Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (27 page)

Two men rolled on the wood floor behind the couch, hands to their ears and tears flowing from their eyes. A third lay still on the floor, blood pooling around his head.

Rye read them their Miranda rights, even though they looked to be Mexican nationals and not US citizens.
With the courts these days, you can’t be too careful.

Zach zipped the plastic handcuffs on them and connected them together, both hands and feet. “I don’t think they’ll go anywhere.” Using cloth napkins from the table in the next room, he gagged the two by stuffing the cloth into their mouths.

Rye gave the room another once-over.
Gotta find my family. Think! Where would List keep them?
His eye socket throbbed. He caressed the injury and found it had started to swell.

“Crawler One,” DePute’s voice sounded in his earpiece, “this is Rider. I’ve got company.”

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

Sheriff Anne Oakmann halted her horse atop the canyon. Rain spilled from the brim of her Stetson. She reached back into her saddlebags and fetched her binoculars. Perched upright in her saddle, she focused the field glasses and tried to peer down into the canyon below her. But the rainwater beat against the lens and blurred her attempt.

She snorted in frustration and lowered the glasses, resolved to watch ant-sized men swirl the grounds of List’s estate.

Returning the binoculars to the saddlebags, she looked down and spotted water filled human tracks on the ground.
Hello, what do we have here?

Who’d be out in this mess? Friend or foe? The rain had destroyed any details, but there was no mistaking the outline of a boot print. Some kind of hiking boot, if she had to make a guess.

“Tex, take a look at these,” she said to her companion.

The deputy rode up next to her. He slid from his horse and knelt by the tracks. Anne took pleasure in watching his broad shoulders, college-age waist size and 6’-5” frame. Tex hailed from Texarkana and had ridden horses all his life. When she had pulled up to the stables, he already had the animals saddled. Not a Hollywood pretty boy by any means, nonetheless she enjoyed gazing at his rawboned,
weathered face. When she could sneak a peek.

He stood and turned to her. “Someone was here not too long ago. Headed toward the List property.”

“Saddle up, cowboy. I don’t want to miss any more of this dance.”

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

Garcon DePute hopped off the ATV, grabbed his backpack from the vehicle and pushed his way into the cleft in the rocks. Struggling against the mud sucking at his feet, he labored up the hill. Had to be vanished before List’s gunmen spotted him again. From the blueprints of List’s house they’d pulled off the Internet, this crevice led to a passageway into the mansion.

He gained the tunnel, grateful to be out of the frigging rain and mud. Water leaked through the stony ceiling. He slipped out of his slicker, shouldered his backpack and headed in. Ten steps later, he came to a door. He tried the handle, but it refused to move.
Locked, no problemo. This’ll be like cookin’ fish sticks.

Kneeling, he searched the backpack for his pickpocket tools.

Pulling out an LED flashlight the size of his pinky, he turned it on and stuck it in his mouth. Its light shone on the lock. Garcon inserted the pick and pulled it over the pins, imagining the metallic crook of the pick under his manipulations. With his head cocked, he listened for the telltale noises.

With the final whisper of a click, the door swung open. He returned his tools to the knapsack and slung it over his back.

“I have an open door,” he said into his mic, “so I’m, like, going into List’s palace. Can somebody say, ‘That’s crazy cool, DePute’?”

“Be careful, Rider,” Clark said, her voice evoking no emotion. “Be advised that hostiles are coming down the tunnel.”

“Consider me advised.”

A moment later, he heard Rye over the headpiece telling Heilo to open the dance.

You go, girl.

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

Johnny peered over the crest of rock, pointing his rifle at List’s approaching stormtroopers.
Calm your breathing. Wait for them to get closer.
He settled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, rested his finger alongside the trigger guard, and waited.

Some of List’s men vanished from his sight behind a short rocky outcropping and he sighed in frustration. Seconds later, they emerged from behind the stone. He took a deep breath and held it, put his finger on the trigger and sighted the man nearest concealment.

