Adobe Flats (19 page)

thirty-four

Fresh meat and tranquilizers.
Grant wasn't looking for car spares and didn't plan on entering the fenced compound at Sixto's, but he couldn't trust old Pedro not to bark. The guard dog might have wagged its tail and smiled at him before, but dogs have a way of changing their allegiance after dark. It was after dark now. Quarter to eleven. A cloudless sky. The moon was finally up.

Grant padded across the road and bypassed the gas pumps. Sixto's was locked and dark. Gilda's Grill stood empty; that thought spurred him on. The roller shutter doors of the mechanics' bays were closed. Moonlight glinted off the scrapped cars in the compound. Bright spots and shadows.

The dog was hiding in the shadows.

Grant heard the low growl off to his right. He waved the drugged meat in one hand and made soothing noises. He'd never owned a dog. He wasn't sure what sounds would calm old Pedro. In the end it was the meat that made the difference more than the low whistles and soft clucking noises. The dog wagged its tail as it came towards the fence.

The meat didn't last five minutes. Grant hoped Doc Cruz hadn't overdone it with the tranquilizers. The dog hadn't hurt anyone. The others waited across the road. Grant didn't want them reminding it to bark at strangers. He supposed that meant he wasn't a stranger anymore.

Ten minutes later, Pedro curled up and went to sleep. Grant signaled the others and turned away from the fence, then stopped. He looked through the wire at the scrapped cars. A junkyard for motor spares. He thought about the other junkyard—the Absolution town dump. The old-timer with a keen eye and an arsenal of weapons. A sniper's rifle would be perfect if Grant had to take that shot again.

He brushed the thought aside and went to the sales kiosk. The office was dark, the only light coming from the electronic bug fryer above the door. Purple light drew flies towards it like moths to a flame. Another thought crossed his mind. Even with the guns he could get from the old-timer, a frontal assault was a high-risk strategy. If he could draw them out, it would be better. Draw them to the flame. Make them easy targets.

He glanced over his shoulder at the gas pumps. There were no fumes hanging around like a hazy mirage, but that was an easy fix. The pumps weren't locked. Like Scott Macready had said, nobody steals from him. He wondered if that attitude applied to the security of the office. He checked. The door was locked. Ah, well. Nothing worth doing came easy. He scanned the front of the building for CCTV cameras. None. Then he checked the door for alarm sensors. None. This was a trusting town. Nobody wanted to go up against Macready.

Doc Cruz jogged across the forecourt and stood wheezing next to Grant. It was the second time the doctor had been out of breath by the time he'd joined the English cop. The two stood looking at each other for a moment, twinned by sadness and a sense of purpose. This was the beginning of payback time.

Grant kicked the door open.

Then he heard the low rumble that changed everything.

“Damn. We should have
come straight to Sarah's.”

Grant closed the door and moved into the shadows, away from the window. Moonlight meant the shadows were towards the back of the office. That was good. The telephone was towards the back of the office. The bad thing was his assumption that Macready would have gone straight over to the motel after the explosion. The dull, rumbling vibration meant Macready was busy, and not just preparing to defend against Jim Grant.

Doc Cruz crouched behind the glass-top counter. “You might still have been too late.”

“I might not have.”

He took Cruz's hand and laid it on the countertop.

“Feel that?”

The vibration hummed through the glass. Cruz nodded.

“Trucks.”

Doc Cruz slumped into a chair behind the cash register. “Tony said it was too soon.”

Grant went to the phone and waited. He scanned the forecourt. There was no movement. Sabata was waiting in the pickup with the others. Lights out, hidden among the scrub and cacti across the road. He thought about Sabata's analysis. It held water given the limited information available. Under normal circumstances it was too soon for another convoy. The factory explosion and Grant on the loose meant these weren't normal circumstances. The smuggling operation was exposed at the moment. That situation was time sensitive. Capture Grant and kill the witnesses, and it could be business as usual. Until then…

“Macready's closing it down. One last shipment to keep the partners up north off his back. They must carry a lot of clout.”

“What?”

“Power. I mean, he thought they sent me as a hit man.”

Doc Cruz laid a hand on Grant's forearm. “You are a hit man.”

Grant let out a sigh. “I was a typist.”

“In the army? After the shot?”

“For the rest of my service. I never fired a gun again.”

“Ever?”

Grant thought about Snake Pass in Yorkshire. Boston and Los Angeles since he'd come to America. He held out a hand, palm down, and quivered it.

“Not much.”

Cruz leaned forward and locked eyes with Grant.

“This would be a good time. There are still good people in Absolution. People who would help. People who can get weapons.”

Grant shook his head. “People who could get killed.”

“They are getting killed now.”

“Not most of them. Most of them are getting by. Dying is forever.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Grant considered that.

“Something massive.”

