Adobe Flats (8 page)

thirteen

How to get there
proved to be novel in the extreme. The hearse was big and heavy and a much softer ride than Sarah's little foreign car. It hugged the road and smoothed out the bumps. Terlingua wasn't on the map he'd read at the Gage Hotel. Grant had to check the larger map at the Absolution Motel when he picked up the hearse. It didn't seem that far. Until he'd been driving for an hour.

A hundred miles as the crow flies. A lot more on the winding roads of West Texas. Across to Marathon, then south on the 385. The road was straight enough to begin with but quickly deteriorated into just another desert highway. It rose and fell with the gentle undulations of the landscape, then slowly began to rise more often than it fell. Into the foothills of Big Bend National Park before swinging west between towering buttes and mesas.

Grant thought about what Hunter Athey had told him. He wondered about a world where a man had to hide under a false name just to survive. Hiding in plain sight, true. Working at a half-assed medical center a hundred and twenty miles away but hiding all the same.

Texas. Not the best place to be a Mexican. Unless you were close to the Mexican border. Big Bend National Park ran right along the Mexican border. Terlingua wasn't far from it either.

The 385 became the 170. The blacktop remained the same. Faded and dusty and as winding as Snake Pass back in Yorkshire. Grant kept his eyes on the road, but his peripheral vision couldn't hide from the desert landscape sliding by on either side. He drove past Kathy's Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe on the left, a florid pink barbecue shack and reconstituted schoolbus. The American equivalent of a roadside burger van. The road cut through Study Butte, then dropped down out of the foothills towards Terlingua. A blink-and- you'd-miss-it town so small it made Absolution look like New York.

Grant didn't blink and he still nearly missed it. There was no bullet-riddled
welcome to terlingua
sign at the town limits. There was no sign at all. It was only the El Dorado Hotel where the road branched right that marked the beginning of anything. It was the first building he'd seen in twenty minutes. He pulled over and stopped amid a cloud of dust. Terlingua Ghost Town Road was a single-lane excuse for a road that didn't look like it went anywhere. The only other building was a speck on the horizon. If Eduardo Cruz was hiding in plain sight, he couldn't have picked a better place. The entire town was hiding in plain sight and Grant hadn't found it yet.

He urged the hearse forward, taking the right-hand fork. The El Dorado drifted by. The dust cloud followed him like a cape. The place was so barren there weren't even any cacti. The sun baked down from a hard blue sky. Sweat trickled from Grant's hairline and down the back of his ears. His T-shirt was sticking to his back as the leather seat grew unbearably hot even with the windows open. He kept his pace slow. This wasn't a place you rushed through. Not if you were looking for something. Not if you took the right-hand fork.

There should have been vultures circling overhead. If this had been a movie, there'd be tumbleweeds blowing across the road. Neither was true. Terlingua was dry and empty and silent as the grave.

Grant reached over and touched the scarred velvet case on the passenger seat. Long and narrow. Solid. He could almost feel the stethoscope inside even though he couldn't touch it. Hadn't touched it for many years. The hard land sucked all the color out of the day. No greenery. No shade. As Sean Connery had said in
The Wind and the Lion
, “Where there is no shade from the sun, there is only desert. The desert I know very well.” Or something like that. In a Scottish accent. The main point was the bit about knowing the desert. Grant knew desert country. The landscape here was similar but different. The difference was people weren't shooting at him or trying to carve him up. Those were his overriding memories of the desert. Where his mind took him now.

the past

What the fuck? You aren't gonna outrun 'em.

—Cooper

fourteen

The stethoscope lasted half
an hour before common sense prevailed. Half an hour after sunrise. Half an hour after Grant checked the downed Chinook to confirm the obvious. Wheeler, Carlino, and Adams hadn't made it out of the chopper. The pilots were dead too. Grant didn't say any words over the deceased. He didn't waste time trying to recover the bodies. Two of them were half buried under the wreckage. The others were in pieces. While there was a certain amount of honor in the old maxim “Leave no man behind,” it made no sense to sacrifice the rest so that families would have body parts at the funeral. Grant's duty now was to the survivors.

