Adobe Flats (20 page)

absolution

There is no peace. Only acceptance. Then you move on.

—Jim Grant

thirty-seven

The torn patches of
cloud were becoming more regular. They drifted across the moon like a hand in front of a torch. One minute it was bright, the next it was dark, and then it was bright again. Grant crossed Avenue D during the next eclipse and was hunkered down in the derelict building opposite by the time the moon came out. He scanned the other buildings on the edge of town. All empty. All heading towards rack and ruin. Macready had obviously bought them for the same reason he'd bought the houses en route to Adobe Flats. No witnesses. A firebreak around his own personal Alamo.

The crumbling walls and tattered rooftops let the night sky in. Stars twinkled overhead. They glinted off the broken glass in the windows. A desert town in hostile territory. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. He glanced towards the church. There was movement at the base of the steeple. A car door slammed. An engine started up.

Grant nodded to himself.

Time to move.

Another cloud obscured the moon. Grant scurried from one building to the next until he was opposite the athletics track. Still hidden. Still ready. The moon came out and bathed the open ground in frosty light even though the night was warm. Grant slung the rifle strap over his head and across one shoulder. He hung the shotgun across the other. The straps looked like crisscrossed bandoliers. He tucked the .38 into the top of his sock and pulled the trouser leg down to cover it. Stealth and secrecy were required now. He wasn't planning on shooting anyone until later.

The moon went in.

The lights went out.

Grant darted across the street while darkness hugged the town. There was no avoiding the little puffs of dust that followed each footstep, but he hoped they were hidden by the complete absence of light. Anyone looking this way would have to adjust to the dark—not an easy task when the moon kept coming out or hiding behind the clouds. He reached the sports stand before the hand came away from the torch. The compound wall became pale blue stucco. The narrow door at the rear stood out like a rectangular domino.

He was ready.

The best way to sneak into an enemy position was if the enemy was busy looking somewhere else. Diversion. Even with just four defenders, it was better if they were otherwise engaged. The engine grew louder, and Doc Cruz's car sped across the open ground towards the compound gates. For a moment it looked like it was going to veer off to one side, but then it steadied even though there was nobody driving. Grant heard raised voices inside the compound. Shouts of alarm.

Then the car crashed into the gates, and Grant made his move.

The back door was
wooden but not as solid as it appeared. He remembered it feeling dry and brittle from before, when he'd been led towards the trucks waiting on the athletics track. It was hinged to open inwards. One good policeman's kick broke the latch and splintered the frame before the sound of the car wreck stopped echoing around the compound.

The barbecue pit was dark and silent. The tables were empty. This was a long way different from the pre-action picnic Macready had thrown for his men. Tonight his men were on the road, protecting the final convoy or running towards the front gates. Doc Cruz's car was small and lightweight. It hadn't even dented the heavy wooden gates. It had burst into flames though, and dry wood and fire don't mix.

Grant counted two men opening the gates while a third pointed a fire extinguisher at the burning car. He skipped round the side of the barbecue pit and found the back stairs to the balcony. He didn't know the layout of the house but the bedrooms would be upstairs. Scott Macready, being the lily-livered punk that he was, would be holding Sarah in the bedroom.

The balcony ran all the way around the hacienda. The warmth of the night played in Grant's favor. Several windows were open. Some of the rooms had patio doors; half of those were open a crack. Only three had lights on inside. Keeping low behind the balcony wall so the men in the compound couldn't see him, he checked the nearest room first. It was a large, ornate bedroom with flowing curtains and a king-size bed.

The room was empty.

Grant crept along the balcony to the next room.

This one was smaller—a guest room. A bedside lamp threw light across the double bed, but there was no movement inside. The curtains had been tied back so they didn't sway in the breeze. The door to the landing was partly open to let the air circulate. A narrow wedge stopped the door from banging—not something you used in an occupied room.

That only left the third room.

