Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (32 page)

“All secure,” Zach called up the stairwell to Amalia. While listening to her feet slap against the metal stairs, he gathered his gun and the two guns dropped by the guards.

When Amaila neared the bottom, Zach said, “You might want to shield your …”

The girl poised on the last step, eyes fixated on the dead man. She snorted. “You think I not see dead men before.” With hands on hips, she leveled her gaze at Zach. “I live in Mexico. When gangs fight, they leave many dead bodies. Beinvenida para mi mundo.”
Welcome to my world.

“Okay … then,” Zach drew out his words. “Wait there.” He motioned for her to stay at the stairs then nodded at the door. “I’m going to check it out.”

The injured man moaned for the girl to help him.

“I hope you die many slow deaths,” she said in Spanish, her eyes narrowed into angry slits. She spat at him.

Zach raised an eyebrow.
Sticky note to me, never make a Mexican
chick mad.
He eased open the door and peered through the crack. The stairs led to a utility room with a boiler and AC units.

“It’s clear,” Zach called over his shoulder.

“This I know. Follow me,” Amalia brushed past him and marched into the room. An open seven-foot wide roll-up door cast dim illumination from the last throes of sundown.

Zach slinked behind the girl in a low crouch. His gaze swept across the room.

“This way,” the girl said, motioning with an index finger.

“Wait,” Zach called out to her, but she ignored his soft cry.

Muttering, he grabbed her arm. “Hold up, there.”

She jerked her arm free of his grasp and started to say something. Zach clamped a hand over her mouth.

She tried to bite him.

“Be quiet,” he hissed. “Callate. Mal hombres.” He pulled her into the shadows behind a tractor just as two guards strolled past.

Her soft, brown eyes went wide. She nodded.

Zach eased his hand from her mouth. “¿Donde estan las muchachas?”
Where are the girls?

Amalia pointed at a door secured. A steel bar across the door ensured no one from the room would escape. “Allí.”
There.

They crossed the grease-stained cement floor, skirting around a pallet with a discarded boiler and HVAC apparatus. Lawn care equipment and yard decorations sat along one wall. In the center of the wall, between racks of tools, the door awaited them.

“Esconde te.”
Hide.
Zach pointed to a hidden and secluded spot.

He waited until Amalia crammed her body into the hiding place, and then motioned for silence. She nodded again.

With both hands, he strained to lift the steel bar. Muscles tensed at the weight of the metal, but Zach set it down against the wall without making a sound.
Man, is that thing ever heavy. It must weigh over sixty pounds. Closer to seventy. Maybe even eighty.

He opened the door an inch and said into the opening, “WPD. Don’t move.” Then he flung open the door the rest of the way.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Garcon DePute followed Johnny Batts, guns pointing down. They ducked under the door rolling upwards, exiting the tunnel, and dashed into an indoor pool area. The room’s moist heat smacked DePute like a girl-slap, sweat immediately beading on his forehead. An indoor Olympic-sized pool spread out before him. Lights from the pool sent dancing circles of illumination onto the walls and ceiling. Arrangements of plants and a manmade waterfall in the back of the room created a jungle-like atmosphere. Lounge chairs and wicker tables formed perfect military lines besides the pool.

A dozen armed men, smoking cigarettes and lounging at the bar near the glass wall, spotted them at once.

Holy Ungnarly.

DePute dodged in one direction, failing to see where Batts went. Several shots rang out, bullets whistling overhead. He scrambled behind a bar with a shiny metallic front and tucked the handgun between his belt and his lower back. He lowered the rifles from his shoulders, laying them out before him. The clips of ammo he dropped beside the guns.

He snatched one of the rifles and jammed home a clip. More
bullets pinged the metallic surface of the bar. One struck a metal pole behind him and ricocheted off with a zing.

He raised the rifle over the bar and, aiming at the shooters, emptied the clip in three burst spreads. A strangled cry acknowledged he hit someone.

Maybe that’ll slow ’em down.

A dozen bullets smacked against the bar.

Then again, this is jacked.

He leaned to peer around the side of the bar when the lights went out.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Cora Heilo heard them first.

Kneeling next to Whitewolf, she noticed no fresh tracks cut through the muck. She patted Whitewolf on the shoulder.

“No one’s been through here,” she whispered.

He nodded.

The first storm had passed into the eastern night. A new one approached from the western sunset, flashes of lightning on the horizon. A distant rumble of thunder registered in her mind. Frowning, she tilted her head to listen better.

What the … that’s not thunder.
She tilted her head, listening. “Hey, listen. Helicopters. We’ve got incoming birds.”

Whitewolf glanced up at her. “They ours?”

“How should I know?”

“If they’re List’s … we’re like Custer.” Whitewolf shook his head. “I don’t like this.”

“Oh. No. No no no no …” She threw looks between Whitewolf and the direction of the house.

“Now what?”

“The explosives in the truck,” she said, her eyes going wide.

“Huh?”

“Don’t interrupt.” Cora held up a hand to stop him. “I’m thinking here.”

Whitewolf ignored her comment. “I been wondering over the amount of resistance we’ve experienced here. I expected more. Much more. So far, the resistance’s been little more than token. Almost as if—”

The thump-thump-thump of the helicopters’ rotors drew closer.

“Hey!”

Cora and Whitewolf spun around, raising their weapons, only to see Chee and Iona hurrying down the driveway.

“Get back to the gate,” Whitewolf said.

“No, wait—” Chee began.

“You heard the man,” Cora added.

Iona shouted, “Will you listen to him?”

“I heard a strange thing when we were prisoners,” Chee said. He paused and looked at each of them in turn. “One of the guards said something about some wiring’s done. The other mentioned going home tonight. I had trouble understanding their Spanish accent. But I think they mentioned fireworks.”

