Houston Attack (12 page)

Hawker motioned toward the factory door. “I want a quick tour of the plant. A meat-processing plant, isn't it?”

“What? No. No, the meat-processing plant is over on the—” The guard caught himself, eyes narrowing. “Hey, how did you know about that? Who in the hell are you, anyway?”

Hawker grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around. He pushed him roughly toward the door. “Let's just pretend I'm your friendly representative from the USDA. Now get moving.”

Hawker opened the door, and the two of them stepped inside. The plant was an open, functional building, dimly lit. In the weak light he could see conveyor belts and what appeared to be a series of metal trays the size of small cars. The trays sat over banks of propane burners. These would be used for drying the leaves.

“You keep the red gas in another building?” Hawker demanded.

The guard didn't answer immediately. He seemed to be looking for something—or someone. Noticing it, Hawker holstered the Walther, and lifted the Colt Commando from his shoulder.

“I asked you a question. The red gas. Where do you keep it?”

“If you know so much, why do you have to ask?”

The guard was stalling.

Hawker touched the automatic rifle to the back of the man's head. “One more smart answer, friend, and you're going to spend the rest of eternity saying grace through your asshole.”

“The red gas,” the guard said slowly, his attention obviously someplace else. “We use it in the processing. First you have to toast the leaves, and then you—”

That's when Hawker saw it coming. A lean black shape charging noiselessly through the shadows. Then he could hear the whisper of its paws on the cement floor as it sprinted toward him, and then he could see the Doberman's teeth bared as it gaited into the pale circle of light.

“Vampire
—
kill!”
commanded the guard as he tried to twist away from Hawker.

As the dog's feet left the ground Hawker caught the guard's shirt collar and pulled him into the animal's path, like a shield. The Doberman was already in mid-flight, its jaws locked wide. It hit the guard neck-high, and for a frightening moment, Hawker thought the hot squirt of blood he felt was his own.

It wasn't.

The guard gave a gurgling scream as he fell to the ground, the dog still on him, teeth gnashing, wild and confused with blood frenzy. The slash in the man's throat spurted black liquid with ever-weakening velocity as his heart emptied.

Hawker raised his rifle, ready to kill the dog, but then a sputtering flash of fire and the hammer-smack of slugs piercing the wall behind him sent Hawker backing out the door.

A guard on the second level of the plant had opened fire on him. There was the echo of men running on metal, and Hawker knew the guard was not alone.

He squeezed off a short burst in the direction of the fire. There was a guttural scream, a short vacancy of sound, and then the sickening thud of flesh hitting cement.

Hawker let the door slam shut behind him.

He had to move, and move quickly now, and he had to keep an eye on the front door of the factory. Every time it opened, Hawker pinned it shut with a short burst of fire.

From his knapsack, he took out a red sausage roll of plastic explosives. As he ran he kept his eye open for likely-looking spots. He found five of them, all well shielded and out of the eye of any casual observer.

He planted heavy chunks of the explosive, inserting electronic detonators into each. He put the largest charge behind a water-tank-size cylinder of what he assumed was red gas. Stenciled all around the tank were warnings:

DANGER

NO SMOKING

EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE

The explosives would give Skate Williams and his boys the surprise of their lives. And deaths.

But not tonight.

Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night when he returned freshly armed to get Cristoba.

It would be easier then. Easier in the chaos and confusion of the day after; a day when they would be expecting anything but a second assault.

Behind him now, Hawker could see the wave of men coming toward him. Maybe twenty of them. The dogs were out front, casting like pointers on their long leashes.

Hawker intentionally stepped beneath the red haze of the yard light. He lofted a few rounds of harmless fire at them, drawing their attention.

When they saw him, they returned the fire, charging at him. He saw one of them talk into a radio.

He would be notifying the guards on the front fence of Ranch #3 that they had spotted the intruder. He would be telling them to draw in from the other side.

