Authors: Andrew Gross
The two hands said goodbye and thanks, in broken English. Lupe handed Watkins the two improvised Molotov cocktails. Then they scampered away into the dark fields.
“So now I guess it’s just us,” McKay said.
“And now I got
you
an offer,” Watkins called out.
“Go ahead,” the Alpha man said. “We’re not looking to make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
“You give me Robertson, I give you Hauck. How’s that?”
McKay smiled. He seemed to think over the proposal, maybe just long enough to make Robertson sweat a bit. Then he shook his head. “No deal.”
“What I thought. Well, you want him so bad, you might as well come and get him then.” The farmer glanced up at Hauck. “But you’re going to have to come through me.”
McKay stood there without making a move. He just nodded. The person next to him in the fatigues waved his arm, and the two Jeeps out in the fields began to close in, the Alpha men ducking behind them.
McKay shook his head. “If that’s how you feel about it then.”
The first sound was a spurt of gunfire directed at Watkins that didn’t penetrate the hay bales. With his good arm he hurled one of the improvised explosives toward McKay, which shattered on the grill of the black SUV.
A small fire erupted.
Hauck squeezed on the trigger. He advanced a second round into the firing chamber of the single-shot hunting rifle, and fired again. The man next to McKay buckled, the car window in front of him shattering. A burst of automatic fire came at Hauck from out in the fields, bullets illuminating the darkness like tracers zinging into the barn window. Hauck spun and threw himself down. This was a mismatch, it was already clear. The others running off meant McKay could do anything he wanted to them now. He peered back out the window and saw one of the teams in the fields scurrying toward the house. He grabbed his handgun and sent four, quick 9 mm shots at them. Hauck heard a howl, and saw one of them come up hobbling, throwing himself behind the vehicle for cover.
Two down. That evened the odds just a bit. Hauck put another round into the Remington’s chamber.
Watkins had run inside the farmhouse and was firing back at them from window to window. Rounds clanged loudly off the advancing Jeep. Hauck peered out the barn again and saw McKay with what looked like an M-16 scampering in a crouch toward the house. He ducked behind a baling machine. Watkins knew the layout. He wasn’t a fool. Maybe he’d be able to lure him inside.
Hauck took his handgun and the rifle and got ready to climb down to get over to him.
One of the Alpha men had sprinted in and made it as far as the combine in front of the barn. Hauck leaned out the window with the 9 mm and tried to get off a shot, but a sharp burst of automatic fire came back from behind the Jeep from the guy with the wounded leg. One round grazed Hauck on the arm, like a fiery poker. Another felt like the poker was thrust in his right shoulder. He shouted out, spinning backwards, the 9 mm falling to the ground. Hauck threw himself behind the window. “
Shit
.” All he had now was this stupid hunting rifle. A bolt of pain immobilized his right arm and shoulder. Blood seeped from his shirt. He felt for his back and saw blood there as well. It must’ve gone through.
“Wait out here,” he heard someone shout to the guy behind the Jeep who had shot at him. “If he jumps out that window, cut him to shreds.”
The next thing he heard was the sound of footsteps front around the front and the barn door thrown open. Someone stepped in. Hauck pushed his back against the wall, hidden by the wall of hay bales.
Whoever it was crouched behind the inside tractor. Hauck moved away from the ledge, his arm limp, as an extended spray of gunfire shredded the spot around the window where he’d just been.
“You wanted to meet, Mr. Hauck, well here I am …” the guy called out.
Robertson.
“Don’t be so shy … I’m easy to talk to. Your niece certainly seemed to find it that way.” He slithered his way around the tractor and the wall of hay bales, intermittently spraying gunfire up in Hauck’s direction. Hauck scrambled down onto the stack of bales, a trail of gunfire following him. He was safe for the time being, hidden behind the bales. But he was also trapped in here. And outmanned.
“You ought to just come out.” Robertson jammed in a fresh ammo clip. “It makes me mad as hell when I have to go dig someone out. Did a lot of that back in the day. Overseas.” Hauck heard him going along the wall of hay below, looking up, spraying sporadic gunfire whenever he thought he saw a shadow or something moving, sending Hauck to the floor, his arm on fire.