The rumbling vibration grew louder. It was difficult to gauge what direction, but Grant already knew. The athletics track outside Macready's walled compound. He counted the minutes in his head. Remembered how long it took for the trucks to park up in formation. When he thought it had been long enough, he clicked his fingers.

The vibration stopped.

The mercenaries would be climbing aboard and getting ready to leave on the slow drive through town, then south towards Adobe Flats. Scott Macready had fucked up last time. This was a bigger deal. Grant was willing to bet that Tripp Macready would be in charge.

The gas pumps stood mute on the forecourt. Maybe Grant wouldn't need a flame to draw the moths. The moths were leaving and wouldn't be back until dawn. That left Grant plenty of time to prepare a sunrise surprise. He picked up the phone and began to dial from memory.

Doc Cruz pushed the chair back from the counter.

“Are you still calling the army?”

Grant nodded in the direction of the staging area.

“Those are the army's trucks. No point ringing Fort Stockton. Somebody up there supplied them.”

“Who then?”

“Somebody who can go around the side.”

The phone rang three times. Then John Cornejo answered.

thirty-five

“Do the Texans know
shit keeps blowing up around you?”

Cornejo's voice was calm and friendly. Nothing like the suicidal ex-marine whom Grant had met on the subway in Boston. Or the man caught in the explosion at the John B. Hynes Convention
Center
.

“Doesn't seem to have done you any harm.”

Cornejo chuckled down the phone.

“You know what they say. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.”

Grant leaned against the wall with the phone to his ear. “That's not what you said when I met you.”

Cornejo went quiet for a moment, and Grant thought his attempt at humor had overstepped the mark. Cornejo had been a damaged man until helping Grant had given him renewed purpose. Maybe reminding the marine of that was a bit insensitive. The voice that came back on the line was a long way from depressed.

“If I'd known you were gonna get me blown up, I'd have said a lot more.”

Grant smiled in the shadows.

“I dare say you would.”

Cornejo got straight to the point, with a twist. “So, what's going on? You don't come round. You never call.”

Grant's smile became a grin. “Don't go all
Brokeback Mountain
on me.”

Cornejo chuckled again. “I'd call you a top man, but you wouldn't like it.”

“Top man is good, isn't it?”

“Not in America. Means the man who gets on top.”

Grant feigned shock, making a shivering noise down the phone. “Pitcher, not receiver?”

“Hole in one.”

“Golf jokes now. In snooker it's called going for the difficult brown instead of the easy pink.”

“We play pool over here.”

“Good for you.”

The conversation was light and chatty. Two ex-servicemen catching up over the phone. It was nice to hear a familiar voice. Grant made a mental note to meet up when he was back doing Boston PD duties. It felt good to still be in a disciplined service. Lots of ex-servicemen became cops. It maintained the continuity of being part of a uniformed body. He made another mental note to retrieve his badge wallet from Scott Macready. There were other things he wanted to discuss with the Macready pup too, when he could get him alone.

Cornejo turned serious. “Okay, Jim. Let's have it.”

Grant adjusted the phone at his ear. “You've never been much fun since you got your laces back.”

“Don't know why they took 'em. Nobody hangs themselves with shoelaces.”

The fact that Cornejo could joke about his suicidal tendencies suggested he was fully recovered. That was important. It was also the reason Grant had called him. Because the army didn't reinstate ex-marines who were still likely to kill themselves. Grant tested his information.

“I hear you're back in the service.”

Cornejo sounded wary. “Not in. More around the edges.”

“VA liaison?”

“A bit more than that. Reward for saving Senator Clayton.”

“Couldn't have gone to a better man.”

“That's true. Now, what do you want?”

Grant checked his watch to see how much time he had. The white band of skin against his tan stood out in the dark. The watch was somewhere in the scrub and rubble off the mountain road. He glanced at the wall clock above the counter. Just after eleven o'clock. He couldn't do anything until the trucks left. He reckoned that Macready was too busy to be monitoring calls made from Absolution but didn't want to take the chance. The Texan had plenty of people working for him. Delegation was a key part of management.

“You've got access to the defense department. Right?”

Cornejo didn't dodge the question. “I liaise with them all the time. Yes.”

Grant nodded even though Cornejo couldn't see him.

“Good. This is what I need.”

Silence filled Sixto's office
when Grant hung up. Starlight through the window silvered the counter and the cash register. Everything else was in shadow, apart from the bug zapper above the door. As if to prove the point, a fly zapped itself on the grid. The noise sounded loud in the hushed atmosphere.

Doc Cruz coughed politely. “You think that is going to work?”

Grant felt like he'd been holding his breath. He let it out now. “Depends on how long it takes him to convince the brass.”

The doctor rubbed his chin. “And what are you going to do in the meantime?”

Grant smiled in the darkness. “Suit up and get in the game.”