Good. That's just what he wanted them to do.

Hawker dug out an M-18 colored-smoke grenade from his knapsack. He fired as he ran, making sure they would see him sprint toward the front door of the factory. Just before he got to the door, he pulled the pin on the M-18 and rolled it behind him.

The grenade sputtered, flared, and a thick shield of bright green smoke billowed out.

The screen would only last a minute and a half. And that didn't give him much time. Hawker knew the guards would figure he had done either of two things: taken cover inside the factory or followed the green smoke to the side fence.

He did neither.

He sprinted around to the back of the building and cut the barbed wire. As he climbed over he could hear automatic rifle fire, and then the return of fire.

The guards from inside the plant would be trading fire with those outside the plant. There was no way they could know he was only one man. For all the guards in the factory knew, they were being attacked by a horde of federal agents—or Russians, for that matter.

Hawker dropped down off the fence and moved off through the shadows. About half a mile from the factory, Hawker skirted long rows of cheaply built housing. They were like long, low dormitories, painted white. The dormitories were enclosed by chain-link fence and high strands of barbed wire. Hawker guessed there was enough cramped housing for maybe two hundred people.

A mass of Hispanics stood outside the dormitories, their noses pressed against the fencing. They were the slaves. Their clothing was shabby, and they all reminded Hawker just a little of animals he had seen in the zoo. Animals that had once roamed wild with the power of freedom but now, entrapped, had shrunken within themselves as they lived on nothing but memories.

For a moment Hawker considered freeing them. A kind of diversion. The guards wouldn't know who to go after, Hawker or the running slaves.

But it was not a good idea. Not on this night. The guards would shoot wildly at anyone not wearing a uniform. Hawker could free them, but he would free many of them only to run to their deaths.

Their escape would have to wait. Wait for a bigger diversion.

And Hawker knew just what the diversion would be.

He studied the layout of the slave prison once more, then trotted around to the back portion of the fence. The Hispanics followed him inside the fence.

“Do any of you speak English?” he yelled.

“I do. I speak good English.” A thin young man, probably in his early twenties, pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

Hawker was rummaging through his knapsack. He brought out a small chunk of the plastic explosives. He said, “Sometime this week you're going to see a bright red flare. It could be day or night. The moment you see that flare, make sure everyone is away from this section of fence because I'm going to blow it open shortly afterward.” Hawker molded the plastic explosives around the section of fence. “You got that?”

The young man nodded. “You're going to free us?”

“Yeah. Now listen! I want you to run directly toward the back adobe wall. There will be another hole there. Run through it and just keep on running. I'll try to have transportation waiting for you, but there are no guarantees. But whatever you do, don't try to stay and fight. No matter what happens. Just run. Okay?”

The young man was translating as Hawker spoke. He saw fresh light come to the eyes of those who listened, and for a moment he felt badly about not giving them more specific information. But he couldn't take the chance. Williams might have another plant hidden among them.

“We will do what you say, amigo!” the young man called after him. He added something else, but Hawker didn't hear.

He was already running.

The same kind of high adobe wall enclosed Ranch #3. With the guards occupied at the factory, Hawker had no trouble planting a larger charge of explosives before climbing over.

After that, he struck off through the pasture. The steers provided cover—if he needed cover. He was just one more dark shape moving in the moonlight.

At intervals, he checked the terrain ahead through the Star-Tron scope to make sure no surprises awaited him.

Hawker was getting awfully tired of surprises.

As he headed back toward his truck, he toyed with the idea of resuming his identity as the one-armed drifter. After all, Williams's men would be looking for a man with two arms. Two good arms.

For a moment Hawker thought that seeing the reactions of Roy Dalton and Quirt Evans might actually be worth the risk.

But then he decided that would be cutting it too close. After all, Evans was already suspicious of him. And he seemed to know more than he would come out and say.

