Hawke's Fury

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  He’d cooled off a little “Yes. I have been there before.”

  “We getting close?”

  Fosfora spoke up. “It will not be long now.”

  “Back home we’d say it was up the road a piece.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Up the road a ways.”

  A little furrow creased her brow. “I still don’t understand.”

  “We’ll get there in a little bit.”

  Knowing I was messing with him, Alejandro cut his eyes across the cab. “You Texans speak funny.”

  “Sure ’nuff.”

  We passed a number of cars going the opposite direction, but none were either in front or behind us, at least until we came upon a military blockade. I must have seriously tensed, because Alejandro held his hand out flat, about two inches above the seat. “Easy. This is common.”

  “Not to me.”

  He rolled to a slow stop as armed soldiers with slung AR-15s spread out and surrounded the truck. A youngster wearing camouflage and a floppy boonie hat looked no older than my seventeen-year-old son fixed on me sitting there in the passenger seat with the window down. A ranking officer swaggered up to the driver’s side, his hand on the sidearm at his waist.

  “Papers.”

  Alejandro flashed his badge.

  “You are out of your jurisdiction.”

  They were speaking Spanish, but slow enough that I could work out the words, and if not the actual pronunciation, at least the meaning. Alejandro jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Fosfora. “I’m working on a case. She is a witness and we’re heading for El Cruce for her to identify a suspect.”

  “You are still out of your jurisdiction.” The officer pointed at me. “Who is this?”

  “He is my friend from Texas. He came across to buy boots, but when I needed to come here, he wanted to ride along.”

  “I want to see his passport.” He snapped his fingers to hurry me up. “Papers.”

  My pucker factor increased a thousand percent. It was back in the truck. Without papers, I was sure they’d yank me out of the cab and find the pistol tucked in the small of my back. I wondered if Mexican prisons were as bad as I’d heard.

  It was about that time that I noticed the youngster on my right squinting beyond my shoulder and into the back seat. My heart dropped. Did he see the Scorpion back there? I’d forgotten about the little machine gun and prayed Alejandro’d moved it before Fosfora got in the back.

  One more thing to worry about, an unknown woman within reaching distance of a weapon that could spray an entire magazine in about three seconds.

  The young man stepped closer, and I followed his eyes. He was definitely interested in something back there. I twisted around to see Fosfora curled up behind Alejandro’s seat.

  Her top was tighter than I remembered, and much lower across her breasts. But it was the way she was sitting that had the boy’s attention. Instead of keeping her knees together, she was sprawled back there like a guy, knees splayed. She gave the boy a wink

  The official at the driver’s window also noticed Fosfora. He and the youngster seemed to be stunned.

  Alejandro gave them a few seconds to examine the back seat before speaking. “Is this yours? I think you dropped it.” He held a folded bill between the ends of his index and middle fingers.

  It disappeared as if by magic, and the officer slipped one hand into the front pocket of his pants. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

  He straightened and waved at the men blocking the road. “Let them pass.” They kept an eye on the back seat as we passed.

  As soon as we were past the road block, Fosfora adjusted her top and closed her knees, sliding over to the middle. “El Cruce is up the road a piece.”

  Making fun of the way I speak broke the tension in the truck and it lasted almost twenty minutes, when we came up on another roadblock.

  Chapter 18

  The two-lane road cutting through the Coahuila desert made a bend and Alejandro and I spoke in stereo. “Shit.”

  A single four-door red Nissan parked perpendicularly across the road was manned by four armed men who were definitely not soldiers in the military sense. I took a quick inventory of their automatic weapons as Alejandro slowed. One of them standing at the open driver’s door wore a hooded camouflage jacket zipped up to the middle of his chest. He held an automatic weapon at the patrol carry position, with the muzzle angled downward, but ready to quickly shoulder the weapon.

  Beside him, leaning against the closed back door was a young man in a green T-shirt and a modular tactical vest bulging with magazines and a holstered semi-automatic handgun. Number Three with his rifle casually slung over one shoulder was talking to Number Four, who sat on the hood with the butt of an AK-47 resting on one thigh. He was cocky looking, and I immediately disliked him.