He darted back across the dusty street, keeping low and light on his feet. He moved fast and silent and barely scuffed the dirt to raise a dust cloud behind him. Voices sounded in the distance. The mob was gathering. The sun broke the skyline of damaged rooftops and crumbling boundary walls. A crackle of small arms fire joined the shouts of indignation from down the road. Gunshots fired into the sky like a call for celebration. They'd downed a helicopter after all.

Grant threw himself against the wall in the yard across the road from the crash site. Mack was nursing a bloodied leg. Cooper kept his assault rifle aimed along the street. Both glanced over at Grant. He shook his head and raised three fingers before folding them down with his other hand. Then he held up one finger and shrugged his shoulders.

“No sign of Bond. Any ideas?”

Mack pressed a bloody rag into the leg wound. “He made it to the ramp. Didn't see him after that.”

Cooper turned his attention back to the street. “He lost his grip after the second bounce. Could have landed anywhere.”

Cruz kept quiet. She wasn't part of the team. The bond they shared wasn't her bond. Instead, she busied herself applying a field dressing to Mack's leg. This wasn't the time or place to make a full assessment. They all realized that. First order of business was to put distance between them and the wreckage. Buy some time before planning a strategy.

Grant knew what the priority was.

“Weapons check.”

Mack and Cooper followed his lead. They both checked their weapons and ammunition. An M16 each. An ugly black .45 automatic holstered in their webbing. They counted the spare magazines strapped to their belts. Mack had lost his commando knife. It had been torn from his leg scabbard along with a chunk of flesh and muscle. Grant had a .45 and a sniper's rifle. He pulled his knife but only an inch of broken blade came out. The impact had snapped it in half. His leg felt bruised and sore but at least it was mobile.

Cruz tightened the dressing around Mack's leg. Mack gritted his teeth but made no sound. Cruz was unarmed. She was the medic, supposed to be surrounded by armed men while she tranquilized the target package for easy transport. She focused on the job at hand: stopping the bleeding and getting Mack ready to move. There would be time for a more thorough examination once they'd found a safe location. In the desert township a safe location meant anywhere they weren't shooting at you. If they didn't move soon, the enclosed yard would become a shooting gallery. Dawn light glinted off the stethoscope swinging from her neck.

Grant spun a finger in her direction.

“Lose the stethoscope.”

Cruz turned an angry stare on Grant, then realized he was right. She finished tying off the bandage before slipping the stethoscope from her neck. She held it gently in both hands, her face telling an unspoken tale. The stethoscope was more than a piece of medical equipment. It had value. Memories. She swung the backpack off her shoulder and unsnapped the fastenings. Her hands rummaged inside and took out a long velvet case. She opened it and folded the stethoscope along its length. She snapped it shut and put it in the backpack. Her eyes told Grant not to argue. He didn't.

“Mack. You good to go?”

Mack flexed his leg. It didn't flex very far. He nodded. “I'm good.”

“Coop.”

Grant forked fingers at his eyes, then to the rear of the yard. Cooper shuffled back from his position covering the street and went in search of an exit strategy. Grant took Cooper's place, scouting the street for the first signs of enemy activity. Enemy activity was coming. The gunshots and triumphant shouts were getting closer. The first wave was surging along the street towards the crash site. The downed Chinook was drawing their attention. That gave Grant a window of opportunity.

Cooper came back through a gap in the wall.

“Back alley. Parallels the street.”

Grant checked the crowd one last time, then scrambled to the rear of the yard. The gap in the wall was wide enough to climb through sideways. He stuck his head out and looked both ways. More derelict buildings. Some with washing hanging outside. Most with bars over the windows. Not many with glass left in the frames. No activity. Good. If they moved quickly, they might be able to flank the crowd and head towards the safe zone. A long walk in hostile territory. He drew his head back and hunkered down.

