Adobe Flats (22 page)

forty-one

The rule of threes.
The storm. The sniper. The cavalry. The perfect trifecta. The wall of rain entered Absolution from the south. The cavalry came in from the north. The old-timer who spent his days splatting rats took aim again, and another gas bottle exploded. In the building nearest the trucks this time.

Grant thought he heard a raised voice shouting in the wind. “Don't like that, d'ya? Yer little fucker.” That last bit might have been his imagination.

The first part of the trifecta to arrive fired again: a third gas bottle blew a hole in the sports stand, triangulating the convoy's position between balls of fire and clouds of smoke. The rain wasn't here yet. The cavalry hadn't arrived. For now it was Joe Hooper and a handful of prisoners. The distraction gave the prisoners room to maneuver.

Grant was first to move. While the two guards were still shielding their eyes, he stamped down hard on the back of the nearest leg. The knee buckled and the man went down. Before he hit the ground, Grant snatched the gun from his holster and shot the second man point-blank. Two guns now. Then everybody was moving.

The crippled guard tried to unsling the shotgun from his shoulder. Grant stamped on the broken leg and grabbed the straps. The shotgun came loose but the rifle was tangled in the fallen man's arm. The circle of mercenaries broke and darted for cover. Sabata elbowed one of the ex-soldiers in the face, and Grant fired at the other two guarding the captives. They scattered. Doc Cruz dropped to his knees. Sabata took the guard's gun. Three guns and a shotgun between six. Still outgunned and surrounded.

Another gas bottle exploded among the wooden barrels and water trough at the gates. One of the barrels disintegrated into a shower of whirling splinters, and the bottom hinge dropped one gate at an angle.

Grant dashed across open ground towards Cruz and Sabata just as the mercenaries regrouped and opened fire. Bullets stitched a line of dusty explosions behind Grant's feet until he dived between the first and second trucks. Ricochets echoed from the heavy wheels and punctured one tire. The truck sagged to one side, and the loaded crates shifted inside.

The final gas bottle punched a hole in the compound wall and blasted masonry across the forecourt. Dust and smoke obscured the battlefield just like any battle in any war. Bullets dinged off the side of the trucks. Sabata returned fire, but the mercenaries had taken up good defensive positions. The freed captives couldn't take good aim.

Grant offered the second gun to Doc Cruz, who held up his hands. “I can't shoot for shit.”

Grant handed him the shotgun instead. “When they get close.”

Cruz nodded. Grant crouched beside the rear axle and surveyed the scene. The street had become a cacophony of sound and gunfire. Constant movement distracted the eye. Constant danger kept his head down. The resurrection man might have avoided being crucified on the front of a truck, but Grant reckoned he'd only exchanged one death for another. The ramshackle band was outnumbered and pinned down. There was too much open ground to the nearest cover among the derelict buildings, and the mercenaries were moving around to cut off that line of retreat.

The gunshots became more sporadic. Grant risked sticking his head out for a better look. A bullet dinged off the mudguard just below the filler cap. Grant ducked back behind the wheel. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Anybody got a light?”

One of Sabata's men tossed Grant a Zippo. Grant nodded his thanks and reached inside the tattered windcheater. The lining came away easily. A long strip of beige cotton fabric with snatches of orange trim. The wind was getting stronger. Grant hoped that diesel fumes would overcome its attempts to snuff the candle. He jabbed a finger towards the gunmen and everyone understood.

Grant twisted the strip of cloth into a fuse.

Sabata, Cruz, and the other man took up positions near the wheel.

Grant nodded.

All three opened fire at once. Not aiming. One general direction.

Grant dashed out from cover and unscrewed the filler cap. It was tight and wouldn't move. He gripped with all his strength and it turned a fraction, then a fraction more, then all the way off. Returning fire kicked up dust around the truck, and he dived for cover again. First half done.

He paused for breath, then nodded again.