Doc Cruz saw the smile and reciprocated. “Now you sound like an American.”

Grant flexed his aching muscles. Everything hurt.

“Don't Mexicans play baseball?”

The Mexican nodded. “And football. Not soccer. That's for overpriced prima donnas.”

“I'm with you there. There's only one man overpriced in Absolution.”

“Macready.”

“And it's time to bring on the pain.”

Doc Cruz moved along the counter towards Grant. “I meant what I said before. There are still good people here.”

“That's what I'm counting on. After.”

“Not after. Now. You cannot fight him unarmed.”

Grant thought about the old-timer at the town dump. The exploding rat and the sniper's rifle. The propane gas bottles and the boarded-up mobile home used as an armory.

“I won't be unarmed.”

Pilar Cruz's father looked worried.

“You cannot do this alone.”

Grant looked him in the eye.

“I won't be alone.”

There was a low rumble like distant thunder. The trucks were starting up. Grant laid a hand on the counter and felt the vibration as the convoy began to move out from the athletics track. Minus the two army jeeps that were now burned out at Macready's factory. In five minutes the convoy would be through town and heading south towards Adobe Flats. He looked out of the window, but the junction was hidden from view.

The rumble grew louder. Vibrations shook the clock on the wall. The sound of distant thunder. A storm was coming. Grant was going to make sure of that. He turned back to Doc Cruz.

“Because as soon as they've gone, you and Sabata are going to help me.”

thirty-six

Preparations for battle always
include three things: supplies, personnel, and location. Not necessarily in that order. You could add a fourth, enemy forces, but Grant already knew about most of them. The mercenaries protecting the convoy and the skeleton crew covering the hacienda. Grant would get more info about the skeleton crew when he scouted the location. The battlefield would be Avenue D, the athletics track, and the walled compound. Macready's Alamo, only with the boot on the other foot. This time the invaders were the good guys.

The personnel were already sorted. Doc Cruz, Tony Sabata, and whoever of his friends wanted to pitch in. Grant turned down Doc Cruz's offer of help from the townspeople. Like John Wayne in
Rio Bravo,
he only wanted professionals or people already invested in the conflict. Grant ticked personnel off his list. That only left supplies.

He hoped the old-timer at the dump didn't have an itchy trigger finger.

The battered metal sign
was still rusty and full of bullet holes.

ABSOLUTION
TOWN DUMP
By Local Ordinance

Even in the dark some of the holes looked fresh. The moon painted the desolate wasteland an unearthly blue. The harsh light made the rust patches look like dried blood, black and congealed and leaking from the bullet holes. The sign rattled against the wire fence as Grant slipped through the gap.

He stopped at the edge of the shortcut and held both hands in the air.

“Hey—there in the shed.”

No reply.

Grant risked a couple of steps towards the mobile home. The hanging basket swayed gently in the overnight breeze. Even at this time of night, the breeze was warm. He wondered if it was ever cold in Texas.

“Hey—shithouse rat eyes.”

The breeze dropped. The basket stopped swinging. The mobile home was in darkness. No lights inside. No lights covering the town dump. Something swooped out of the night sky, then disappeared. Then something else—bats. Three or four of them. Grant didn't know you could have bats without trees for them to hang from. He guessed he was wrong. The bats swooped and dipped and didn't come anywhere close to bumping into him. They spent a couple more minutes playing around the town dump, then moved away. The night became still again.

Until the door creaked open.

And the rifle barrel poked out of the opening.

“This ain't no shed.”

Grant moved into the open so the old-timer could get a clear view. “And I'm no rat. Just want to make that clear before you get all rhetorical on me.”

The old-timer lowered the rifle and came down the steps.

“It's clear. All the rats in Absolution work for Macready. From what I hear, you're off his Christmas list.”

“Me and the cat. And Hunter Athey.”

The old-timer grumphed a response that could have meant anything but Grant took as being disgust. Maybe a hint of sadness. The old man leaned the rifle against the garden chair.

“Heard about that too. Living around Macready, I sometimes think the dump is the cleanest place to be.”

Grant stood in the clearing in front of the makeshift home. “That'd mean you're just the person I need to see.”

He nodded at a duplicate sign nailed to the caravan wall beside the door.

ABSOLUTION
TOWN DUMP
By Local Ordinance

“Does that make you the local ordinance?”

The old-timer puffed out his chest and straightened his back. “That makes me Josiah Hooper. Most people call me Joe.”

Grant waved a hand towards the rifle.

“Well, Joe. How'd you like to do a little target practice?”

Forty-five minutes later, Grant
was loaded up with supplies. If the wooden chest he'd examined at the factory looked like pirates' gold, then Joe Hooper's armory was a treasure trove. It was better stocked than most gunsmiths. There were handguns, shotguns, machine guns, and hunting rifles. The handguns ranged from revolvers to semi-automatics. The machine guns were mainly for show, their firing pins removed, but the hunting rifles were as mean as a junkyard dog. Full bore. Telescopic sights. Sniper's rifles in all but name.

