Authors: John Turney
Raising his all black .30-06 Remington 740 to his shoulder, Junior peered at the tangled undergrowth through the night scope. He might be running, but he wasn’t about to throw caution out the back door. No sir, not Junior List. He scanned his surroundings.
No movement. Nothing out of place.
He emerged from his hiding place and scrambled up the car. Halfway across, his foot slipped on the wet metal. He fell, both knees landing on the roof.
Don’t want no fried Junior setting out here like roadkill.
He knelt on the roof, his heart pounding like a galloping horse. Cold fear rooted him there. Yet, he couldn’t stay exposed as he was. Inching his way over the car, time crawled past like a snail on ice before he again stood on sodden ground.
Rolling his eyes heavenward and muttering a word of thanks, he pushed his way through the last sliver of brush until he came to the blacktopped road. He planned to cross the road and hide out at the shack they used when branding time came.
Maybe I can come out of this without my record being tarnished. Any further that is
.
With a smile, he dreamed of assuming his daddy’s role and taking over the List enterprise.
Sweet!
He wouldn’t have to listen to all those insults from the old man anymore.
Then he spotted the other car with Whiskey Police emblazoned on its side.
Just waitin’ fer my takin’.
Something moved at the vehicles. Junior sought refuge behind a large rock, rested his jowls against the gunstock and sighted through the scope. The car zoomed into close proximity.
Come on. Come on. Frigging show yourself.
A woman stepped away from the SUV. Dark hair. Attractive. He couldn’t see her body, but his mind imagined it and what he’d like to do to her. His excitement grew.
Wait, I’ve seen her before … that’s Dee Dawlsen!
He grinned.
Time for some REAL fun.
He’d abduct her to the shack, have his way whether she was a willing partner or not.
Hopefully not. Give me an excuse to kill her
. For several minutes, he watched her as his desire hardened.
She’s an alert one
. When she ducked back down, he sprinted across the side road carrying his Remington one-handed.
He slipped into the brush and rocks.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Barend Jilt woke to the sound of gunfire. His hand slipped under the pillow and grabbed the Smith & Wesson Model 41. His fingers wrapped around the wood grips. He chambered a round. Though a .22 caliber, he loved its accuracy. Great weapon for up-close wet work.
Taking the extra few moments, he slipped on a pair of desert camo pants and tan military boots. He had slept in a black undershirt. No need to change that. He picked up his Nextel.
“Jilt here. Report.”
List’s voice came over the device. “Dawlsen got loose somehow.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I thought a dozen men could handle it.”
“Listen. The man’s ex-military. He’s been through some tough situations. Now he’s here, and you thought you’d let me sleep?”
“Whatever. Get to the Communications Room. I need you there to be my eyes. It’s time to evacuate the premises. The copters will be here in short order.”
Trying to trap me is what you’re doing, telling me to go to the CR. I ain’t buying. And I ain’t taking the fall for this
. “Where’s Junior?”
“He’s scouting the front.”
Yeah. Right. He’s running.
“I’ll be at the CR in three.” He cut off transmission before List could reply. “But I ain’t staying for long. Just long enough to get intel and find out what’s going on.”
For a moment, he stared down at the handheld. If Dawlsen was loose, that meant the Feds probably weren’t too far behind. The whole
plan began to unravel just as it neared completion, and he didn’t want to serve time. With a yell, he hurled the Nextel against the glass. The radio shattered; the bullet-proof window wobbled.
Minutes later, he stood outside the CR and typed his password into the keypad. The door slid open. When he entered, the two men at the consoles raised their Colts in his direction.
“Stand down,” he commanded.
“Mr. List told us …” one of the security men said.
“We have a situation that is deteriorating,” the other security man cut in. “We had hostages, but they’ve escaped and set up a guard post at the compound’s front exit. Several of Dawlsen’s people are inside the building, and we’re trying to monitor their …”
The room plunged into blackness.
“CRAP!” the other tech yelled at the blank monitors.
The emergency exit lights came on, filling the room of lifeless computers with soft light.
“Had to happen sooner or later,” said the guard, next to him. “I’m surprised it took them so long. But where’s the backup generators? You can’t stop them unless …”
“Unless what?” Jilt gripped one of the man’s shoulders, not sure he wanted to hear the reply. “Unless what?” he repeated.
“They’ve hacked into our system.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye peered around the corner into the lounge area.
Empty.
Numerous TVs sat silent. Racked balls waited on the pool tables. No one sat in any of the many couches.
Just ’cause it looked void of
people, didn’t mean it was.
“On my three,” he whispered. “Tex you go left. Oakmann, go straight. I’ll take the right.” They nodded. Rye took a deep breath and breathed out. He held up one finger. Two. Three.
Inching his way around the corner, Rye discovered a couch and several chairs blocking his path. Possible places for a shooter to hide
.
He reached the furniture. With finger ready to pull the trigger, he peered over the couch.
No one
. Yet a set of muddy footprints suggested someone had recently been there. He knelt down for a closer look. He’d seen this type of imprint often enough. Military boots.
“Clear,” he said. “But someone was here in the last minute or so.”
The other two reported their sections cleared.
“Got another room over here,” said Tex, standing next to a closed door.
This door did not have the wood finish of the other doors. Rather, it had a dull iron gray color of a metallic utilities office. He would have assumed the architect would have matched the door to the décor. But then, assumptions got good cops killed.
With Rye on one side of the door and Oakmann on the other, Tex tested the doorknob—unlocked—and flung it open. They rushed in. Tex to the left. Oakmann in the middle. Rye to the right.
Empty. Yet, unlike the other barracks, this one contained one unmade bed, a nightstand, a closet, a footlocker, and a shattered walkie-talkie.
Rye stepped into the room and headed towards the footlocker. His hand brushed over the name stenciled on its lid. Barend Jilt.
