Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (14 page)

“They pulled the usual evidence, and they’ll be processing that. But it takes time. It may be weeks before we hear anything. Nothing jumped out and screamed, ‘Hey! I’m the mac-daddy of clues.’ Except for the bloody boot prints and paw prints.”

Iona sighed. “It appears someone is trying to play on the Skinwalker fears of us desert folks. What about the guy you got in the slammer?”

“He won’t talk. Wants to lawyer-up. To do a will. Go figure. I think he wants to stay in the cell. The man’s terrified.”

“You got any idea why?” Iona leaned back in her chair, munching on some fries.

Rye looked up at the ceiling then laughed. “He freaked at the arrest when he spotted the black-clad Latino male mentioned in the reports.”

“Sooo … watch’ya going to do with the prisoner?”

Rye shook his head. “I can’t get over the idea he wants to stay in jail. Most folks can’t wait to get away.”

“Perhaps you ought to charge him room and board. Can’t imag—”

“What the—” Rye blurted and half stood.

Gunshots, from outside, mixed with screeching tires.

“Stay put,” he told Iona as he grabbed his holster.

When Rye reached the front door, more gunshots ripped apart the dusk’s calm.

Burnt rubber fouled the air.

People screamed.

Standing on the sidewalk and strapping on his holster, Rye watched as a half dozen trucks and a rusty El Camino squealed tires in demonic clatter while they drove in crazed circles at the three-way intersection of Yuma Street and Whiskey Drive, the town’s major intersection.

Rye absorbed the commotion within heartbeats of exiting the police HQ. The evening’s twilight had settled upon the town. It’d be dark soon.

He dashed between the vehicles parked in front of the Police Department and peeked over the hood of Iona’s Land Rover as people scrambled to flee the chaos.

Gunmen stood in the beds of the trucks, pointing rifles in the air and firing. The traffic light at the intersection had been shot out, pieces left to swing on sparking wires.

He raced over to the Tahoe, threw open the back hatch, and grabbed the first weapon he had ever learned to use—his bow. Opening a secret compartment, Rye withdrew the quiver hidden there and slipped the strap over his head. He yanked his cell phone from its belt.

Come on, pick up.

“Depute here.”

“We have a situation in town,” Rye said. “I need you here now. Rápido.”

“Chief, me and Heilo are investigating a report of approximately twenty female mules crossing Tucker’s ranch out on 8. We’re here searching for them.”

A sudden burst from about a dozen weapons erupted at the intersection.

“Dude! What’s that?”

“Gunfire. Someone’s shooting up the plaza.”

“We’re—”

“Getting here ASAP.” Rye spotted Zach sprinting up the side street towards him. “I see Reese. But we need your backup.”

“Roger that,” Depute said. “Our TOA is fifteen minutes.”

Rye disconnected the call and sped two blocks to the first intersection. At the corner, in front of the Cowboy’s Cyber Café—a yuppy coffee bar—he hunkered down behind a square adobe column supporting the awning over the sidewalk. He counted some fifteen Latino males in the truck beds firing various weapons. Their drivers circled the plaza like Indians set to attack a wagon train.

Zach knelt next to him. He wore a black wife-beater shirt, jeans, and moccasins. He carried a Glock.

“Looks like we got ourselves a real mess, huh, Chief?” His words rushed over each other, a half octave higher than normal.

One of the shooters leveled his weapon and fired. Windows from several stores exploded in showers of glass.

“Can you shoot with that eye patch?”

“No problema.” Zach nodded to Rye’s weapon. “So what, you bring a bow and arrow to a gunfight?”

Rye shot him a dirty look. “You a freaking comedian now, or what?”

Zach cleared his throat. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Let’s walk down the street. Maybe a show of force will scare them off.”

“Say what?” Zach said, his voice rising even higher in pitch.

“Maybe with an aggressive police presence, they will cease their firing at innocent civilians.” Rye glanced again at Reese, who stared back, speechless. “Let’s do this.”