“Oh my sweet mercy.” Cora held her palms against her temples. “List’s wired the house with explosives. It’s a trap. We have to warn the Chief and the others.”

The scent of the female Skinwalker dominated the earthy odors. She had the shield and the feather, and all he had to do was take them from her dead body. With the thought of gaining ownership of the totems, jubilation coursed through his veins.

Sounds flooded his ears—the raindrops, the thunder in the east, the cops running up the driveway, the helicopters, the rabbit scurrying away. And the witch’s ragged breathing. She stopped. So did he. Moments later, she moved like a glider. Though muted, her footsteps exposed her exact location to him.

When she turned, so did he. He raced to intersect her. He longed to breathe in the exhilarating scent of her spilt blood.
The more blood the better.
To watch her draw her last breath. To hear that final exhale of air. To sense her soul exiting.

Then he’d finish off that Whiskey pig. Rage seethed through his veins at the mere thought of the man. Perhaps he’d take him back over the border.
Make him suffer. Skin him slow.

Through the undergrowth, he caught a flash of movement. The
witch. Her accelerated heartbeat sounded loud in his head. He dashed across a patch of bare earth, gaining on her.

What’s that?

A breeze carried the scent of the car and its warm engine. Along with a taste of perfume.
Dawlsen’s wife.
Another opportunity presenting itself. He could barely believe his good luck.

Take down the witch. Get the artifacts. Kill the Dawlsen woman. Then start my war. The squaw’s headed for the car. Must stop her.

She changed course again. Demonio raced into the clearing mere seconds behind the woman. Steeling his legs, he sprang and tackled her. They fell to the wet ground together. She grunted as he slammed on top of her. He rolled off her and leapt to his feet.

The Navajo rose to kneel on all fours, gasping for air. She turned her head towards him. Loathing oozed from her eyes.

“You are not Diné,” she said. “You are Nakai. You desecrate my people.”

“Screw you, Injun,” Demonio said, and kicked her in the side. Pain shot up his leg.
She wears the feather. Its magic protects her.

He spoke her name in Navajo. “I take my magic back.” He reached down but she clawed his hand. He stepped back clutching his bloody wound, and she rose to her feet. With a curse, he attacked. They traded punches in a furious exchange. She swung her claws at his face, but he blocked it and returned a solid blow to her chin. Her eyes rolled back up into her head, and she collapsed. Reaching down, he tore the shield and feather from her. Their shamanistic power coursed through his veins and charged his muscles.

He snapped a two-inch thick dead branch from a tree. Swishing the heavy limb back and forth, he relished his newfound power.

She watched the limb, her eyes widening. The scent of her fear overwhelmed his nostrils, and he smiled. “I will kill the Dawlsen woman and return for you. If you survive this.”

He swung the branch like a baseball bat, enjoying the smack of wood against her skull.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Junior lurked in the undergrowth, slithering like a freshly fed viper towards the car
.

Through the foliage, he spotted the pastel color of her blouse. The faint fragrance of her perfume danced on the breezes. He loved pretty-smelling women. Not like the ones he took in Phoenix or Tucson and their cheap perfume. Heavy Mexican twenty-somethings or scrawny white runaways. Though he did enjoy beating them
.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he waited. When the pounding of arousal slowed, he eased through a wide opening in the brush. A dozen more steps, and he’d be clear of the undergrowth. He estimated three more would take him to the car.

She turned like she sensed something, and he stopped in mid-step.
Don’t move. Movement gets you noticed.
She peered into the underbrush, staring directly at him but didn’t see him. Junior didn’t blink. He held his breath and ignored the trickle of sweat rolling across his cheek.

Her gaze swept on. If she saw him, she gave no indication. Then Junior spotted her gun and the practiced way she held it.
She’s prepared to shoot. Too bad she’s looking the wrong way.

He pushed the rest of the way through the copse, making no
sound, and emerged into the open. Too late, Junior realized there was a kid in the car. The twerp stared right at him.

“MOM!” the kid screamed, pounding on the glass.

The Dawlsen woman wheeled, but Junior swept upon her. Before she could bring the gun into play, he punched her in the mouth. She collapsed, blood pouring from her split lip. Junior stood over her a moment, gleeful he had knocked her unconscious. He ignored the kid pounding on the car window, yelling at him.

Junior bent over to take the gun from her. As his hand started to close on the barrel, she opened her eyes to stare right into his.

“Eat lead, Junior,” she said and pulled the trigger. The gun exploded.

Junior screamed as the bullet tore through the GSR-blackened skin between forefinger and thumb. He raised his arm to see half his hand was gone. The shock kept the pain at bay. He flung out a string of curses.

The Dawlsen woman let loose with a feral yell. He glimpsed her swinging the weapon a moment before it caught him on the cheekbone.

Stars exploded in his skull. He staggered backwards. Touching his good hand up to his cheek, he found the wound already swelling. A sticky wetness covered his fingers. He stared at the crimson dripping from his fingertips. His mouth formed a snarl.

The Dawlsen woman moved backwards, keeping a firm grasp on the gun.

Junior stumbled after her, intent in stripping the gun from her.

“Mister.”

The kid’s voice came from right behind him.

“No!” screamed the woman, “Run, Manny!”

Junior spun and saw the kid just a few steps away. He pounced on the boy, seizing his thin shoulders. Pain shot through his wounded hand. The kid went limp. Junior lost his hold at the sudden dead weight.

Junior cursed and cradled his damaged hand.

Lying on his back, the boy drew a leg towards his chest then lashed out. The foot caught Junior in his groin. Shock engulfed him. Anguish paralyzed him. Then he heard a gun blast the same moment a hot searing spasm struck him in the back.