years. Texas-based Reavis Wortham is one of the genre’s masters. This deeply wrought, visceral tale elevates Wortham to the level of C. J. Box and Craig Johnson, only on a deeper emotional level that makes this one of the best thrillers you’ll read this year.”
—The Providence Journal on Hawke’s Target
“This elegant thriller that reads like a modern-day Western conjures memories of gunfighters of lore, a tradition Hawke proudly holds up while riding the ranges of Texas’s Big Bend National Park . . .
Wortham hits the bull’s-eye dead center in this tale worthy of Louis L’Amour and James Lee Burke. One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year, featuring emotional landscapes as sprawling as the physical ones.”
—The Providence Sunday Journal on Hawke’s War
“Wortham writes well in describing the forbidding landscape and the difficulties of those trying to survive in it, not easy even when people aren’t trying to kill you. Readers who like action-packed thrillers that leave a lot of bodies should find Hawke’s War to their liking.”
—PCA Mystery & Detective Fiction Reading List
“This is one of those books, settings, and characters that make you want to cheer for the U.S. of A. In addition, this is also a brand-new character to star in his own brand-new series, so there’s a lot more of Hawke to go around. Add in humor, a great cast of characters, both good and bad, along with a terrific ending, and Hawke’s Prey becomes a must-read for everybody.”
—Suspense Magazine
“An intuitive, creative synthesis of contemporary politics and policy into an original plot . . . Wortham writes excellent action sequences and knows how to ratchet tension. With pitch-perfect West-Texas flavor, Wortham paints a complex picture of Ballard, providing good backstories for his large cast of characters.”
—Lone Star Literary Life on Hawke’s Prey
Also by REAVIS Z. WORTHAM
Hawke’s Target
Hawke’s War
Hawke’s Prey
The Rock Hole
Burrows
The Right Side of Wrong
Vengeance Is Mine
Dark Places
Unraveled
Gold Dust
Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Cafe
HAWKE’S FURY
A SONNY HAWKE THRILLER
REAVIS Z. WORTHAM
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 Wortham and Wortham, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4625-6
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4626-3 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4626-0 (e-book)
This one is for all the law enforcement officers,
in every branch, who put their lives
on the line each day
across this great country of ours.
Many thanks.
Chapter 1
My position overlooking a two-track pasture road cutting through the rough West Texas rangeland gave me a clear view of three late model charcoal-gray Expeditions speeding in my direction across the hot Chihuahuan desert. Thick rooster-tails of dust boiled behind the vehicles that
looked like matchbox cars from where I sat.
The late evening sun stretched across the sage and ocotillo-covered pasture in the Big Bend region of the state, fifty miles north of where we live in Ballard, Texas. Harsh and dry, the claw cactus, sage, and creosote-dotted landscape stretched into the distance.
Buzzards rode the thermals, winding high above the landscape in endless spirals. It was wide-open country, once home to the Jumano Indians until around 1700 when the Apaches pushed them out and held the area until they too were finally driven almost to extinction.
White thunderheads towered to 50,000 feet, supported by dark gray foundations almost resting on the ragged, thin line of the blue Davis Mountains to the northwest. I was hoping the closest storm would collapse, pushing welcoming waves of blessedly cool air across the flat valley floor.
It was hot, harsh country as addictive as cocaine to those who found beauty in the rocky, thorn-covered landscape.
Beside me, my runnin’ buddy since high school, Presidio County Sheriff Ethan Armstrong adjusted his straw hat and used a thumb to wipe a trickle of sweat from his temple. With two fingers, he smoothed a brush-pile mustache big enough to cover a good piece of his lower face and watched the rooster-tails of dust rise behind the vehicles. “Those two behind the lead car can’t be seeing a stinkin’ thing in all that dust.”
We spoke barely above a whisper. “I’d be following a little farther behind, that’s for sure.”
Directly in front of us, I could see the backs of two dark Suburbans parked facing a wide clearing where the pasture road split to flow around the rocky little ridge to our rear. Eight men dressed in baggy clothes with white bandanas around their heads were spread out in a skirmish line with their backs to us. All held automatic weapons.
“I’d be standing closer to those cars.” Ethan cut his eyes toward me and absently pulled at the tender gray leaves of a West Texas sage in full bloom. “When the shooting starts, everybody hunts a hole and I doubt thornbrush and cactus’ll be much cover.”
Trying not to move too much and attract attention, I used my hat brim to nod toward the scenario unfolding only sixty feet away. “El Norte there’ll be the first to go. Why’s he standing right out in front of the car? He’d just as well have a big red target painted on that blazer he’s wearing. I’m burning up, and the least he could do is take it off and roll up his sleeves.”
Ethan snorted. “El Norte. What kinda name is that for a cartel leader?”
“How do I know? I didn’t name the guy.” The SUVs approaching from the distance grew closer, but my attention went back to the parked Suburbans. The three more large SUVs parked off to our right sped up and raced past a dozen Angus-Hereford steers licking up soy hulls scattered on the hardpan. The dusty vehicles shot past two horses not far from the cattle, heads drooping in the heat.
When they reached the waiting vehicles, they split up, and slid to a stop like gunfighters spreading out in a dirt street. The men inside waited as the boils of dust caught up and billowed around the cars.
“Dumb move.”
Ethan nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. I’d’ve parked sideways to those guys for more cover and to get away if things go bad.”
“Bad guys aren’t usually the sharpest crayons in the box.”