Grant could hear voices coming from inside. Low and inaudible, not light and chatty. No laughter. Just tense voices, like a captor and his captive. Grant moved back against the balcony wall and sidled along until he had a view into the master bedroom. He knew that's what it was even before he got a good look inside. The size of the room told him that. Lace curtains hung from the windows. They were fastened to the patio doors. It obscured Grant's view but not as much as it blinded the people inside.

One of the voices did most of the talking—the familiar Texas twang of Scott Macready. The other voice fell silent. Grant couldn't tell where it was in the room. Macready was easy to pinpoint. Front and center in the middle of the room. At the foot of the bed with his back to the balcony. That implied something Grant didn't want to think about. Sarah Hellstrom had been held prisoner too long for nothing to have happened. Scott Macready wasn't a patient man. He thought of Sarah as his own personal property. The bed was an elephant in the room. No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, it was always there.

Macready was tucking something into the front of his jeans.

That was enough for Grant. He crossed the balcony, threw a quick glance around the bedroom, then opened the door and slipped inside.

The door banged just
enough to get Scott Macready's attention but not so loud it would alert the guards in the courtyard. Macready junior yanked his zip up and spun around. Fear dilated his irises and flared his nostrils. His hands were shaking.

Grant pointed at the front of Macready's jeans. “I knew a kid once, got his dick caught in his zipper.”

He took two paces into the room. “Because of faulty Y-fronts.” He stopped and scratched his head like Columbo.

“Do you have Y-fronts over here? Underwear with an inverted Y panel that you can take a leak out of without dropping your pants?”

He stood facing Macready.

“Anyway. This kid. He's wearing a pair of Y-fronts that had gone a bit saggy. His todger was poking out of the slot when he pulled his zip up, and…yipes. Zipped his foreskin into the teeth.”

Macready didn't move. Grant feigned a shiver.

“Enough to make your eyes water. Kid had to go to hospital to get himself untangled. Blood and foreskin everywhere. Nurse just yanked the zip down.”

Grant stood to his full height and relaxed his arms.

“I guess that's why Levis brought out 501s. You know—the jeans with a button fly instead of a zipper. There being so many dicks in Texas.”

Macready blinked as if slapped. Grant doubted if anyone in Absolution had called the boss's son a dick. The dick remained mute. He finished tucking his shirt into his jeans and fastened his belt, then stood still in front of the bed.

Grant raised his eyebrows.

“There was an upside. Nurse took twenty minutes rubbing cream into my cock. Opened my eyes, I can tell you. And I never wore Y-fronts again. These days I find it's best to keep my tackle where it belongs.”

His eyes turned hard as he glared at Macready.

“You'd better not have been putting yours where it doesn't.”

Macready glanced at the bed. Grant followed his gaze. The bedding was untidy and strewn across the bed. The pillows were dented in the middle. An uneven hump was hidden under the covers. The hump twitched. Grant took one step forward and punched Macready as hard as he could in the stomach.

The wind went out of the Texan like a pricked balloon. He dropped to his knees, holding his stomach. Grant rubbed his knuckles. He didn't like using his fists. There are more bones in the hand than almost any other part of the body. Hit something solid and there's a good chance you're going to break your hand. Grant usually used leverage and safe striking surfaces—the heel of the palm or the point of the elbow. He dialed back the anger. Control was the key. Grant rarely lost control. He was annoyed at himself for losing it now.

Macready looked up at the Yorkshireman.

“You're gonna pay for that.”

Grant let out a sigh.

“In dollars or pesos?”

Macready tried to keep the pain out of his voice without success. He did manage to smile though. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

“In zippered dicks.”

He barked a laugh at his own joke.

“When my father gets back.”

Grant leaned over Macready and patted him gently across the face.

“Well, he's not home now. So where's her clothes?”

He nudged the hump in the bed.

Macready's smile became a grin. “Whose clothes?”

Grant nudged the hump again. “Don't be a dick. Sarah's.”

The dick clambered to his feet, still holding his stomach. “Probably still wearing them.”