Bam!
The gun’s recoil jumped against his shoulder as the first man went down.

He sighted a second, who turned to see his companion go down.

Bam!
The second man dropped.

The sounds of his gunfire bounced off the canyon walls. List’s men spread out to duck behind rocks. In the distance, more gunfire erupted. One weapon fired a long stream of bullets.
Some sort of machine gun
. Then things went silent. He waited. List’s men scrambled, bent over, back to the safety of the house.

Johnny stood and shouldered his rifle.

Drawing his Glock 9mm, he held it two-fisted in front of him.
The opening shindig’s over. Time to join up with the cop.

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

“Eye, this is Crawler Three,” Corazón Heilo said into her mic. She kicked a gun away from the hand of one of List’s men sprawled on the concrete floor. She touched two fingers to his neck. No pulse. The stench of death permeated the area. “We have secured the garage.” Her gun sure chewed the snot out of the place.

Papers from destroyed cardboard boxes floated in the air. The back side of the only car, a Lincoln MKX, had been obliterated, its rear tires shredded.
List won’t be driving that for a while.

Stepping around the pools of blood, Whitewolf grabbed the remaining guns and tossed the weapons out into the rain. “We’re ready to roll,” he said in an even tone.

The radio crackled in her ear, and Cora thought for a second she lost connection. Then Clark’s voice came in clear.

“The garage’s entrance into the house leads you into a mud room with laundry facilities. Take the laundry room into a hallway. Be careful. The hallway has several small storage-type rooms. Probably walk-in cupboards.”

“Sounds like a good place for an ambush,” Heilo said.

“Roger that,” Clark said. “Follow the hall. It leads to the living room where Crawler One and Two are currently located. Make your way to them. Crawler One and Two stay put until Three and Four arrive.”

No response.

“Crawler One? Two?” Worry tinted Clark’s voice.

Whitewolf motioned for Cora to stand next to the door leading from the garage into the house. She nodded her assent. He grabbed the doorknob, mouthed a countdown and flung open the door. Cora filed in and went to her left. Whitewolf followed on her heels and went to the right. The hall and laundry room glowed green fluorescence in her night vision goggles, but revealed no targets.

“Eye,” Cora said. “Crawler Three and Four are proceeding to tango-up with Crawlers One and Two.”

They stole through the gloom of the laundry room and entered the hall.

Halfway down, they came to the first storage room. Whitewolf nodded to the door, and Cora re-fixed her grip on the HK. Whitewolf flung open the door. The dark room lit up bright with her goggles. Shelves of dry goods, canned foods, office supplies, and various cleaning chemicals lined the walls.

“Something moved back there,” Whitewolf whispered, pointing to the far end of the shelving.

“Roger.” She brought her gun to bear. “Check it out, Four.”

Whitewolf shifted a few feet away from her and aimed his Glock at the stacked boxes along the back. Cora licked her suddenly-dry lips and leveled her machine gun at the corner. She glanced over at him.

He flashed a thumbs-up. “Police,” said Cora, rushing the boxes. “Don’t move.” Whitewolf moved alongside of her.

The faces of three frightened children, pale green in the night goggles, peered back at them. A boy, who looked to be the oldest, and two girls. Hispanic kids.

“Policía,” Cora barked then set the HK on the floor, speaking in more reassuring tones.

“Eye, this is Crawler Four,” Whitewolf said. “We have a situation. We’ve found three Latino children. I think Crawler Three is trying to convince them not to be afraid. Suggestions?”

Silence, then Clark spoke, “Take them out of the house and—”

“Drop your guns,” said a cold voice from the hallway.

In her headset, Cora heard Clark ask, “Trouble?”

Cora found herself staring down the barrels of several large handguns. “Si.”