“Roger that.”

As they stepped out onto Yuma Street and started walking towards the violence at the intersection, Rye figured this had to be one of the dumbest ideas he ever had. He was about to say something when Zach raised his handgun and aimed at targets down the street. Determined to stay the course, Rye nocked an arrow and pulled the string taut.

“Now what, Chief?”

“You take the twelve guys on the left, and I’ll take the twelve guys on the right. DePute and Heilo are on their way. They can have what’s remaining.”

“Now, who’s the comedian?”

They passed by stores, small businesses, bars and restaurants, all familiar to Rye. He knew the owners. Faces full of worry and fear peered out from behind drawn curtains. Several shop owners lifted rifles or handguns and mouthed, “Need help?”

Rye shook his head at each in turn, mouthing, “No.”

Other citizens hid behind cars, pickups, and SUVs parked along the street. Mothers with children. An elderly couple. A teenager had removed a rifle—a Remington, Rye noted—from the back of a pickup, and, though scared, appeared ready to begin returning fire. Rye shot him a glance and said, “Stay put.”

A bullet pinged the street a dozen yards in front of them and ricocheted away with a whining noise. Another window crashed, shot out from the sound of it.

They reached the next intersection. The shooting stopped, and the trucks came to a halt, facing them like an offensive line. Their Spanish and laughter filled the void left by the silent guns.

From the bed of a blue ’63 Ford with black fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, a man wearing a straw cowboy hat pointed a rifle at them. Rye tensed
.
Straw Hat fired a shot, striking a car parked nearby.

Zach squeezed off a round, striking the center of the grill. Steam swarmed over the truck’s front. A steamy green puddle formed under its front bumper. The expended shell clinked on the pavement. Straw Hat and his friends ducked.

“You missed the shooter,” Rye said.

“No way. I aimed for the radiator. Consider it a warning shot.”

“Shooting the gunman would’ve been better.”

“There’s a critic in every crowd.”

The driver of the Ford sprang out of the truck when the cloud of heated antifreeze flowed over the windshield. He raced to the front of the truck and stared down at the expanding pool of antifreeze before hurling hot curses in Spanish in their direction.

“Sir, lay down on the ground,” Rye yelled back. “NOW!”

The driver gave Rye the finger and scurried back into his Ford.

“Now, that’s one impolite hombre,” Rye said.

A dozen guns from the men in the truck beds pointed at them.

“Time for cover?” Zach’s voice shook.

“Noooo,” Rye said, drawing the bowstring taut. “Tell them to stand down.”

Zach shot him a questioning glance. Several shots rang out from the trucks. Bullets hit the pavement or struck cars.
The way these morons shoot, maybe standing in the middle of the street IS the safest place.

“Whatever you say, Chief.” Aiming his gun at the Ford driver, he bellowed, “This is the police! Lay down your weapons! NOW!”

They laughed, elbowing each other as if they shared a big joke. They sounded drunk.

With a tremor in his voice, Zach said, “I don’t think I persuaded them.”

“I’d say you gave them ample warning to lay down their weapons.” Rye sighted down the arrow.

“Yeeeeah?”

“They’ve broken several laws, wouldn’t you say?” Rye aimed the arrow at a truck.

“We got enough to hold them until Armageddon.”

“And they most certainly have put our citizens and guests at risk.” Rye compensated his aim for the heavy, odd-shaped arrowhead.

“No doubt.”

“They damaged property?” Rye asked. He took a deep breath.

“Sure, Chief. But …”

“And I believe they gave the wrong response to your command,” Rye said. “Let’s see if they think this is funny.”

“What kind of arrowhead is that?”

“Watch.”

Rye loosed the arrow. It struck the front right fender on a pee yellow ’69 Toyota Hilux truck. The Hilux exploded in a ball of fire and flipped, sending men sailing from its bed. The truck slammed into the
’63 Ford next to it. Rye resumed walking toward the line of trucks. Orange tongues of flames crawled along the torn metal, and thick black smoke billowed into the sky.

