Houston Attack (5 page)

Hawker had never been particularly interested in money, so it was all new to him. Oddly, he found himself amused at the realization that to enter the world of big business you didn't need money. You just needed the trappings of the current power structure—and credit.

The Texans were free with their advice about business. But to his discreet inquiries about where he could buy some dependable full-time help for the mythical ranch he was buying, he still got vague replies and empty stares.

That's when Hawker invented the one-armed ranch hand character.

He bought the serape, jeans, boots, and hat at the Salvation Army store in downtown Houston. The serape gave him the camouflage he needed for his weaponry. Even so, he had a local seamstress make him a modified chest protector to go under the serape and his western shirt. The chest protector would hide his right arm and the bulge of weapons from an unprofessional frisk. And the missing arm would make him seem harmless to the men he now hunted. After all, what was there to fear from a man with one arm?

Before he left Houston, he bought an ancient pickup truck, had a few options built for it, then tossed an equally old saddle and bags into the back and headed south with the list of contacts that the late Jonathan Flischmann had traced only nine months earlier.

It was in this role that Hawker began to make headway. He spent two weeks traveling the dusty, hot back roads seeking contacts, and finally, on a desolate stretch of State Route 16, well south of Seven Sisters, Texas, Hawker located Sancho Rigera, one of the names on the list.

Sancho was a small Mexican man with a big grin and a bigger family: five sons; seven daughters; and a chubby, overworked, but happy, wife. Sancho lived in a neat three-room adobe cottage that had a 1930 vintage telephone but no plumbing. Rigera had come to the attention of the Houston D.A.'s office when he complained that certain men were trying to force him and several others in his little village to turn over the mineral rights to his farmed-out hundred-acre ranch.

It was suspected by the D.A.'s office that these same men were involved with the slavery ring.

Hawker spent five days with the Rigeras under the guise of his truck breaking down. He helped them work around the ranch during the day, and at night he sat outside beside the adobe oven and ate tortillas and beans with the family.

They were poor but seemed content, and Hawker came to like them very much. Even so, Sancho turned a deaf ear to Hawker's questions about the men who had tried to force him to sell.

Finally he hit upon an idea. Sancho Rigera had too much pride to share his problems with a guest. But he might share them with a business partner. Hawker got the name of a corporate attorney from Gas Blakely. He had papers drawn up for a company called Chicago Fossil Fuels Ltd. He made Sancho Rigera president, and himself vice-president.

“You see, Sancho,” he said one night as they sat beneath the stars with two cold bottles of Dos Equis beer. “You sell a one-year option on your property's mineral rights to our corporation. You might also speak with your neighbors and see if they wish to become a part of the corporation.”

“I do not understand,” said Sancho Rigera, his ever-present smile white in the light of the adobe fire. “We already own the mineral rights.”

“Don't you see, Sancho? People cannot force you to turn them over if they have already been acquired by another company. These men who attacked you and threatened you will not know that you and your neighbors own the corporation.”

Sancho nodded at the wisdom in that. “But what do you get from this, my friend?” he asked simply.

Hawker had smiled. “Has oil ever been found in this area?”

The little Mexican shook his head. “Never. Not to my knowledge.”

“Then I will get what you get—nothing. And, if oil ever is discovered, the contract will read that as vice-president of the corporation I am entitled to a yearly salary of one dollar. Nothing more.”

“That is unfair. But we will not discuss it now. It is enough that you have had this idea. It will help us, and I thank you for that. Please, allow my beautiful daughter, Juanita, to fetch us another beer from the well.” The Mexican nodded and moved closer to Hawker. “There is another matter I wish to discuss with you. It is about these men you seek. These evil men who steal and sell human beings. Are you still interested in them”—his smile broadened—“or perhaps you wish to remain and search for the oil with us?”

Hawker tried not to show how very anxious he was. “Please understand that I do not think you should look for oil, Sancho. You will only waste your time. But, yes, I am still interested in these men. Do you think they are associated with the men who tried to force you into selling your mineral rights?”