“Doc. You help Mack.”

Cruz nodded.

“Coop. Rear guard.”

Cooper didn't need to nod. He was already in position to be last man out.

Grant focused on Cruz.

“Follow my lead. If Bond made it, he'll be doing the same.”

Cruz kept her recriminations to herself. This wasn't her unit. She'd have to abide by their rules. Under fire, survival was key. In combat, strong leadership made survival more likely. Grant was a strong leader.

“Let's go.”

But he wasn't infallible. The moment he squeezed through the gap into the alley, he knew he'd waited too long. The mob wasn't just swarming down the main street, it was filtering through the network of back streets and alleyways like water finding the easiest route. Chanting and gunfire came from the left—the direction Grant wanted to go. Not in sight yet but closing fast. If Grant stayed here, the squad would be overrun. He needed to put some distance between his group and the mob. In the wrong direction.

He turned right and moved fast along the alley. Mack came out next, then Cruz, forming a human crutch. Cooper brought up the rear, eyes peeled for the first signs that they'd been discovered. The alley wasn't straight. Nothing in the township was straight. That played in their favor. The approaching mob could be heard but not seen.

Yet.

Grant led the way. Steady movement, not sprinting. If he went too fast, Mack wouldn't be able to keep up, and if Mack went down, it would delay them all. He didn't. The alley doglegged left, then right. Once they'd rounded the corners, the sightlines were broken, but the noise was getting louder. Fifty yards was all Grant dared risk. Then he found another crumbling building and ducked in through a hole in the wall. Cruz helped Mack through the gap. Cooper waited until they were all through, then backed in, never taking his eyes off the previous corner.

They immediately took up a defensive formation, Cooper covering the back, Mack leaning against a wall but still covering the middle, Grant at the front window focusing on the street. The mob was congregating around the Chinook and the building it had destroyed, but they were ragged and stretched out at the rear and sides. That's where Grant was looking. What he saw through his peripheral vision turned his blood cold.

Bond had made it as far along the street as Grant's team—but on the opposite side. Behind a low wall with a view directly into the house Grant was hiding in. Bond was injured. He was leaning heavily to one side, blood clotting in a mass of red and black down his left sleeve. He glanced towards the crowd, then made his decision. The wrong one. To risk darting across the street while the mob was engaged dragging the bodies out of the chopper.

Grant tried to wave him back.

Bond was already moving. Concussion or pain or shock from the loss of blood affected his movement. It reduced his mental capacity. Trying to cross the street was a mistake. With a crowd of a hundred people, it only took one to be glancing over his shoulder for the movement to be spotted. Half the mob must have been looking along the street because there was an immediate cry and a surge.

Bond realized the danger he'd just brought upon the squad. His eyes locked with Grant's and he knew what he had to do. He ignored Grant and turned right, away from the squad. The shuffling gait hindered his speed. He only managed to get ten yards before the mob was on him. He turned and fired a short burst with his M16 before machetes rained down. Blood spurted. Body parts flew.

Grant turned to the others.

“Out. Across the alley. Not along it.”

He ignored Cruz.

“Coop. Lead. While they're busy. Now.”

Cruz looked shocked. Grant didn't have time to worry about her feelings. It would only take a few minutes for the mob to wonder where Bond had been heading and come looking. A rear-guard action was better than a standing fight with a raging mob. Keep moving. Keep them off-guard. Mack and Cooper knew that. They would mourn their losses later. If they survived.

Cooper was first through the hole in the wall. Cruz followed, shouldering some of Mack's weight. Grant looked through the window one last time. The crowd was in frenzy. Bloodied machetes flashed and hacked. Grant clenched his teeth, muscles bulging along the sides of his jaw, then he was out through the hole and following the others.