“Dawlsen. Paging Rye Dawlsen.” A familiar voice blurted in a sing-songy tone into his headset. Rye turned to Reese. Directing two fingers at his eyes, Rye then pointed them around the room: maintain an active watch. Zach nodded his understanding.
Silence,
Rye mouthed. Zach returned a quick thumbs up.

“Who is this?” Rye asked, eyebrows pinching together. With a sickening dread, he knew before he asked. He closed his eyes.
No, God, not this.

“Dawlsen, this is your old buddy, Richard List. Welcome to my hacienda.” List chuckled, but there was no humor in his voice. “You know, the one you’ve just shot up.”

Rye lowered his head. “What have you done with my people?”

“You mean this washed-up Injun and the Cuban tramp?” Rye heard List take a deep exaggerated breath as if he were smelling a flower. “And her hair smells soooo good. We’re just getting acquainted.”

Rye clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. “If you so much as …”

“Dawlsen, you’re in no position to make threats. Either you do what I tell you, or these two cops are dead.”

Rye stood still. If he moved right then, he would rampage the house, seeing nothing until List was dead at his feet.

List continued. “And the Haulke woman. Now, she’s a looker.” A pause. “And your family. I never did understand why such a beautiful woman like your wife would want to spend her life with the likes of you.” He laughed. “She won’t have to suffer that ignominy much longer.”

Rye tasted the bile rising in his throat. “What is it you want?”

“That’s more like it. You see, I thought we could converse in amicable tones. What do I want? That’s an easy one … I want you dead. Muerto. Mort. Tot. Guasto.”

“Dick. Now that’s impressive. I never cease to be amazed by the limits to your knowledge.”

“Shut up and listen to me. I know you’re in my living room. Stay put.” List’s voice in the headset went quiet.

“List?”
Nothing.

“Rye?” Gabby asked with hesitancy.

“Don’t say another word. For now, I’m on my own. Cease contact until you hear back from me. I don’t have a choice except to play this out List’s way.”

Rye pulled the headset off his helmet and slammed it to the floor. He glanced at Reese. “But I know someone who doesn’t have to.”

Zach nodded and scrambled out of the room.

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

“Chief Dawlsen.” With feet propped on his desk, Richard waved a smoking cigar at his prisoner who stood in the office doorway, hands bound behind his back. One of Richard’s men shoved him from behind. He stumbled into the office.

“Have a seat,” Richard commanded.

“I’d rather stand.”

Richard nodded his head once, and Jilt punched Dawlsen in the kidneys, eliciting a satisfactory scream. He remained on his feet only because Richard’s men held him up. Richard shook his head in mock disappointment.

“You never learn, do ya? You’ll be pissing blood.” Richard chuckled then took a drink of whiskey, enjoying its warmth rushing down his throat and into his stomach. “Now, sit down. After tonight, your learning days are over.”

Jilt and Junior grabbed Dawlsen’s bound arms and forced him into the chair in front of the desk.

Richard took a drawl on his cigar then blew out the smoke, staring at his prisoner through the haze of cigar fumes.

Dawlsen worried him. This do-gooder of an alcoholic cop meant trouble. The man accepted no bribes; would not let go of an investigation even if it meant personal injury. The man was a thorn in his side.

Tonight, Richard stood on the brink of a big money-making deal worth billions. He’d used Amo’s cartel to funnel weapons and drugs back and forth across the border. After tonight, he—Richard List, grandson of a penniless rancher—would be worth more than some states. He finished his whiskey in a gulp.

“Dawlsen, Dawlsen, Dawlsen,” Richard said, shaking his head as
if scolding a child. “You are way out of your league here, boy. You’re nothing but a broken-down rooster trying to play with hawks.”

“Vultures,” Rye grunted, hanging his head low. “I’m playing with vultures.” He gasped for air. “And that’s an insult to vultures.”

Richard laughed, but without humor. “Good. Good. You still got some spunk in you. But you see … what’s going down is much bigger than you can imagine.”