  This was one of those scenarios I’d heard about and dreaded because so many things could go wrong in a drastically short amount of time. “La mordida?”

  “Yes.” Alejandro’s eyes narrowed.

  “Two stops in this short time takes away what little faith I still have in your country.”

  He snorted. “The soldados was not the bite, only the cost of living here. This is real, and much more dangerous.”

  “We’re seriously outgunned.”

  “They won’t be expecting us to be prepared.”

  These guys were gangsters. You never knew what those wingnuts were thinking or what they’d do in a town or city. Out where we were, miles from other people or law enforcement officers made them particularly dangerous. I pulled the M9 from behind my back and slipped it under my right thigh. “Does everybody in this country have machine guns?”

  “Everyone but the common citizens.” He flicked a finger toward my feet. “Fosfora, lean forward slowly and hand me the Scorpion. They are waiting on us. One of the soldiers called them. Because you’re a norte-americano, he likely thinks you have much money. They may try to kidnap you.”

  “They use Sat phones?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “So pull around them and keep going.” Fosfora slipped him the weapon and pointed. “Maybe we can outrun them.”

  “No.” Alejandro absently pushed the shades up on his nose. “We don’t want to get into a running gun battle with these guys. We’ll lose.”

  I was glad we were in a truck and sitting up higher than if we’d been in a sedan. It gave us a slightly better angle and sight line. “So what’s the plan?”

  Alejandro’s eyes hardened. “I’ll offer them payment to pass. If they take it, good. If they don’t, shoot them if they make any threatening moves.”

  “A threatening move in my country is when someone points a weapon at you. Don’t shoot unless we have no other choice.”

  Alejandro’s jaw tightened. “I say we kill them all as soon as I stop. They won’t be expecting that.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re law enforcement. I can’t shoot a man just because he looks like a threat.”

  “You see that weapon pointed at us. These are rattlesnakes. You’d kill one if you came across it in your house.”

  “That’s right. We’re not in my house.”

  He slowed. “Your morality might get us killed.”

  Keeping plenty of distance between us and the red car parked across the highway, Alejandro stopped in the middle of our lane, shifted into park, and opened his door. He put one foot outside, holding the Scorpion low behind the dash in his right hand. Designed for exactly this situation, the little six-pound weapon was perfect for maneuvering in small, tight spaces. “Amigos. Let us pass please.”

  “It will cost you.” Camo Guy, the one I already didn’t like, snickered and swept his arm towards the horizon. “We own this highway, and all this as far as you can see. And if I want, I can own your camion, too.”

  Alejandro nodded, as if the man had made some profound statement. “I understand. I prefer to keep my truck. We will pay to pass. How much?”

  Confident in past
shakedowns, the other gangsters relaxed.

  “I am Oaxaca, the premier soldado for la Mujer Malvada.” Camo Guy walked closer, showing us the gold in his front teeth. “How much do you have? A man who wears such a shirt as this anglo must have plenty of money and machismo.”

  His men laughed as if the guy were a comedian. I was wishing I hadn’t worn such a bright shirt.

  “He has very little money, and I am but a poor businessman. You mis-read him. He only wears such clothing because that is all he can afford.” Alejandro reset his grip on the still hidden Scorpion. “We can give you forty dollars.”

  The guy who’d been sitting on the hood slid off like a snake and stepped to my right, getting an angle on the truck. Even though he still seemed relaxed, I didn’t like that one bit, or the AK-47 still halfway pointed at us. Lots of Mexican gangsters like that weapon. They call it cuerno de chivo, the goat’s horn, in reference to the long magazine curling from the bottom of the rifle.

  At the same time I held up both hands so he’d relax, our car rocked ever so slightly. I figured Fosfora was wriggling down behind the seat. I wondered if they’d already seen her.

  She spoke, her voice low. “I recognize that one. He is one of Mujer Malvada’s most dangerous . . .”