The day was long
and hot and bloody. Moving from house to house as the squad zigzagged through the ruined township. Staying one step ahead of the mob. Just barely. Somehow the crowd had got wind of the survivors' presence, maybe from Bond's ill-judged dash across the street or perhaps from something they saw. Whatever it was, they were on the hunt, tracking Grant across town.

It was a slow chase. A game of cat and mouse. In this game to save the mouse, Grant would have to do more than eat a pussy. He'd have to kill as many cats as he could and keep moving. So far he'd only had to kill three. Lone pursuers who had literally bumped into the squad as they charged round the alleyways. One at a time. Single shot each. Not enough to alert the mob. Nothing louder than the exuberant firing into the sky.

Despite the constant changes of direction, Grant kept his inner compass on true north, the place where they'd set off. The safe zone. The desert airbase on the edge of town. His sense of direction was unerring. His efforts to reach it weren't. As much distance as they covered traveling through the maze of back streets, they didn't seem to be getting any closer to extraction.

By late afternoon the effort was beginning to show. Grant and Cooper still had plenty of gas in the tank, but Mack and Cruz were flagging. It was time to rest up and take stock. Grant found the perfect place on the northeast corner of a plaza facing back the way they'd come. A street café that hadn't served customers for years. Good sightlines along two sides through large windows.

Grant went in first. Dust lay thick on every surface. Nobody had been in here. He signalled the others, and Cruz helped Mack through the door. Cooper brought up the rear, as sharp as ever. Covering their retreat.

The makeshift counter provided good cover. Grant took up position at one end and Cooper the other. Cruz leaned Mack against the back wall and checked his dressing. Blood had turned the bandage black. Thick and tacky. Still bleeding. Mack's face was pale under his tan. The medic hadn't been able to examine the wound, but the fact that Mack had been able to limp across town at least meant the leg wasn't broken. That was the good news. Everything else was bad. It was still bleeding heavily. The pain was sapping Mack's energy. Infection was going to be a problem if Cruz didn't clean and disinfect the wound. She glanced across at Grant. He nodded. They were staying put. She'd have time to change the dressing.

A complicated silver coffee machine stood above the worktop against the back wall. Chrome boiler. Network of tubes and pipes. Coffee grinder and filter system. Grant took the lid off, but it was empty. The boiler had been dry for a long time. He wondered briefly what the barista was doing now. Part of the mob outside perhaps. The boiler might be dry, but the water tap was working. After a couple of dry coughs, dirty water spurted out before it cleaned up and ran freely. He looked through the window. Still nobody in the street. Cooper knew what to do. He collected everyone's water bottles and handed them to Grant. Once they were refilled, he dropped to a crouch. He'd been exposed for too long. He felt safer behind the counter.

Cooper's eyes hardened.

“Movement.”

Grant followed his stare. Across the plaza, coming this way. It hadn't taken long for the crowd to catch the scent. Like blood in the water, the sharks were gathering. A mass of bodies poured out of the alleyway on the southwest corner. They spilled into the square, then began to mill around aimlessly. They had lost the trail. Bloodstained faces quested around. Putting out feelers.

Cooper stayed low. There was no avoiding breaking the smooth, flat line of the counter, but at least it was at one end where he could merge with the clutter of discarded cups and saucers. Grant did the same at the opposite end. Two pairs of eyes focused on the threat from outside. Nobody moved in the confines of the coffee shop. The silence became oppressive.

Cruz shuffled across the floor towards Grant, making sure she stayed below the worktop. Careful that her equipment didn't knock anything or make a noise. Her voice was a harsh whisper.

“How long before they send an extraction team?”

Grant didn't take his eyes off the street. He kept his head still. Cooper glanced across from his end of the counter. Mack stretched his leg out across the floor. The lack of an answer prompted Cruz to carry on.

“We're overdue. The chopper went down. How long?”

Grant slowly lowered his face below the counter, then turned to the medic.

“Chopper crash will be floated as mechanical failure during an aid drop.”