The trio opened fire, and Grant squirreled the twist of cloth down the filler tube until it soaked up diesel. He pulled it out and reversed it so he'd have a soaked portion to light. The Zippo sparked, but the wind blew it out. He sheltered the lighter with one hand and rasped the flint again. This time the flame held firm enough to ignite the diesel-soaked rag. The shotgun went off close to his ear, and the world descended into muffled silence. His ears were ringing. Gunshots were distant thumps on a woolly drum. Voices sounded like they were underwater.

The rag became a flaming torch. Bullets punched silent holes in the side of the truck. Grant signaled retreat with a wave of the hand. Nobody needed telling twice. Under a muffled barrage of covering fire, the defenders moved back two truck lengths, between trucks three and four.

Grant looked up at the church tower. Muzzle flashes showed that Joe Hooper was still firing into the mercenaries despite having no more propane to aim at. Silent gunshots blasted chunks of stucco near the bell tower. Then Grant's hearing came back full power when the lead truck exploded. The rear axle jumped off the ground. The wooden cargo bed spat planks and rivets. Gold medallions and dented goblets showered the street. The canvas covering was torn apart, and the cab flipped forward in a twist of flame and shattered glass.

The gunfire fell silent—for a few seconds. Then it returned with full force and anger. The defenders were forced deeper behind the truck. Bullets hit all around them, coming from all directions. All Grant had done was exchange a defensive position at the front of the convoy for one at the rear. Either way they were still surrounded. Still outgunned.

Then something happened he hadn't expected.

Bullet hits began to raise dust among the mercenaries—a fusillade that forced the ex-soldiers to fall back. Not from the cavalry coming in from the north. From both sides of the street.

From a source that caught Grant by surprise.

The faces materialized through
the clouds of dust and smoke. Grant only recognized a couple of them, but there was no mistaking where they were from. The bank teller was the most obvious shooter, having expressed his dissatisfaction with Macready at the Los Pecos Bank and Trust. The hotel clerk was more surprising, a man whom Grant had pegged as being in Macready's pocket. The rest were just average townsfolk with everyday lives—until they decided to stand up for what they believed in. Seeing a little old lady firing an antique hunting rifle would have been comical under any other circumstances. Seeing her take a bullet in the shoulder was anything but.

The rain finally arrived. Bruised clouds and darkness replaced sunshine and hard blue sky. Thunder rumbled amid the clouds. Lightning flickered in the depths. Spots of rain kicked up puffs of dust that were only slightly smaller than the ricochets from across the street. Until the rain became heavier and indistinguishable from the gunfire.

The battle raged. The clouds of smoke and dust were slain by the downpour. Everything became clear and focused. The mercenaries were taking casualties. The townsfolk were showing courage. Scott Macready was hiding behind the barrels and water trough near the unhinged gate as if they would protect him. It showed a level of incompetence and cowardice that was no surprise to Grant. One good shot would go through the barrel, the trough, and most of the adobe wall as well as dispatching the junior Macready.

The rain grew stronger. The thunder became louder, more regular, more like something that Grant hadn't heard for years. The dust cloud coming from the north hadn't been just the jeeps or trucks of the cavalry arriving. The heavy, thudding beat was as familiar as it was painful. It
thwup
,
thwup
,
thwupped
its way into his ears like an old friend from the distant past. The camouflage paint was different, and this wasn't a cargo chopper, but the military helicopter swooped into town and was the final straw for the gold smugglers and their gunmen.

Lightning flashed. The clap of thunder was so loud it made everyone jump. The helicopter landed in the clear space between the burning truck and the derelict buildings across the street. John Cornejo jumped out of the open door. Grant felt a wave of affection for the wounded ex-marine. Their eyes met briefly, but there was still work to be done.

Avenue D fell into an uneasy silence apart from the slowing blades after the engine was turned off. The gunfire fell away. Scott Macready stood up from behind the barrel and put his hands in the air. The mercenaries followed his lead. They were hired gunmen. They weren't about to die for a losing cause and an insolvent paymaster.

There was no cheer from the townsfolk. Losses had been too high. Doc Cruz became the man he had always been: the town doctor. He treated the wounded and gave solace to the grieving. Viewed from behind, he could almost be mistaken for the woman Grant had come here to honor.