Sancho used one finger to push his straw cowboy hat back. Now he whispered, “It is not a wise thing to speak of such matters to strangers, but you are no longer a stranger. We are business partners, is that not true? And now we are also friends.”

Hawker accepted the beer from the pretty teenage Mexican girl and said nothing. Sancho continued. “I cannot say if the two are related. I know who harassed us for our mineral rights, and he is a man of such great wealth and power that it would be madness for us ever to think of revenge. But the slavery is another matter. It must be stopped. That is why I will tell you this thing. There is a bar beyond Rio Bravo, fifty miles south of the Mexican border. I have heard that it is the most evil place in all of Mexico. It is called the Bar of the Unknown Souls. These men you seek, these men who kidnap and sell people, you may find there. But I warn you, my friend, be careful. You have only one arm, and these are dangerous men. You must take a weapon with you. In the house I have such a thing. A shotgun with two barrels …”

Hawker patted the little man's shoulder fondly. “I will find my own weapon, friend Sancho. You must keep your shotgun.” And the teenage girl blushed when he added, “With so many beautiful daughters around, a father may find some use for it.”

Sancho Rigera nodded importantly. “Yes, this is true. Especially now that we are going into the oil business. The oil will bring us great wealth, and my daughters must be protected.”

James Hawker smiled and said nothing.

The next morning he left for Mexico.

six

As the men from
Las Almas Desconocidas
came fanning down the dark road toward him, Hawker let the Ingram submachine gun hang by its sling as he threw up his hands.

He hoped that would stop them from firing at him. He wanted at least one of them alive, and he could only be sure of doing that if they stopped firing.

Instead his show of weakness only made them run faster and shoot more. Hawker knew what was going through their brains: The gringo was unarmed, so there was nothing to fear. And the man who killed him would probably be rewarded in some small way.

So they were all anxious for the kill.

He expected to see the fat bartender with the greasy shoulder-length hair, but he was not among the dozen men. Hawker decided that the bartender must be higher up in the organization than he had thought. More than a field soldier, anyway. But probably not much more.

The semi truck carrying the beautiful Cristoba de Abella was now little more than a speck of light on the flat empty road to Texas. As Hawker brought the Ingram up to his hip he wondered how badly she had been wounded. The slug she took might have broken her arm—at worst.

But Hawker knew that her physical wound would not compare with the emotional trauma she would suffer if he did not find her soon.

What was she? Twenty? Within a year the heroin injections and the forced sex would have her looking forty. After that, they would junk her. Abandon her on the streets to the living hell of a drug addict.

Hawker's hand grew tight on the Ingram.

Yes, he had to find her. And he had to find her soon.

In the weak light of the new moon, Hawker saw that at least three of the dozen or so men carried rifles.

When one of the rifle slugs dug the asphalt away from his feet, Hawker dropped to his belly and fired.

The first burst from the submachine gun cut the legs from beneath his first four attackers. The chain-rattle clatter of the Ingram echoed in Hawker's ears, mingling with the fresh screams of agony.

The sharp odor of gunpowder replaced the sagelike odor of cactus and mesquite.

Two of the men writhed in agony on the asphalt forty yards away. The other two lay still. Deathly still.

About half of the men who remained turned and ran back toward the bar. Hawker jumped to his feet to pursue them, but an immediate volley of small-weapons fire put him back on his belly.

Not all of them were cowards. Some of them had chosen to stay and fight.

Hawker wondered how many of them remained.

There was a ditch beside the road, and Hawker rolled into it. His attackers were on the west side of the road. Hawker lay in the ditch on the east.

He began to work his way down the ditch, staying low. He guessed that most of them had retreated fifteen to twenty yards—so that meant they were just under a hundred yards away.

It crossed Hawker's mind that if he could work his way past them, he could sneak back to the sleazy bar and beat some information out of the bartender and leave without another confrontation.

