Adobe Flats (21 page)

thirty-nine

Grant was getting tired
of waking to a world of pain. At least the pain this time wasn't all-encompassing. It wasn't debilitating, and it wouldn't slow him down when the time came. That time was coming soon.

Dawn broke over Absolution, Texas, like the last rays of sunshine on a condemned town. Hard, bright sky overhead belied the danger ahead. North, east, and west were as hot and sharp as any other day, just a smattering of clouds scurrying across the sky in the stiffening breeze. South was a wall of bruised cloud and lightning as the storm front approached. Grant could see it through the window of his cell. Not a cell in the true sense of the word—there were no bars on the windows or shackles on the walls—but he was a prisoner just the same.

He reached for his ankle.

The .38 had gone.

So much for trying to distract the gun thugs from a thorough search. That left him unarmed and defenseless in a three-window room at the top of the hacienda. Some kind of office or day room with two chairs and a carved wooden coffee table. It had good light through the windows and a brilliant view if you liked desert plains and dust clouds.

That pricked Grant's interest. Not one cloud of dust but two. The first coming from the south, just ahead of the approaching storm. The second from the north, farther away. The wind was whipping the dust clouds sideways, away from whatever was causing them. The same wind that was rushing the storm towards Absolution. It would be touch and go which hit town first; maybe all three at once. That would be a confrontation to match the one between Santa Anna's army and the defenders of the Alamo. The mission that became a fortress. The fortress that became a shrine.

Absolution was going to be a shrine for somebody.

Grant was determined it wasn't going to be him.

He peered down from the window. Avenue D was deserted. The church steeple stood out against the tattered sky. The derelict houses across the street were in shadow from the sun hanging low over the eastern horizon. The athletics track stretched to the edge of town. The Christmas Mountains were faded blue humps in the distance. Somewhere to the south, Adobe Flats and the hills of Big Bend National Park were hidden behind a curtain of rain clouds and rolling thunder.

The plan had fallen apart. Grant wasn't in a position to change it. He had to trust the good men of Absolution to do the right thing. He had to trust that Doc Cruz had been right when he'd said there were still good men who lived here. For now that boiled down to a Mexican coyote, an old-time sniper, and a small-town doctor. Not much of an army to combat the Macready empire.

The army. Grant replayed his conversation with John Cornejo. He hoped the ex-marine had as much influence as Grant gave him credit for. Convincing the authorities that something was rotten in Fort Stockton was a big ask. Getting them to do something about it would be harder still.

He squinted at the dust cloud to the north. If Cornejo had succeeded, then that should be a detachment of MPs coming to the rescue. If he'd failed, then it would just be Cornejo and whatever friends he could rope together. It was impossible to tell from this distance. Grant turned his attention to the cloud trail to the south. A five-truck convoy coming hard and fast. Was it a bigger cloud than Cornejo's? Hard to say. The only thing for certain was it was a lot closer than the cavalry.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside the door. A key rattled in the lock. The door was flung open, and three men stood in the opening. Grant threw one last glance at the dust cloud hitting the edge of town, coming past Sixto's soon before crossing First Street into Avenue D.

Two guards stood in the doorway, one with Grant's shotgun and rifle slung from his shoulder. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They flanked Grant and led him downstairs.

Doc Cruz's car was
a smoldering wreck beside the front gates. The courtyard was empty. Two men stood guard at the open gates, and three more were spaced out across the patio on either side of the barbecue pit. The other three were with Grant. They led him down through the hacienda and out of the front door. Scott Macready stepped out behind him, his cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes to show how tough he was.

“Hold it there.”

The guards stopped. Grant turned to face the Macready pup.

“Morning, junior.”

Macready's eyes twitched. “Ain't gonna be a good morning for you.”

“I didn't say it was good. Just that it's morning.”

The Texan tried hard to sound like a badass. “No. It's payback time.”

Grant took a deep breath and relaxed his arms. He put all his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to move quickly. If the boss's son was going to make a play it would be now, while he had three mercenaries backing him up. The cowboy hat was so low over his eyes it was almost comical. He glared at Grant through slitted eyes. Grant stared back, his peripheral vision keeping tabs on the guards to either side of him. Macready didn't move. Grant nodded. A staring contest was all the cowboy was going to engage in. His father was coming home. Seemed like Tripp Macready wanted Grant all to himself.

Grant looked at the Stetson and then at the storm clouds bruising the sky.

“I hope that's an expensive hat,
'cause
I've seen cheaper ones go soggy in the rain. It'd flop down over your head like a foreskin on a limp dick.”