Grant looked at the gun in his hand. He hated guns, even more today than most days. He dropped it in the dust and strode towards Cornejo. Then he stopped. Despite the heavy rain, the street was sharp and clear. Clear enough to see that something was missing.

The army jeep. Together with Tripp Macready and Sarah Hellstrom.

forty-two

Grant stared at the
swirl of muddy tire tracks where the jeep had skidded a U-turn and sped away. The trail was short—about ten feet—and obscured by the squat bulk of the military helicopter. The rotor blades were buffeted by the wind. Gale force and strengthening. This baby wasn't going anywhere. Any pursuit would have to be ground based.

Cornejo saw where Grant was looking. “What?”

“The jeep.”

Sabata noticed Grant's agitation and came over. The trio stood in the curved skid marks that looked like a question mark without the dot. The shape that harkened to Grant's first meeting with Sarah. And now possibly the last.

Cornejo held his hands out, palms upwards. “Didn't see it. Why?”

Grant shouted above the rain. “Macready.”

Cornejo jerked a thumb to one side. “I thought that was Macready.”

Grant turned to look. Scott Macready was being corralled with the mercenaries by a group of MPs. His hands were tied together out in front of him with strong plastic cable ties. Grant dragged him out of the crowd of prisoners.

“Where'd he go?”

Scott Macready looked like the crestfallen bully that he was. A frightened schoolboy blinking at the certainty of his imminent comeuppance. He looked dazed and confused. His mouth moved but words wouldn't come. A goldfish blowing bubbles.

Grant tried to prompt him.

“North?”

Macready didn't answer.

Sabata stood close to Grant to make himself heard. “He's just lost the final shipment. North will not welcome him.”

Grant nodded. In the back of his mind he knew where this was going to end.

“The border.”

Sabata indicated the truckloads of Aztec gold.

“He has friends down there.”

Grant looked a plea at Cornejo. The ex-marine glanced at the helicopter, then at the storm raging overhead. He shook his head.

“Grounded.”

“Damn.”

Grant looked around for alternative transport. The trucks were too big. The MPs' vehicles were too heavily armored. Doc Cruz's car was a crispy critter at the gates of Macready's compound.

Sabata tapped Grant on the shoulder and held out his keys. He waved towards the derelict buildings across the street. The front of his pickup was just visible through the rain. Grant nodded his thanks and was about to cross Avenue D when he stopped. He turned on Scott Macready so fast it made the cowboy jump. Grant grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Wallet.”

Macready's eyes widened. He pointed shackled hands to his jacket pocket. Grant tugged it open and pulled out his badge wallet. He flicked it open to see the Boston PD credentials.

Sabata noticed the set of Grant's jaw.

“You planning on arresting him?”

Grant clenched his teeth.

“Not likely.”

He closed the wallet and put it in his back pocket. He took a deep breath, then jogged to the coyote's pickup. South towards the border. A route he'd taken before. He doubted Tripp Macready was going to make it that far. He doubted the Texan intended to. Not yet.

Grant got in and started the engine. The tires spat mud as the pickup did a U-turn back along Avenue D. Heading south through town towards Adobe Flats.

The rain eased once
Grant crossed the railroad tracks. Not as torrential but not exactly dry yet either. Daylight struggled to lift the dirty green smudge of cloud as the storm ran its course. The aftermath was just as gloomy, stretching south as far as the eye could see. Dull and gray and wet as a Yorkshire weekend.

Damp enough to grow moss.

Slick enough for a rolling stone to gather none.

Grant was a rolling stone; Sarah Hellstrom had told him as much. He was passing through, not putting down roots. A stranger. Strangers don't last long. Wrong. This stranger had inverted that saying. It isn't the stranger who doesn't last long; it's those he comes up against. The gas station at the factory was damaged beyond repair. The hacienda compound was breached. The gold shipment had been seized and the mercenaries neutralized. Scott Macready was in custody.

Not bad for a rolling stone.

Not good for the man he was pursuing.