No, he would make his break tonight. Maybe get in his truck, drive to the nearest town and call Sancho Rigera—if they hadn't found his truck.

Yes, that would be the wise thing to do.

Hawker followed the safest route back to the main road. He was surprised that there was no traffic on the road. Several miles behind him he could see the helicopter flying low over the back section of Williams's ranch. Its searchlight threw a brilliant white cone against the earth.

From that distance the chopper looked like some kind of weird spaceship.

Hawker slowed his pace as he reached the tree grove where he had hidden his truck. He searched the area carefully through the Star-Tron. When he was sure it was safe, he stepped into the clearing and reached for the door handle.

As he did, a flashlight inside the truck was snapped on, and Hawker could see the stainless barrel of a Colt .44 pointed at his head.

A faceless voice chuckled softly and said in an amused tone, “Well, if it ain't my wayward friend, James Hawker.” The light panned across Hawker's body in slow examination. “And what do you know! Hawk, you're the first man I ever met who left for a San Antone whorehouse and came back with an extra arm!”

The man holding the revolver was Quirt Evans.

fourteen

Evans motioned with the light. “Slide that nasty-looking automatic rifle off your shoulder and hand it in to me. Butt first.”

Hawker did it.

“Now your side arm. What is it? A Beretta? Ah, a little Walther. Don't know why, Hawk, but I expected something a little bigger.”

Evans took the automatic and laid it on the seat beside him. Still holding the Colt on him he said, “Now slide that knapsack through the window and get in.”

Hawker opened the door. The dome light came on. The faded denim shirt Evans wore made his eyes look bluer, brighter, his face more sun-weathered. His blond hair was thick, molded into tight waves by the cowboy hat that sat beside him on the bench seat.

“You drive,” he said. “Slow and easy, like we're headed for a Sunday picnic. You're too smart to try anything dumb, Hawk—but I'll remind you every now and then just to make sure.”

Hawker closed the door and started the truck. As he backed out he said, “I figured you would be down there with Williams's other hired killers. You ought to be real proud of yourself, Quirt. You fooled me. You seemed a little too high-class to be a part of a slave ring.” Hawker paused and looked at Evans closely. “And a national conspiracy.”

Evans's face seemed to register more curiosity than surprise. “Me? Why, I was just down on old Skate's place to take a look at a sick foal. Little colt that had cribbed himself into a case of colic. Skate figures I'm the best horseman around, and that little colt is worth a couple hundred thousand.” He smiled. “When all the shooting started, I put two and two together. Figured this nasty old pickup of yours would be hidden somewhere. Wasn't too hard to find. The open hood told me you'd disabled it as a part of your cover.” He smiled. “A loose distributor wire isn't too original, Hawk.”

“Why didn't you just let Jeb shoot me when he had the chance?”

“Why should I let Jeb have all the fun? Besides, I wanted to see how you dealt with Skate Williams.”

“Skate might be interested to hear how loyal you are to him.”

“If you ever get the chance to tell him, he might be.”

“So how did you know about me, Quirt? You knew from the beginning.”

“I suspected from the beginning. The way you fought Jeb threw me for a little while. Two-armed men don't fight that well with one arm. Not usually. Not unless they're James Hawker, I guess. But then I got a look at your left hand. It wasn't calloused enough. And no man wears a serape day-in, day-out in this kind of heat. And I noticed how careful you were not to undress in front of the other boys. It all added up.”

“How did you know?”

“I knew. Maybe I'll tell you later.” He chuckled. “If you live long enough.”

“You knew, but you let me go ahead. Why?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions, Hawker.”

“And you're awful shy on answers, Evans.”

“Maybe it comes from doing most of my growing up in an orphanage. Answer too many questions in one of those places and they figure you're smart enough to be put in charge of some of the fun work. Scrubbing toilets. Or taking care of the babies.”

They had come to the crossroad. The road seemed narrower, hazed by light rain. In the headlights the leaves in the wind looked white.