Standoff (17 page)

"Right. He's sitting with his back to the counter."

"Silver duct tape sure shows up good against his black pants, doesn't it?"

Gully's sly gibe went unacknowledged. Galloway was studying the elderly couple sitting close together on the floor near Cain. "How about the old folks? Are they all right?"

"Wide-eyed and bushy-tailed from what I could tell."

"What about the other two men?"

"Mexican fellows. I heard one of them say something to the other in Spanish, but he was talking under his breath, and I wouldn't've understood it anyhow."

"Oh, Jesus." Galloway sprang far forward in his chair so quickly the casters sent it rolling from beneath him.

"What?"

The other agents, responding to their superior's apparent alarm, pushed the others aside and crowded around him. "This one." Galloway tapped the monitor screen.

"Take a good look and tell me if he looks familiar. Can you bring him in any closer?"

Using the technology available, the agent manning the controls isolated the Mexican man's face. He was able to enlarge the image, but doing so sacrificed quality and focus. The agents squinted at the grainy picture, then one of them snapped his head around and exclaimed, "Ah, shit!"

"What?" Dendy demanded.

Davison jumped in. "What's the matter?"

Galloway shoved them aside and began issuing orders to his subordinates. "Call the office. Get everyone mobilized.

Put out an APB—Montez, your men can help."

"Sure. But help what?" The sheriff raised his arms at his sides in a helpless shrug. "Yall have lost me."

"Round up all your deputies. Notify neighboring counties as well. Tell them to start looking for an abandoned truck. Railroad car. Moving van."

"Truck? Moving van? What the hell is going on?" Dendy had to shout to make himself heard above the confusion that Galloway's galvanizing orders had created in the cramped van. "What about my daughter?"

"Sabra, all of them, are in more danger than we thought."

As though to underscore Galloway's distressing words, they heard the unmistakable crack of gunfire.

Donna's blood-curdling scream brought Tiel to her feet. "What now?"

Ronnie was brandishing his pistol and shouting, "Get back! Get back! I'll shoot you!"

Two, the taller of the Mexicans, had charged him. Ronnie had halted him at gunpoint. "Where's the other one?" he shouted frantically. "Where's your buddy?"

Sabra screamed. "No! No!"

Tiel whirled around in time to see Juan snatch Katherine from Sabra's arms. He clutched the newborn tightly— too tightly—against his chest. The infant began squalling, but Sabra was shrieking as only a mother whose child is in danger can shriek. She was struggling to stand, clawing at

Juan's pants legs, as though to climb them.

"Sabra!" Ronnie cried. "What's wrong?"

"He has the baby! Give me my baby! Don't hurt her!"

Tiel lunged forward, but Juan thrust out his hand and the heel of it caught her in the sternum, forcing her back.

She cried out in pain and fear for the newborn.

Doc shouted a wordless protest, but Tiel reasoned that

he was afraid to charge Juan because of what he might do to the infant in retaliation.

"Tell him to give her the baby!" Ronnie was clutching the pistol in both hands, aiming it directly at Two's chest and yelling at the top of his lungs, as though volume could conquer the language barrier. "Tell your friend to give her the baby, or I'll kill you!"

Perhaps to see just how earnest Ronnie's threat was,

Juan made the mistake of glancing toward the front of the store where the two were facing off.

Doc used that split second to make a lunge for him.

But the Mexican reacted instantly. He executed a practiced uppercut that made a significant dent in Doc's belly.

Doc bent in half at the waist, then collapsed to the floor in front of the freezer.

"Tell him to give her the baby!" Ronnie repeated in a shrill voice that splintered like thin ice.

Donna wailed, "We're all gonna die."

Tiel was begging Juan not to harm Katherine. "Don't hurt her. She's no threat to you. Give the baby to her mother. Please. Please, don't do this."

Sabra was practically helpless. Nevertheless, maternal instinct propelled her to her feet. She was so weak she could barely stand. Swaying slightly, hand outstretched, she implored the man to return her baby to her.

Juan and Two were shouting back and forth to one another, trying to communicate above the other voices, including those of Vern and Gladys, who was cursing a blue streak. Donna was caterwauling. Agent Cain was shouting accusations at Ronnie, saying that if he had surrendered earlier this wouldn't have happened, that if the standoff resulted in tragedy it was no one's fault but his own.