  “Who is Mujer Malvada, and which one are you talking about?”

  “The most evil woman you have ever heard of. Kill him first. He is a very bad man.”

  Not knowing which one she was talking about, I pasted a dumb grin on my face and waited.

  On Alejandro’s side, Camo Guy threw out a larger figure that was probably close to the annual salary of most Mexicans. Alejandro shook his head. “Be reasonable. How about fifty American dollars from my friend here?”

  The gangster didn’t change expression. “If he has that much, he has more. Let me see your other hand.”

  The guy holding the AK tucked the stock into his shoulder, holding the rifle downward at a 45-degree angle. Here was that patrol-carry position again, and it made me even more nervous, needing nothing but a quick tuck against his shoulder to open the ball.

  Heart pounding, my mouth went dry. Blood pounded in my temples and I wondered if I needed to be on blood-pressure medicine. AK Guy moved close enough that I could see his eyes were dead. There was no way to read him. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I’ve seen bad guys burn slow like that, following some kind of predatory instinct that most of us have never felt, then exploding into violence

  I worked up a swallow. He was probably getting ready to shoot. “Alejandro.” My voice was low.

  Left hand holding the door open, Alejandro caught my drift and jerked his chin toward AK Guy who took another sidestep. “Tell your friend to make this guy un-shoulder his weapon. We mean no harm. We only want to pass. We’re going to El Cruce.”

  “I want to see your other hand.” Camo Guy took note of AK’s stance and halfway shouldered the automatic weapon he was carrying. He called across the hood. “What is wrong?”

  “There is someone in the back seat.”

  Dammit. I turned to look over my right shoulder. Fosfora was sitting upright. Keeping my voice low, I slid my fingers around the butt on the pistol under my leg. “Alejandro. She says this guy’s a threat.”

  Her voice was full of fear. “Not that one. That one.”

  “Which one?” We were in the middle of a vaudeville routine and I halfway expected her to say Who was on first.

  Maintaining calm, Alejandro was still trying to talk our way through the incident. For me, I could see the train coming down the tunnel at full speed. Nerves jangling, a low humming sound filled my head.

  “Amigo,” Alejandro knew I had the pistol in my hand and held out his left hand like a traffic cop to keep the guy back so he wouldn’t see either of us was armed. “Please lower your weapons.”

  “We will when you show me both of your hands!” Camo Guy squared his stance.

  Like dogs sensing weakness, the other two brought their arms up.

  AK Guy glared at me, his look challenging.

  “Tell these guys to . . .” I searched my limited Spanish vocabulary for “back off.” “Apartate!”

  AK Guy’s wingman, the one who’d been leaning against the car when we drove up, shifted three steps to my side, spreading out for a better field of fire and to make sure we couldn’t take them all out with a full burst of automatic weapons.

  He was directly in line with our car’s right headlight. He raised his rifle.

  I thumb-cocked the double action M9. It was about to go down.

  Camo Guy’s rifle came up. “Get out!”

  I twisted to shoot through my open window at the same time two loud bangs from a few inches behind my head started the dance.

  In that same nanosecond, Alejandro’s Scorpion opened up with a ripping sound.

  Fosfora had fired through the open window, over my right shoulder. Heat roasted my numb right ear as AK’s wingman twisted sideways and collapsed against our fender, grabbing at it for support as he slid down.

  The AK-47 rose and the next thing I knew I had a sight picture down the M9. It bucked in my hand over and over until AK Guy was no longer a threat. The two on my side of the truck were down, but the guys on Alejandro’s side could easily rake the Dodge until we were all dead as yesterday.

  The air vibrated with machinegun fire as Alejandro’s stream of bullets traveled only a few feet, nearly cutting Camo Guy half in two. The man deflated as he shifted his aim and emptied the rest of the magazine into the last stunned gangster who snapped his weapon to his shoulder.

  I yanked at the door handle, rolling out. Using the door for cover, I emptied the M9’s magazine into the same gunman. Glass behind him exploded as bullets chewed the man to pieces, popping puffs of powdered paint and dust from the car’s sheet metal.