The worst of the dust was gone when the doors on the new arrivals flew open. The men waiting with their backs to us tensed as armed gangsters poured out with a variety of military-style weapons in their hands.
I watched the men face off. “I still think they should be using the SUVs for cover.”
“Amateurs.” Ethan cut his eyes at me from under the brim of his hat. “I wish I had the SUV concession for all this. Somebody’s making money somewhere. Which one’s Gabe?”
I pointed at one of the men facing in our general direction. All but Gabe wore white T-shirts under unbuttoned plaid shirts. “That’s him in the priest collar who just got out of the Expedition, beside Tortuga.”
“What’s with that?”
I shrugged. “He’s getting paid.”
“Which one’s Tortuga?”
“The only guy who doesn’t have a gun in his hand.”
“He looks like somebody’s grandpa.”
Hollywood’s version of a Mexican bad guy, the squatty man with thick rolled shoulders wore a gray mustache, a loose-fitting off-white frontera guayabera shirt, and baggy khakis.
Beside him was Gabe Nakai, my dad’s ranch manager and a close friend. The hair rose on the back of my neck, watching an old buddy in the company of armed gangsters from Ojinaga, across the Rio Grande.
Ethan must have sensed how I felt. “It ain’t right, seeing him down there, is it?”
“That and the priest collar around his neck.”
“I’m still working on that one, too.” He tilted his head like a dog, as if looking at the scene from a different angle would help evaluate the situation. “That’s something else that doesn’t make sense in all this.”
“Ours is not to reason why.” Even I was surprised at my quote.
“Tennyson.”
“You did listen in Miss Adams’ English class.”
“Naw, just memorized those lines for a test, and for some reason they stuck with me.”
El Norte still had his back to us, but his voice came loud and clear, a trick of the acoustics from the horseshoe bowl of rocks surrounding our position. His hair was so black and slicked back that it looked to be oiled. The side of his whisker-stubbled face looked to be chiseled granite. “Tortuga! Did you bring my money?”
The Mexican national standing beside Gabe spread his hands. “My coke?”
El Norte flicked a command with his fingers. A gangster holding an AK-47 reached inside the open door of his SUV and withdrew a leather briefcase. He flipped the latches and dumped a pile of taped packets onto the hood. The cartel leader waved his hand toward the drugs. “As promised.”
“Who uses brand-new English leather briefcases these days? It’s backpacks, mostly, from what I’ve seen.” Ethan sighed. “This is making my head hurt.”
I pointed at the dust clouds roaring down the dirt track, directly toward the scenario unfolding at an achingly slow pace. “Who are those guys? I’ve been watching ’em coming for a good long while.”
“Don’t know. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but they’re about to make somebody down there pretty mad.”
Tortuga snapped his fingers, and one of his men appeared with still another briefcase. Holding it awkwardly in one hand, he clicked the latches and it opened, revealing the interior packed with hundred-dollar bills.
“They must have gotten a deal on briefcases at Costco.” Ethan cut his eyes to see if I’d take the bait and continue our evaluation, but I concentrated on their conversation to hear what the gangsters were saying.
“Bueno,” El Norte waved. “Make the deal.”
Trouble started when the gangster tried to close the briefcase. Losing his grip, it flipped out of his hand, dumping the contents onto the ground. White paper cut to the size of U.S. currency exploded in a cloud, fluttering like snow and revealing that the authentic bills were only a thin layer on top.
El Norte shouted and retreated for cover behind an open car door. “Mátalos!”
Kill them!
The clear crack of a single gunshot opened the ball. To a man, the cartel soldiers on both sides raised their weapons, and the world filled with automatic gunfire. I found myself looking down the muzzle of a rifle pointed at one of the gangsters standing in front of me. My skin crawled at the flashes.
The three vehicles racing toward us grew larger, and the sound of rocks and gravel under the tires became clearly audible even over the exchange of gunfire.
Reacting to the situation, Gabe grabbed Tortuga by his collar and threw him into the back seat of their SUV.
The gangster who fumbled the briefcase struggled with the rifle slung over his shoulder, fighting to bring it to bear. Half a dozen bloody explosions erupted from his
light gray and blue silk shirt. He wilted to the ground, face contorted in agony.
Men on both sides dropped like falling leaves while those who survived the initial exchange scrambled for cover. The hammering sounds of battle filled the air, echoing off the rocks and boulders behind our position.
The approaching vehicles we’d been watching rolled into the scene, sliding to a stop in one wide boil of dust. The lead car angled toward Tortuga’s parked SUV and sheared off the open driver’s door, crushing a gangster who’d taken cover there.
His yelp of terror and pain rose high and shrill, cutting through the air like a knife. Screams of shock and terror rose from dozens of men and women.
“Shit!” I charged toward the car, waving my arms. “Stop! Everybody stop!”
Ethan matched my pace, rushing past one of several movie cameras filming the scene.
“Cut!” The director James Madigan rose from under the umbrella beside his canvas chair. “Cut!” He turned to a woman holding a sheaf of papers. “Who the hell are these guys?”
Hard-looking, heavily armed Hispanic men poured from the newly arrived vehicles. Dressed in everything from torn jeans, T-shirts, track pants, and even an Adidas pullover, each one had the cold, rigid look of cartel members who killed for a living. Some faces were covered from their eyes down by tangles of tattoos; others wore bandanas like old west outlaws.
An individual stepped out of the lead Expedition’s front passenger seat and pointed at the director. The red number 1518 centered in a web of tattoos on his bare chest, he was the only one without a bandana or facial tattoos. “Eso es Madigan. Mátalo!”