There was no sudden lunge, so Grant continued. “And you know what happens to foreskins.”

He made an upwards zipping motion with one hand.

“Zzzzip.”

Macready blinked under the brim of his hat. If he hadn't been so tanned, Grant reckoned he'd be blushing. To cover his embarrassment, he barked an order to the guards.

“Take him out.”

One guard pushed Grant towards the patio steps. All three walked him across the courtyard. The main gates were open. The breeze was strengthening into a wind. Dust swirled in tiny spirals across the parched earth. A broken window shutter banged in one of the derelict houses opposite, and an empty shopping bag tumbled across the road, a tumbleweed in all but name. Grant approached the mouth of the compound. More of the street came into view. Despite the wind he could hear the rumbling of trucks driving through town. He could feel the vibration coming up from the ground. The convoy was here.

Sixto's. Anytime now the petrol fumes would be ignited and the gas station was going to explode—a misdirection intended to force the convoy into the crossfire. Trouble was, the crossfire could be deadly for the woman strapped to the front of the truck.

Grant counted the seconds. He listened to the approaching trucks. He threw a quick glance to the church steeple overlooking the killing ground. Checked the position of the propane tanks strategically placed along Avenue D. Anytime now all hell was going to break loose, and Grant was going to be standing right in the middle of it.

The convoy turned off First Street and drove up past the Los Pecos Bank and Trust. It passed through the shadow of the church and came straight towards the Macready hacienda. Five heavy trucks with big tires and canvas backs. The canvas flapped in the wind.

A military jeep pulled out from behind the last truck. The army must have loaned him another one—better this time because it had a fold-down canvas roof across the back. Tripp Macready sped the jeep to the front of the convoy and held up a hand.

The trucks stopped.

The swirl of dust was whipped away by the wind.

Grant stood in the middle of the street in his tattered orange windcheater and waited for the explosion at Sixto's, already delayed from the original plan. He held out his arms like Jesus on the cross and took a deep breath.

Nothing exploded. Nobody opened fire at the propane tanks. Grant lowered his arms and looked at Tripp Macready. Seeing him driving an army jeep wasn't the only surprise. Grant checked the front of the lead truck. Sturdy ropes had been fastened to each corner of the cab, one for each leg and arm. To stretch Sarah Hellstrom like an X across the front of the truck.

The ropes hung loose.

Sarah wasn't fastened to the front of the truck.

She was sitting beside Tripp Macready in the jeep.

forty

The engines were turned
off. Five trucks but not the jeep. The jeep's motor sounded puny after the throaty rumble of the trucks. It was barely audible above the sound of the wind and the flapping window shutter. Sarah Hellstrom looked relaxed in the passenger seat. Not handcuffed or tied up or in any other way restrained. She was a guest, not a prisoner. Grant felt disappointed.

The mercenaries disembarked and formed a loose circle around Grant. Tripp Macready swung his legs sideways and got out of the jeep. He looked at Grant, threw a glance towards Sarah, then focused on the Yorkshireman again.

“Don't look so surprised. It's a small town. We all have to get along.”

Grant nodded. “And I'm a rodent. I get it.”

Macready stood in front of Grant. “A lizard. Isn't that what you said?”

Grant smiled.

“
Rango
. The Johnny Depp lizard Western. Yes.”

“The stranger in town.”

Grant finished the line.

“And strangers don't last long.”

Macready tilted his head as if considering Grant.

“Except you ain't a stranger no more.”

He held his arms out like Jesus on a cross. “You're the Resurrection Man.”

He lowered his arms. “I remember you now. From the TV news. Boston, wasn't it?”

“Jamaica Plain.”

“You're a long way from home. Yorkshire or Massachusetts.”

“It's a small world.”

“And this is a small town.”

“You've said that already.”

“Just wanted to emphasize the point so you'd understand. I'm not the bad guy here. I'm the guy that provides for the good folk of Absolution.”

Grant nodded in the general direction of town. “Doesn't seem like everyone agrees with you.”

Macready nodded. “And that's exactly why I need to set an example.”

He made a come-hither motion with both hands, and two mercenaries broke off from the circle.

“Send them a message.” The mercenaries stood on either side of Grant. “That strangers aren't welcome.”

Macready put his hands in his pockets. “They don't last long. Me, I'm here to stay.”

Grant glanced across the street, then looked Macready in the eye. “You said I wasn't a stranger.”

“Play on words. You're a rolling stone that gathers no moss.”

Grant looked at Sarah. She flinched at the ferocity of his stare. Macready ignored the interplay.