Zoned in on the scene unfolding before him, Rye observed the minutiae, the shooters scrambling from the trucks, the drivers grinding the transmissions to get their vehicles in gear, a passenger struggling to get his handgun from his shoulder holster. A horseman galloped towards town, cutting across open land. Whitewolf. Zach trailed a step behind.

“The! Officer! Said!” Rye shouted while he withdrew another arrow. “Lay! Down! Your! Weapons!” He nocked the arrow and lifted the bow. “DO IT NOW!”

When one of the gunmen in the bed of the El Camino aimed a rifle at him, Rye sent the arrow into the vehicle’s headlight. The front on the car exploded in a shower of fire and metal. Flames licked at the ruined car, the twin stacks of black smoke joining together. Rye readied another arrow should the shooters want to engage further.

That’s when he heard the sirens.

Thank you, DePute.

Men stumbled away from the burning trucks. Those in the undamaged vehicles jumped from the beds to assist their injured and load them into their trucks. With the drivers spewing curses, they fled the scene, tires squealing.

Rye lowered his bow. “Let’s check out our crime scene.”

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

Sheriff’s Deputy April Cruze parked her cruiser along State Route
23, angling it to block the two lanes. She sat in her car a moment, staring at the red slash on the western horizon. Already, the temps had started to drop.

Sheriff Oakmann had ordered her to this section of the highway to set up a roadblock in response to a BOLO. Something about a cartel shootout in Whiskey.

This spot she had chosen, with the angle in the road, would force any driver to slow down. Just in case the shooters came this way.

Unlikely. Not on this back side to nowhere
. The road only led to the houses of some rich people.

She took off her Stetson and set it upside down on the passenger’s seat.

Why do I get all the rotten details?

Then she glanced out of her side window. About a half mile away, a convoy of headlights raced towards her position. She retrieved her cell phone.

“This is Deputy Cruze near the interchange to Whiskey on State Route 23. I have multiple fast moving vehicles coming from Whiskey. Please advise.”

A few seconds later, Oakmann replied, “Try to halt the lead vehicle using your Stop Stick. Consider the convoy to be armed and dangerous. Backup is on its way.”

“Roger that.”

“What’s your 10-40?”

Cruze relayed her location then signed off.

She flipped on her lightbar and exited the car. The blues and reds splashed over the desert. She hurried to the trunk and opened it. First thing, she checked her vest, unhooked her holster, and grabbed
extra mags. Satisfied, she fetched the Stop Stick from the underside of the trunk lid, and with one easy throw, deployed it onto the road. It looked like a black snake lying across the pavement. She made sure the wire attached to the tire deflation device was taut.

The lead box truck drew within a hundred yards. Staying within the flashing lights, she stepped into the road—glad for the absence of civilian traffic—and waved. The trucks did not slow down. She continued to wave. When the headlights from the lead truck highlighted her, it shot forward. In a microsecond, she noticed the dent on the driver side fender, the crack in the windshield, the male driver wearing a straw cowboy hat, the male passenger chambering a round in the handgun he held in front of him.

Not good.

She dove into a nearby ditch and prepared to yank the Stop Stick.

With the truck barreling down on her, April saw the driver aim a handgun out the window too late. She activated the stop stick. Heard the pop of several shots. Jerked her gaze at the driver. The sound of angry hornets flew past. She felt a tremendous kick in her chest above her left breast.

She spun around and rammed her head into her car. She heard the truck tires blow and squeal. Coming out of her momentary blackout and lying on the ground, she witnessed the box truck swerving right and left then toppling over. In a spray of sparks, it skidded along the road, dipped into a ditch, and turn upside down. Several others raced past.

Her upper chest blazed. A wet, sticky substance spread under her shirt. Her left arm failed to move. The bullet had just missed the vest.