A kidnapper and a braggart. A killer of cats and defenseless old men. A man Grant was desperate to meet again so he could pull the final tooth from the jaws of the Texan empire. The man in black. Tripp Macready.

Grant squinted through the windshield. The wipers were struggling to clear the screen. The road was a vague suggestion in the uneven landscape. There was no trail of dust to follow. There was no dust cloud following Grant. In the wet and stormy conditions there was no dust at all. The buttes and mesas were darker smudges on a horizon defined by smudges and sky. The sky was dirty and green, like a bruise that was beginning to heal. There were no breaks in the clouds. The wind pushed them across the sky like stampeding cattle.

The pickup followed the track. Hard-packed dirt that was now slick and muddy. Still hard but not good if he had to brake suddenly. It was so dark his headlights scythed through the rain like searchlight beams. It was the one thing that gave him hope he'd be able to see Macready once he got nearer. The Texan would need his lights on too. Taillights would stand out like shiny red beacons in the storm-ravaged day.

The road suddenly fell away in front of him. Grant slammed the brakes on. A bad mistake. The pickup slewed to its left and picked up speed. Like the skidpan at training school, Grant turned into the skid and took his foot off the gas. He dabbed at the brakes. Graded braking. The pickup stopped two feet short of where the road dipped into the dry gulch he'd crossed before.

The gulch wasn't dry anymore. The riverbed had become a raging torrent, carrying scrub and cacti with it. Rainwater from the hills of Big Bend National Park blasting through the watercourses of West Texas. Strong enough to sideswipe a battered pickup. Powerful enough to carry away an army jeep. Question was, how long had it been this deep? And had Tripp Macready already made it across?

Grant stared through the windshield at the edge of the road. It was impossible to tell if there were any tire tracks; the rain had washed them away. He looked out of the side windows. The track didn't deviate. It was cross the river or bust. He tried to remember if there'd been any turnoffs on the way. There weren't any. He'd have remembered from his previous trips.

Something flashed in the distance. Not lightning. The storm had eased, and it was now just heavy rain and strong winds. It was something red. Grant screwed his eyes up and focused on the distant horizon. There it was again. A double tap of red, there twice then gone again. A driver feathering the brakes so he didn't skid like Grant had done.

Grant let out a bark of satisfaction. He looked at the river again. There was only way to find out how deep it was. He steered for the middle of the slope and eased the pickup forward.

The water almost tore
the steering wheel from Grant's hands. It buffeted the pickup and threatened to lift it off the riverbed. The front tires bit into the sand and gravel bottom. The water level crept up the side of the cab, at the bottom of the door as Grant left the riverbank.

Grant held firm and drove slowly.

Three feet out from the riverbank.

Six inches farther up the pickup's door.

A surge turned the front wheels. Grant forced them back straight.

Three more feet.

Six more inches.

The river was getting deeper.

Three more feet.

Six more inches.

Halfway up the door now. Water leaked into the cab. Any deeper and the pickup would float away downriver. The load bed was empty. There was no extra weight to hold the pickup down. Grant forged ahead.

Three more feet.

The bottom leveled out. The water held steady halfway up the door. Grant pressed his foot on the gas. Forward momentum stabilized the wheels. A bow wave threatened to come over the radiator grill and hood. More speed. Steady acceleration. No sudden movements that might dislodge the traction the tires had built up.

Point of no return. Heading towards the opposite bank. Climbing out of the depths onto a gentle slope of silt and rock. The tires skidded once, then bit. Grant headed for the flat section of riverbank that he'd driven up twice before, both times in drier conditions. Low gear and steady movement kept the tires firmly grounded. The pickup came up out of the river dripping water from every orifice. Grant found the road again and put his foot down.

The pickup followed a gentle slope out of the arroyo, then the road crested between two crumbling buttes. He stopped on the brow of the hill. The road continued down the slope to the final stretch of flatland before the foothills of Big Bend National Park.

The small group of buildings at the bottom reminded Grant he'd arrived at Adobe Flats.

The red brake lights in the distance told him he wasn't alone.