The gunshot rendered everyone speechless.

Tiel, who had been appealing to Juan, witnessed his gri

mace when the bullet struck. Reflexively, he pitched forward and grabbed his thigh. He would have dropped

Katherine if Tiel hadn't been there to catch her.

Holding the baby close, she spun around, wondering how Ronnie had managed to get off such a clear and accurate shot, one so well placed that it had disabled Juan but hadn't endangered the baby.

But Ronnie still had the bore of his pistol trained on

Two's chest and seemed as surprised as anyone that a gun had been fired.

Doc had been the marksman. He was lying on his back on the floor, a small revolver in his hand. Tiel recognized

Agent Cain's weapon, the one she had kicked beneath the freezer and forgotten. Thank God Doc had remembered it.

He took advantage of the momentary silence. "Gladys, get over here."

The old lady came scurrying around the Frito-Lay display.

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Too bad."

"Take the baby so Tiel can tend to Sabra. I'll take care of him," he said, referring to Juan. "Ronnie, relax. Everything's under control. No need to panic."

"Is the baby okay?"

"She's fine." Gladys carried the crying infant over to where Ronnie could see her for himself. "She's mad as hell, and I can't say as I blame her." Glaring back at Juan where he now sat on the floor gripping his bleeding thigh, she snarled with contempt.

Several jabs of Ronnie's pistol sent Two skulking back to his original spot. His expression was meaner and more agitated than before.

Doc placed Cain's revolver high on a grocery shelf, well

out of Juan's reach, and knelt down to cut open his trouser leg with the scissors. "You'll live," he said laconically after assessing the damage and stuffing gauze pads into the wound. "Lucky for you the bullet missed the femoral artery."

Juan's eyes blazed with resentment.

"Doc?" Tiel had got Sabra to lie back down, but fresh blood was making the floor around her slick. The girl was ghastly pale.

"I know," Doc said soberly, picking up on Tiel's unspoken alarm. "I'm sure she reopened the tear in the perineum.

Make her as comfortable as you can. I'll be right back."

He had hurriedly bandaged Juan's wound and fashioned a tourniquet with another of the souvenir T-shirts.

Evidently in excruciating pain, Juan was sweating profusely, and his straight, white teeth were clenched. But, to his credit, he didn't cry out when Doc unceremoniously and none too gently hoisted him to his feet and supported him as he hopped on one foot.

As they went past Cain, the agent addressed the gunshot man. "You goddamn fool. You could've got us all killed. What were you—"

Quicker than a striking rattlesnake, Juan, using the foot of his injured leg, kicked Cain viciously in the head. The sudden move cost him dearly. He grunted with pain. Even so, his boot heel had connected solidly with bone, and the snapping sound was almost as loud as the pistol shot. Cain went silent and unconscious in the same instant. His chin dropped forward onto his chest.

Doc pushed Juan to the floor, propping him against the refrigerator well away from his confederate. "He's not going anywhere. But just to be safe, better bind his hands,

Ronnie. His too," he added, motioning toward Two.

Ronnie instructed Vern to tape the two men's hands and feet like Cain's. He held the pistol on them while the old man went about the task. Juan was too involved with his injured leg to waste energy on invectives, but Two was under no such constraints. He kept up a litany of what was presumed to be Spanish vulgarities until Ronnie threatened to gag him if he didn't shut up.

The ringing telephone had gone unanswered and largely ignored. Tiel, who had snapped on a pair of gloves with an alacrity that amazed her, was working frantically to replace the blood-soaked diaper beneath Sabra, when the phone suddenly stopped ringing and she heard Ronnie shout, "Not now, we're busy!" before slamming the receiver back into the cradle. Then he called, "How's

Sabra?"

Tiel addressed him over her shoulder. "Not good." She was vastly relieved to see Doc returning. "What's going on?"

'Juan kicked Cain in the head. He's unconscious."

"I never thought I'd be thanking that man for anything."

"Vern is binding them. I'm glad they're… contained."

She noticed the intensity in his face, and knew that

Sabra's worsening condition wasn't the only reason for it.