  The corpse settled onto the highway and stilled. The desert was suddenly quiet except for that buzzing still in my head, and the sound of fresh magazines slapping into our weapons. I rose and put a hand to my ringing right ear. Feeling that it was still there, I looked into the back seat to see Fosfora holding a Glock 43 that must have been in her small purse the entire time.

  She shrugged. “The one I shot raped me once, and he was about to shoot us. You were taking too long.”

  Not knowing what to say, I scanned the immediate area, then glanced upward at three buzzards already circling the sky. It’s damned odd what you notice in times like that. A white contrail high overhead told me there was still normalcy in the world, but it was insane down on the desert hardpan where we stood.

  A year earlier, shooting two men would have almost sent me into a rigor. But the Old Man once told me you do something enough times, it loses its thrill or threat or regret. I waited for the shock to hit me, but this time I felt nothing. No remorse. No let down.

  Nothing. I feared I’d finally crossed some line into a world of numbness.

  Before I could evaluate myself any further, the buzzing sound in my head made itself even more prevalent. I wondered if I was about to have a stroke before a flicker of movement in the sky caught my eye. A large, distant object receded into the distance toward a thin blue line of mountains. “Did y’all see that up there?”

  Alejandro was still concentrating on the bodies around us. “No, what?”

  The buzzing faded. “It was a drone.”

  Too late, he searched the sky. “That isn’t good. The cartels are now using drones for a number of things, including carrying drugs across the river. I’ve also heard they use them for security around their territories.”

  I studied on it for a moment. “I hate this country.”

  Chapter 19

  Yolanda knocked on Ruby Nelson’s front door. On the way to Del Rio, she and Perry Hale decided that she should do the talking, feeling that the traumatized elderly ladies would relate to her more than a strange man.

  Waiting at the bottom of the cracked concrete steps, Perry Hale slipped both hands into the pockets of his jeans. Aft
er what had happened at the house earlier, he was surprised that there were no police cars out front or news-crew vans for that matter.

  The handle finally rattled and a soft voice came from the other side. “Who is it?”

  “Miss Nelson? My name is Yolanda Rodriguez. You talked to a Texas Ranger this morning named Sonny Hawke. He sent us.”

  The door opened and Mrs. Ruby Nelson’s wrinkled, smiling face appeared in the crack. “We sure did. He was a nice man.” She paused when Perry Hale moved into view. “Who’s that?”

  “My partner, Perry Hale. He’s friends with Ranger Hawke.”

  The door opened wider. “Okay. Y’all come in, hon.” She moved out of the way as they stepped inside the neat little house.

  In her chair, Miss Harriet put down her crocheting and leaned forward. “Who is it? Another reporter? I told you not to let them in.”

  “They’re Texas Rangers, hon.”

  Neither Yolanda nor Perry Hale corrected her. They preferred not to use the cinco peso badges the governor issued. He ordered them to keep them in their pockets, only to be used as a last resort and only upon the arrival of law enforcement officers who demanded credentials.

  Perry Hale paused in the short hallway when he saw a dark stain on the floor that he knew to be blood. Yolanda waited for Miss Nelson to settle slowly back into her chair.

  The elderly woman picked up her crocheting from the basket beside her and rested the work in her lap. “Now, what can I do for you two?”

  “Miss Nelson, Ranger Hawke is worried about your safety. He asked us to come by and escort the two of you to a secure location, where you can stay for the next few days.”

  “We’d feel better if he’d tell the police to bring our pistols back to us.”

  “I think we should get the car and go to the hardware store and get two more.” Miss Harriet pointed toward the kitchen, and supposedly the garage beyond.

  “I’m not sure they carry pistols in hardware stores anymore, dear.” The sisters talked as if they’d forgotten Yolanda and Perry Hale were standing in their living room.

  Yolanda gently broke in. “Ranger Hawke has a place for you to go. You might be there awhile until they figure out why those men broke in.”