He opened the footlocker. Several desert and jungle camo uniforms of the Mexican army lay folded in neat stacks. Several army
caps sat of top of the stacks. Odd, Jilt was never in the Mexican army.
So what’s with all the Mex army duds?
A pair of muddy footprints stained the carpet next to Jilt’s bed. He touched the mud and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb. Moist. He raised his fingers to his nose and rubbed it again while sniffing. It smelled of …
stables.
Rye rose to his feet. “We just missed Jilt by a minute. Get this. His footlocker has several army uniforms. Mexican army uniforms.”
“Makes no sense to me,” Oakmann said. “I’ve read Jilt’s rap sheet. He hates Mexicans.”
Tex cleared his throat. “We’ve seen this along the Texas border. Some less than patriotic US citizens working with the cartels by posing as Mexican army.”
They exited Jilt’s room, crossed the lounge, and headed down the next hallway. At the next room, Rye opened the door and stared into darkness. He held out his handgun and flicked on the flashlight. He pointed its beam into the room.
“What the—”
Jumping backwards, he let out a curse. A grizzly bear stood in the back of the room, mouth frozen open and paw raised ready to strike.
Rye aimed his handgun at the creature, laser beam dotting the bear’s chest. His finger itched the trigger. The animal just stood there. With a wry grin, Rye shook his head in embarrassed understanding and lowered his gun. This was one of List’s hunting trophies.
“Don’t feel bad,” said Oakmann, Hand over her mouth to suppress the mirth beginning to spill out. “I’d have blasted the thing.”
“I just about peed on myself,” Rye said.
“In Texas,” Tex said, “our Chihuahuas are bigger than that.”
Flashing his light around the room, Rye observed the many creatures whose heads decorated the walls: wolves, antelopes, longhorn sheep, and a moose. Their glassy eyes stared back at him in their death gaze. Hunting rifles bid their time in racks, stocks gleaning with meticulous care. His beam crossed over a hunting bow, and he stopped.
He stared at it for a moment, breaking into a smile.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he murmured then fetched it off the wall. “A Hoyt ProElite with XT 3500 limbs and the C2 Cam. Consider this baby recompensed.”
“Hey, Dawlsen,” Oakmann said, standing next to him. “What are these?”
She held up a box of cone shaped devices.
“Those, my dear, are explosive arrowheads. As is, they’re not armed. But you take one of these arrow shafts,” he held up one without the head, “and screw the arrowhead onto the shaft,” which he demonstrated, “and you have created one very lethal weapon. I’m going to assemble me a few of these.”
After he finished, he spotted a leather quiver decorated with beaded Native American designs and beaded fringe. Taking it off the wall, Rye stuffed it with over a dozen arrows.
Slinging it over his head, he joined the others waiting for him in the hallway.
That’s when the gunfire erupted.
Zach hopped the railing and plummeted into one of the guards. Gunfire exploded in his ears, and bullets whistled past his face. His upper back struck the cement floor just as the lights went out.
In the sudden cave-like darkness, Zach rolled away from the guards. He hoped. Backing into the corner, he pushed to his feet and waited for his eyes to adjust. Pale light leaked from under the door. He reached for his gun and realized he’d dropped it.
The light from the exit sign came on.
One guard lay still on the floor. The other man, bigger than Zach, spat out a stream of tobacco. He wore the brown and tan desert camo of the Mexican army. Zach noticed the prison tat of an Aztec bird on the back of his hand.
So we got a tattoo-wearing member of the Mexican drug Cartel, el Águila. The Eagle.
“You kill mi hermano, cerdo.”
Pig
. The man rotated his head back and forth, neck cracking at every move.
Zach shot a glance at the man’s “brother” on the floor and noticed the odd angle of the guy’s head
.
“Now, you die. Lentamente.”
Slowly.
He tossed his pistol with a clatter to the floor and drew a 12” long Bowie knife. The rasp of steel blade against steel sheath sounded ominous echoing up the stairwell.
Zach reached for his duty belt and grabbed his ASP, the expandable wand. Mr. Aztec Tat stepped over his companion to trap Zach in the corner.
“You think you hurt me with little stick.”
“No, I think to hurt you with big stick.” Zach whipped his hand back over his shoulder. With a crack, the ASP extended its full length. Before the other could take a breath, Zach whipped the wand against the outside of the man’s thigh. Yelping, the Águila dropped to the floor, aiming a weak jab with his Bowie. Zach dodged the blade and lashed the wand down on the man’s collarbone. A scream followed a snap of breaking bone, and his knife arm hung useless.
“Stay down,” Zach said. “I’m WPD.”
“If I get my hand on you, you’re DOA.” His face transformed into a mask of agony-filled rage.
A scraping noise sounded on the stairs.
Mr. Aztec Tat peered upward. Zach, not waiting to find out the source of the noise, flicked the ASP across the man’s nose. An enflamed welt rose across his face.
The man let loose a string of profanity intertwining English and Spanish.
“Drop the knife,” Zach said.
They exchanged glacial stares.
“Next swing,” Zach threatened by pointing the ASP at the man’s face, “and your nose will be a bloody smear.”
Zach watched the fight go out of the man’s eyes, and he dropped
the blade, the weapon ringing on the cement floor. He grasped his injured shoulder.
Whipping his gaze upward, Zach called out, “Who’s there?”
“Just me,” said Amalia, her voice a blend of tears and terror.
“Stay put.”
Zach grabbed the injured man by the collar. With the prisoner screaming, Zach forced him over to the stairs. Though the man whimpered pleas, he handcuffed his prisoner’s uninjured arm to the railing. Zach made sure no weapon lay within the man’s reach before turning his attention to the man he had crashed into. Bending over, he checked the guy’s pulse and found none.