"Because they're loose cannons? They really had nothing to lose by trying to seize control of the situation."

"True. But what did they have to gain?"

Did Ronnie Davison really represent a threat to tough-looking hombres like them?

After thinking about it, she said, "Nothing that I can see."

"Nothing that you can see. That's what bothers me.

There's more," he continued in a lower voice. "Men with rifles have taken up position outside. Probably a SWAT

team."

"Oh, no."

"I saw them moving into place and taking cover."

"Has Ronnie seen them?"

"I don't think so. That shot I fired must've got everyone nervous. They're probably thinking the worst. They might storm the building, try coming in through the roof or something."

"He would freak."

"That's my point."

The telephone rang again. "Ronnie, answer it," Doc called to him. "Explain to them what happened."

"Not until I know Sabra's all right."

Although Tiel wasn't a medical expert by any means,

Sabra's condition appeared critical to her. But, like Doc, she didn't want Ronnie any more frazzled than he already was.

"Where's Katherine?" the girl asked weakly.

Doc, who had done his best to stem the flow of fresh blood, peeled off his glove and smoothed her hair away from her forehead. "Gladys is taking good care of her.

She's rocked her to sleep. Seems to me that baby girl is as brave as her mother."

Even a smile seemed too much of an effort for her.

"We're not going to get out of here, are we?"

"Don't say that, Sabra," Tiel whispered fiercely, watching

Doc's face as he read the blood-pressure gauge.

"Don't even think it."

"Daddy's not going to give up. Neither am I. And neither is Ronnie. He can't now anyway. If he did, they'd just put him in jail."

She divided a glassy, hollow-eyed gaze between Tiel and

Doc. "Tell Ronnie to come over here. I want to talk to him. Now. I don't want to wait any longer."

Although she didn't specifically mention their suicide

pact, her meaning was clear. Tiel's chest grew tight with anxiety and despair. "We can't let you do it, Sabra. You know it's wrong. It's not the answer."

"Please help us. It's what we want."

Then, of their own volition and against her will, her eyes closed. She was too weak to reopen them and lapsed into a doze.

Tiel looked across at Doc. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"Very. Blood pressure's dropping. Pulse is high. She's going to bleed out."

"What are we going to do?"

Sternly staring into the girl's pale, still face, he thought on it a moment, then said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do."

He stood up, retrieved the pistol from the shelf, stepped around the Frito-Lay display, and approached

Ronnie, who was waiting for an update on Sabra's condition.

chapter

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Why aren't they answering the phone?" Events had reduced Dendy's characteristic bellow to a high-pitched squeal. He was beside himself.

Indeed, the gunshots had plunged everyone inside the van into a state of near panic. Cole Davison had rushed outside, only to return moments later, yelling at Galloway because the SWAT team had been mobilized.

"You promised! You said Ronnie wouldn't get hurt. If you pressure him, if he feels like you're closing in on him, he might… might do something like he did before."

"Calm down, Mr. Davison. I'm taking precautionary measures as I see fit." Galloway held the telephone receiver to his ear, but thus far his call into the convenience store had gone unanswered. "Can anybody see anything?"

"Movement," one of the other agents hollered. Via a headset, he was communicating with another agent outside who was equipped with binoculars. "Can't make out who's doing what."

"Keep me posted."

"Yes, sir. Are you going to tell the kid about Huerta?"

"Who's that?" Dendy wanted to know.

"Luis Huerta. One of our Ten Most Wanted." To the other agent, Galloway replied, "No, I'm not going to tell them. That might panic everyone, including Huerta. He's capable of just about anything."

Ronnie answered the phone. "Not now, we're busy!"

Galloway swore lavishly when the dial tone replaced

Ronnie's frantic voice. He immediately redialed.

"One of the Mexicans in there is on the FBI's Ten Most

Wanted list?" Cole Davison was becoming increasingly distraught.

"What for? What'd he do?"

"He smuggles Mexican nationals across the border with promises of work visas and well-paying jobs, then sells them into slave labor. Last summer Border Patrol got tipped of a transport and were hot on his tail. Huerta and two of his henchmen, realizing they were about to be apprehended, abandoned the truck in the New Mexico desert and scattered like the cockroaches they are. All evaded capture.