The hump shifted and threw the covers back. The naked woman lying in the bed wasn't Sarah Hellstrom. It was the petite Mexican waitress from the barbecue. She pulled the bedclothes up to cover her breasts. Macready didn't give her a second glance.

“Strapped to the front of the truck.”

thirty-eight

The room fell silent.
Grant had devised contingency plans for various scenarios, but this wasn't one of them. The main plan involved gunfire and explosions, two things guaranteed to cause harm to a human shield strapped to the front of a truck. Grant ran through the timings in his head. It was over an hour to dawn. The convoy would be on its way back. The first explosion would be the gas station at Sixto's—to push the convoy into the crossfire out front of the walled hacienda. Propane tanks and sniper fire would take care of the rest.

That had been the plan when the trucks only contained Macready's men. With Sarah Hellstrom thrown into the mix, that plan was too dangerous. Grant needed to call it off and come up with something else.

Scott Macready finished rubbing his stomach and stood up straight.

“What's up? Cat got your tongue?”

Grant leveled his gaze on the young Texan.

“You don't have a cat no more.”

Macready looked far too confident.

“There's always plenty of mousers.”

Grant felt the short hairs bristle up the back of his neck. Something was very wrong here. He glanced through the patio doors. It was still dark outside, but the first hint of blue was lightening the sky. The disturbance in the yard had subsided, the car fire extinguished. There was no sound of footsteps racing up the stairs to aid the boy Texan, and yet Macready didn't look as worried as he should have been, confronted by an armed man who outweighed him by fifty pounds.

The woman on the bed pushed backwards, out of the way.

Macready flexed his shoulders like a cocky schoolboy.

Grant quickly scanned the room. It was just the three of them.

“There's always plenty of mice.”

The Texan smiled.

“This is Texas. We don't have mice.”

Grant relaxed his arms.

“Same as you don't have moss?”

Macready looked confused.

“What?”

“Too dry.”

“Too big. We don't do anything small. The rodent problem in Absolution is bigger. Big and hairy. Rats and Mexicans.”

Grant tried to remember which strap he'd shouldered first without looking. The shotgun or the rifle. The one he needed now was the shotgun, and he had a feeling he'd be needing it very soon.

“I'm not Mexican.”

Macready held out his hands, palms upwards, and shrugged.

“There you go then.”

Grant hooked his thumbs into the straps as if they were braces. He ran them up and down until they reached the crossover in the middle. The shotgun strap going one way and the rifle strap the other. The shotgun strap was on top. Good.

“I had to tell the old-timer at the town dump I'm not a rat.”

“You didn't tell me.”

“Same answer though.”

“You're a rodent. Poking around where you don't belong.”

Grant eased one hand farther up the strap.

“Among the trash and underbelly, you mean?”

Macready's face turned to stone.

Grant got ready to move.

“Because if that's the case, then I'm the biggest rodent you ever saw.”

Macready clicked his fingers. Grant unshouldered the shotgun but wasn't quick enough. Three doors opened at once: the hallway, the adjoining bedroom, and the balcony. Two men came in through each and two more materialized from behind the curtains. All armed. All pointing their guns at Grant.

The girl yelped.

Macready's smile broadened.

“This isn't what we call a Mexican standoff.”

The old Mexican from Sixto's had been wrong. Not two men plus Macready. Eight. Rough hands snatched the shotgun. The rifle was torn from his shoulder. Grant needed to distract them from finding the .38 in his sock. He whipped round and jabbed an elbow into the nearest face, then blocked a handgun that was swung at his head. Two more men caught him from the sides. A blow to the side of the head made him see stars. A sharp downward kick to the back of his leg collapsed him to the ground. Nobody fired. This was a controlled situation. They didn't need to.

Macready leaned over him.

“You can't drop off a cliff from here.”

His eyes turned to flint.

“But you can drop.”

He nodded, and a sledgehammer blow took Grant out.