That seemed like the wisest plan. But then Hawker remembered the look of terror on the face of the girl and the others chained inside the truck.

No, these men who now tried to kill him deserved a confrontation. And they damn well deserved to die.

Hawker pulled a fresh clip from beneath the serape and held it in his left hand so he could re-arm the Ingram just as quickly as possible.

He crawled through the ditch for what seemed a very long time. All was quiet save for the agonized groan of one of the men he had shot, and the haunting wail of a coyote.

When Hawker judged he was almost directly across from his attackers, he drew himself slowly to one knee and looked across the road.

A voice from behind stopped him in his tracks.
“Freeze, gringo. Drop your weapon!”

Hawker did not hesitate. He dove to his left as pistol fire plowed the earth behind him. He brought the Ingram up and held it on full fire, spraying in the direction from which he had heard the heavy Spanish voice.

The man had been standing. He was a squat silhouette against the desert sky. The 9mm slugs smacked through his body, contorting him into a hundred different positions like some weird cartoon character slapping ants.

When Hawker released the trigger, the man fell heavily into the sand, as if he had fallen from a table. His leg quivered, and then he lay still.

Voices from across the road yelled hopefully, “Orlando—is the gringo dead? Did you kill him?”

Hawker punched the empty clip out and slid a fresh thirty-two rounds into the Ingram. The metal barrel was hot against his hands.

When Orlando did not answer, Hawker could hear them whispering nervously among themselves. He wished his Spanish were better. After a long pause he heard the heavy crunch of men running. For a moment he thought they were running away.

But then he realized they were charging him.

The moment Hawker poked his head up above the ditch, they opened fire. There were four of them. Their handguns belched fire in a deafening volley. Hawker flattened himself against the sand and squeezed the trigger. The Ingram was like a living creature in his hands, lunging and jolting as if to escape.

But for the men who charged him, there was no escape. Even in the darkness Hawker could see them fold and tumble backward, as if hit all at once by some gigantic club.

A moment later there was an eerie silence, broken only by the heated ticking of the Ingram.

Hawker got quickly to his feet. Carefully he approached the bodies and checked them one by one.

Dead. All dead.

Hawker listened carefully for the distant sound of a siren. He heard nothing.

Obviously, the men who operated from the bar had more to lose than to gain from calling the Mexican police.

Something they had hidden away in the bar?

Hawker wondered.

He punched out the empty clip and slid in his last fresh load.

He adjusted the serape and his hat, then headed off at a steady jog for the dim lights of the Bar of the Unknown Souls.

How long had it been since the slavers' truck had pulled away from the bar?

Half an hour? Maybe longer.

However long, it was enough time for the fat bartender to chase away his customers and lock the doors.

The gravel parking lot was nearly empty. But the weary neon light still advertised
Las Almas Desconocidas
over the doorway. Hawker tested the door, then banged on it with his fist.

Immediately he jumped back—and just in time. Slugs punched through the door as the muffled sputter of an automatic weapon roared from inside.

Hawker tried to give the scream the right pitch of terror and desperation:
“I'm shot. Shit! Get a doctor, somebody, please
.…”

The moment the door cracked open, Hawker stuck his foot in it, then yanked it wide with his left hand.

The guy inside had an old Thompson. Hawker had used and admired the World War II classic, but it had its drawbacks. It was too long and heavy for close work, and now Hawker was thankful.

It took the man a long, awkward moment to get the Thompson up to fire. Hawker grabbed the barrel, swung it away, and, at the same moment, clubbed the man in the face with the butt of the Ingram.

The man—a husky black man—back pedaled against the wall, then charged Hawker, hitting him waist-high. Hawker kneed him in the chest. When the black man jolted backward, Hawker cracked him hard on the temple with his left elbow.

The blow sent him to the floor. Hawker was immediately on him, his nose only inches from the nose of the black man.

“Where is he?” Hawker hissed. “Where's the fat bartender?”