Ammunition was more of a problem. The firearms were lovingly restored castoffs salvaged by a man with nothing but time on his hands. Some had been in Hooper's store for decades. Some looked almost new. The one thing Hooper wasn't equipped to restore was ammunition. The secondhand armory carried a certain amount just so he'd have something to sell but not all calibers for all weapons. That limited Grant's choices.

In the end he took the safest option: a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38 snub-nose police special. Plenty of ammo and the least likely to jam. He also selected a worn and scratched pump-action shotgun and a hunting rifle without a telescopic sight. He preferred to aim along the barrel. He wasn't planning on being far from his target.

That was Grant's firepower organized. Sabata and his crew didn't need anything. They'd already shown a propensity for firearms at the Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. Doc Cruz didn't want a gun. Grant could understand that. He hated guns himself. Had done ever since he'd taken that shot in a desert township many years ago. He had to admit, though, that his aim was better than his typing. He wasn't planning on typing tonight.

The rest of Grant's supplies were hard and heavy and took up too much room. The gas bottles were too bulky to carry, and the handcart that Joe Hooper used to move them around the propane store could only take two or three. Grant tapped one of the familiar blue gas bottles. The ping echoed through the night. He nodded for Sabata to reverse his pickup into the yard.

Personnel. Check.

Supplies. Check.

Now it was time to scout the location and enemy strength.

“She is inside with
the Macready pup.”

Javier seemed like a million miles from the old Mexican Grant had first seen behind the counter at Sixto's. Having worked for Macready all these years, it appeared the prospect of payback was giving him a new lease on life. He wasn't even out of breath after climbing the stairs to the bell tower in the white stucco church with the
powder blue steeple.

Grant scanned the battleground from the highest point in Absolution, at the junction of Avenue D and North Third Street. The nearest place to God, some people thought. Grant didn't believe in God, only the best place to view the layout and finalize his plan. The charges were set, gas bottles placed at strategic points around the compound, and instructions given. This was Grant's last chance to run through it in his head before doing one more thing.

Rescuing the girl.

“How many men?”

Javier crouched between Doc Cruz and Grant. “Two that I could see. Three including the pup.”

Grant took that as an estimate. He reckoned at least four plus Scott Macready. The main force would be protecting the convoy because that was the obvious target, but old man Macready was too wick to leave the hacienda unguarded. Moonlight threw the street into sharp relief; a pale blue expanse with pitch-black shadows. The moon would be a problem. It was like a searchlight covering the perimeter. The only shadows Grant could hide in were from the derelict buildings across the street. From there it was open ground all the way apart from the sports stand next to the athletics track.

Grant looked over his shoulder. The distant horizon was obscured by a cloud shoulder building in the south. Some of the clouds looked dark and heavy. A flicker of lightning forked the ground. The storm was still a long way off and moving slowly, coming this way. There was no thunder. Not yet. Overhead, above Absolution, a smattering of loose clouds acted as vanguard to the approaching storm. One fluffy white cloud drifted in front of the moon, and the street went dark. Just for a minute. Then the pale blue light came back. That would be Grant's window of opportunity when the time came.

Grant patted Javier on the shoulder.

“Thanks. Go join the others.”

The Mexican nodded and went back down the stairs. The bell tower fell silent. The town below waited. Grant could feel the pressure from the weather front building, but his internal pressure was zero. He relaxed. That was always his way. A few deep breaths and a flexing of muscles and he would be ready. It was his greatest strength, being able to remain calm under pressure. There was more at stake this time, though. After his shortcomings all those years ago.

Rescue the girl.

Not shoot the girl.

Doc Cruz sensed Grant's indecision. Pilar's father leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. Whatever happened today, the town his daughter had grown up in would be changed forever, for good or for bad. He spoke to Grant's silhouette.

“I do not blame you. For what you did.”

Grant's shoulders slumped. “I blame myself.”

“Pilar wouldn't blame you either. Otherwise she wouldn't have asked you to return her stethoscope.”

Grant turned towards Doc Cruz but didn't speak. He'd thought he was past all this. The recriminations. The pain. The past was the past. He only ever looked forward while living in the here and now. The here and now today was rescuing Sarah Hellstrom and punishing Tripp Macready.

Doc Cruz spoke in a whisper. “You have come to the right place to seek absolution.”

Grant shook his head. “Justice. There is no absolution.”

Another cloud obscured the moon. Briefly. The first sounds of distant thunder rumbled in the south, a long way off but creeping north. The two men looked out across the town with the prophetic name. Doc Cruz nodded towards the hacienda.

“Then go save the girl. And forgive yourself.”