“Taking fathers away from their families … Not fun work. But trust me, that was only the start of things. But you already know all about that, right …”
Hauck crawled along the top of the stacks of bale. There were maybe fifty or sixty piled high in three-foot cubes. A metal hook that was probably used as a stacking device hung loosely from a pulley maybe ten feet away.
“Why am I telling you all this …? I guess, so you know this kind of shit is nothing to me. It’s what I do. Look at the Watkins boy. And your niece, right …? Only she was a wily one. I’ll get my chance again. But let me tell you what your best chance is …”
He unleashed a prolonged burst of gunfire up at Hauck, shredding hay bales a couple of feet away. Hauck crouched behind them in a ball, his shoulder throbbing, and tried to figure out how he was going to get out of here alive.
“To me, your best chance is to throw down whatever you still got up there and come on out while you can. And here’s why … You like a good steak, Mr. Hauck? You know, right off the fire, smelling like hickory chips. Mmmm, I sure do. Well, that’s exactly what’s about to happen to you. A burnt piece of meat, Mr. Hauck.”
Gunfire erupted from what seemed inside the main house, then Hauck heard a single shotgun blast. Watkins. Hauck hoped the farmer had hit home.
“So check out what I have here, Mr. Hauck. I know you can see me. From between one of those bales …” Hauck leaned through a crack in the stacks and saw Robertson, at least his arm, high in the air, holding up one of the Molotov cocktails the Mexicans had made.
“It certainly didn’t do a whole lot of damage outside. That’s for sure. But I bet in here, with all this hay, we’ll have a totally different result. Probably all go up in one big
whoosh
. Tons of smoke. Suck all the oxygen out. Not to mention the heat. One big ol’ barbecue. Take about three or four minutes, I suspect, for the whole place to go up. You willing to burn to a crisp in here, Mr. Hauck? For some ol’ farmer you only know a couple of days? Who’s probably dead now anyway. Or some kid on a river you never even met? So I was saying … short of jumping out the window from up there and having my guy outside shoot you up like a duck with one wing, your best chance, seems to me, is to just show your face and save us all the aggravation and the mess. I’m sure Mr. Watkins would appreciate saving his barn, too. If he’s still alive, that is …”
Hauck quietly loaded a round into the hunting rifle, his right arm barely cooperating. He knew the moment he jumped out from behind the bales he’d be a dead man. He slid on his belly over to the loading hook, its point resting in a bale just a few feet away. The thought came to him that maybe he could ride it down and surprise Robertson. Hauck knew he’d get just one shot. But blood was matting through his shirt and it was more likely he’d end up on the ground in pain than hit his mark. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could even hold on.
“So what do you say, Mr. Hauck? I’m the one doing all the talking.” Hauck heard the action on Robertson’s rifle pulled back. “You’re leaving me no choice.”
The Alpha man stepped back and took out a lighter and lit the fuse rag stuffed inside the bottle, which sprang up in flame. He held it above his head it while the rag burned down. “Last chance … I’m afraid, things are going to get a little thick under the collar now … Only thing I can say is, you shouldn’t have brought these to the fight if you didn’t want to see them used … So buckle up now. How about we all yell at once, ‘
Fire …!
’”
Robertson hurled it against the wood pallet supporting the bales of hay.
There was a whoosh. The oil in the broken bottle exploded in flame. A flash of yellow and orange lit up against the hay. Smoke immediately started to rise.
Hauck could make it back to the window and jump, like Robertson had said. It was maybe twenty feet. The remaining Alpha man was out there. Hauck would have only one shot—if he could even hold on to the rifle in the fall. He’d be a sitting duck.
Below, flames shot up. Dark smoke quickly began to rise. As well as the temperature. Hauck’s shoulder hung limp like meat on a rack. He had no idea what had happened inside the house, if Watkins was dead or alive. He just heard the crackle of flames and felt the heat against his skin. He knew he had to get out of there. Smoke was already seeping into his lungs. He’d have this one chance.
“Think I’ll just step back a bit and watch the show, if that’s okay …?” Robertson called out, pulling back the action on his M-16.
Suddenly Hauck heard the siren. The same emergency call he had heard the other day.
Watkins!