“Passing through. Only you aren't. Not anymore.”

He leaned forward for emphasis.

“You should never have got off the train.”

Grant weighed up time and numbers. Time was running out and the numbers didn't add up. There should be more mercenaries than the few forming the circle around him. He glanced across the street again at the derelict buildings that looked so much like another desert township fallen on hard times. The shutter banged again. Loose canvas on one of the trucks flapped in the wind. Nobody opened fire from the cover of the buildings. Nobody set off the explosions around the killing ground.

Macready followed Grant's gaze, then shook his head.

“Don't go getting your hopes up.”

He held a hand above his head and gave a curt wave.

“There ain't no resurrecting you from this.”

There was movement in
two of the derelict buildings. Hunched figures shuffled into the open with their hands behind their heads. Bigger men herded the figures towards the trucks. The missing mercenaries.

“Your friends chose the wrong side.”

Sabata, Doc Cruz, and three others crossed the street, betrayed and captured. Grant looked at Sarah and let out a sigh of defeat. How could she do this to her own kind? Fellow citizens of Absolution. She lowered her head.

The prisoners were corralled between the first and second truck, out of the wind and away from Grant. The mercenaries holstered their weapons. The threat had been neutralized. Grant ignored them. He couldn't take his eyes off Sarah, the first helpful face he'd seen after he'd arrived and the last person he expected to stand up for the Macready clan. She rubbed her wrists. The tiny movement caught Grant's eye. He focused on the rawness just above the joints. Rope burns. Then he looked at the ropes still dangling from the cab of the lead truck.

Macready saw the look and nodded.

“I'm not stupid. Leaving her strapped across the truck wouldn't look good coming through town. I cut her down at Sixto's—where you planned on starting your little welcome party.”

Grant snapped his eyes back to Macready. Sarah Hellstrom didn't know about the welcome party. How could she? She'd been taken long before he'd discussed it at Javier's house on the edge of town. The old Mexican who was supposed to have set off the first explosion at the gas station.

Grant saw Macready's eyes turn towards the main gates. Grant turned around. Javier walked through the gates with hunched shoulders and a protective arm around his daughter—the waitress from the barbecue. The girl in Scott Macready's bed. He walked her down the street without meeting anyone's eyes.

Macready broke the spell.

“It's amazing what a man will do to protect his daughter.”

Grant saw Doc Cruz shudder but wasn't thinking about the irony in that remark. He was wondering how much Javier knew of the overall plan they'd discussed in the old Mexican's kitchen. Not all of it but enough. He knew who would be helping and where. He had helped place the gas bottles around the ambush site. Grant didn't check to see if they were still there. They either were or they weren't. He doubted if Macready had had time to remove them. He'd been on the road all night, and his son had been bed hopping.

Josiah Hooper. Grant tried to remember if Joe had been mentioned in any detail. He didn't think he had. The sniper was Grant's ace in the hole. The sniper and the cloud of dust racing south along Iron Mountain Road. Grant forced himself not to look up at the bell tower to see if the rifle was still pointing in his direction.

Macready pulled out his own ace in the hole.

“And don't go thinking your call to Boston will do you any good.”

Grant felt a chill run down his spine.

Macready smiled.

“That's a long drive across big country. This ain't like the
movies
. Cavalry don't always get here in time.”

Grant relaxed. That last remark told him Macready might know about the call but not what was said. The cavalry wouldn't be coming from Boston. If John Cornejo had convinced the authorities, it would be coming from a lot closer, bringing thunder from the north just as the storm front was bringing it from the south. The meeting point would be Absolution, Texas.

Macready did that double wave thing again, and two mercenaries stepped towards Grant, weapons holstered to free their hands.

“Now it's time for that example I was talking about.”

He indicated the front of the lead truck—“Shame to waste a good rope”—then reached into the jeep and pulled out a machete.

Grant flinched. Not at the prospect of being cut but at the confluence of memories and reality. Derelict buildings and a dusty street. Local militia and a man with a long knife. If he was angry before, he was furious now. He relaxed his arms so the men wouldn't have anything solid to grab hold of. He flexed his knees.

A sudden gust of wind whipped sand around his feet. The flapping canvas went into frenzy. Something blew over in the nearest building across the street. The circle of mercenaries threw their hands over their eyes. The two nearest Grant were too late. Sand and grit stung like tiny needles. They turned away from the wind.

Macready stepped back, head down.

Grant slitted his eyes.

Nobody heard the engines breach the edge of town from North Eighth Street.

Everybody saw the compound wall explode in a ball of gas and flame.