So he was still kicking. The barn was engulfed in flames now. Robertson stood back against the tractor, his gun readied, waiting for Hauck to show himself. Which had to be soon. Hauck grabbed the Remington with his good arm and took hold of the loading hook. He drew it back as far as he could, positioning himself with his back against the barn wall and his feet against the row of hay bales third from the top. Then he let the hook go. It swung as if on a pendulum right across the barn, hitting the top of the tractor with a resounding clang.
Robertson spun toward the sound with his gun raised.
Hauck pushed with everything he had against the bales. In a minute or two the entire barn would be a fireball. Straining, his shoulder in agony, the row of bales began to give way. It dislodged the ones above it like a house wall about to collapse, the whole thing suddenly caving in as Robertson looked up, seeing it all just a second too late, the heavy bales tumbling down on him like boulders in an avalanche.
Hauck leaped down.
Robertson fired at him, a wild spurt from under the rubble as he tried to extricate himself. Hauck dug his gun through the bales, trying to locate Robertson’s body. The hunting rifle would only give him this one shot. Robertson kicked a bale off him and Hauck fired. The Alpha man yelped, the bullet seeming to graze him on the side, not the direct hit Hauck needed. Hauck drew the rifle back and frantically went to load another round into the chamber, while Robertson tried desperately to kick himself free. Robertson’s gun snaked through the bales and Hauck realized it would take too long to load and fire again, his other arm a mess, so he tossed the Remington aside, diving where Robertson was trying to break through, and grabbed on to the shaft of the M-16 and tried to wrench it away.
His shoulder felt like a molten hot rod was being stuck in it.
He seized the stock and swung it hard into Robertson’s jaw. The Alpha man grunted and fell back, his mouth filling with blood. The fire had reached the roof now. Outside, the signal continued to wail.
They wrestled for control of the gun, Hauck realizing he couldn’t hold on much longer. A burning bale of hay fell off the wall and came to rest close by. Robertson squeezed his leg around Hauck, trying to wrestle him off. Hauck felt himself start to slide. He knew if Robertson managed to get on top and got the gun free, it was over for him.
With everything he had, he forced the rifle over Robertson’s head, both of them straining to hold on to it with both hands. The Alpha man grunted as his arm brushed the hay bale that had tumbled down that was caught on fire.
Robertson strained to pull the gun back toward him, but Hauck kept pushing it farther away, closer to the burning bale.
Hauck knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. The Alpha man tried to head-butt him, seeing what he was attempting to do. With a final thrust, all he had left, Hauck jerked the rifle upward, pinning Robertson’s arm against the flaming bale. The Alpha man screamed, the smell of seared flesh immediately noticeable.
He let go.
That’s when the other Alpha man who’d been stationed outside ran in, hearing Robertson’s distress. Hauck wrestled the gun out of Robertson’s singed arm and rolled off him.
“Take him out. Shoot him,” Robertson shouted at this team member.
The man hesitated. He was around fifteen yards away and Hauck and Robertson were pretty much entangled. If he fired he could hit either of them. Flames were darting in all directions; smoke was filling the barn. The guy pointed the gun and said to Robertson, “Get away from him. Let him go!”
Hauck kicked Robertson free and squeezed. A burst of four rounds shot out and the Alpha man fell back, his stomach dotted in red. Robertson dove toward Hauck and made a desperate lunge for the gun. Hauck swung and struck him in the head with the shoulder stock and Robertson slumped back, bloodied in the face. His arm almost dead, Hauck scrambled up to his feet. He pointed the muzzle of the gun at Robertson, who just lay there, breathing heavily. “So who’s steak now, asshole.”
Robertson held on to his burnt arm. “Fuck you.”
Just take him out,
Hauck said to himself. What you promised Watkins and Dani you were here to do. The miserable shit had locked Dani in a tank of rising water. If this situation was reversed, he wouldn’t hesitate a nanosecond to do the same to you.
“Go on,” Robertson said, his contempt fading into a look of final resignation. “It’s what you came back for, isn’t it? For me. So go on. Do it, dude. If you have it in you.”
Hauck stepped up and placed the muzzle of the gun squarely over the Alpha man’s chest. One burst and it was what he deserved. What else was there to do? Turn him over to Riddick? RMM would have him out by dawn. Then who’d be next? Him? Dani?
The man was right. It was what you came back here for …
The Alpha man lay there smirking. “Not so easy, is it? Just to kill someone. Goes against everything you have inside, right, detective?”