Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (3 page)

Rye nodded as if he would consider the idea. “Interesting name.” Rye smiled like nothing was wrong in the world. “Sun’s coming up. You’ll be gettin’ mighty thirsty. Think about that.” He patted the door to the truck. “Metal’s already hot.”

Rye stood, and his damaged knee nearly gave out. Nonetheless, he managed to get to his feet without a groan despite the shot of pain.
Nothing a couple of beers wouldn’t dull.

“Don’t Move.
¿Comprende?
” he said.

Rye limped back to Zach.
Stupid knee
. Back at his vehicle, he turned around to face the suspect.

“I’ll give you a few minutes to decide to give yourself up peaceful-like and get into some air conditioning. Or, you can fry here on the blacktop. Doesn’t matter to me. I’d just as soon watch you fry as make the effort to take you to jail. Since you seem to think I’m a pig and all.”

The Mexican’s eyes flashed hatred.

“Think about it.” Rye fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweaty face.

Moments later, one of the waitresses strutted out of the diner carrying two glasses. Auborne Day, Rye recalled her name. The sound of ice clinking in the glasses carried across the parking lot. With her high-heeled clogs clicking on the pavement, her whole body moved with a sexual swagger.

“Hey, fellows,” she said, winking at Zach.

Rye shot a glance at his officer and twisted his lips to suppress his surprise.

“Here’s some lemonade, Chief,” she said. “Compliments of the Drivin’ Diner.”

“Mighty grateful.” Zach touched the brim of his hat and took the two lemonades. Leaning in so his lips brushed her hair, Zach whispered, “Aub, you can come over to my place and play with my lemons anytime.”

Rye pulled his hat lower and averted his gaze at Zach’s lack of decorum.

She threw back her head and laughed as if he just said the funniest joke. The highlights in her hair danced in dawn’s glow. She touched Zach’s arm and raised one foot. She leaned forward to whisper into Zach’s ear, causing her short skirt to rise higher on her thighs.

“If you ask nice, I’ll bring the glasses,” she said in a silky tone and stood upright. Louder, she added, “Gotta go back to work. I’ll come ’round later to fetch the glasses. See y’all soon.” She hurried back inside the diner.

Rye took his glass from Zach and downed a long swig of the lemonade, grateful for its sweet replenishment. By now, his prisoner had to be feeling the effects of the heat. He smacked his lips with a satisfied, “Ahhhhh. They make the best lemonade here.”

Zach downed a large gulp. “Yep.”

Rye took another drink. “Mighty nice of them to bring these to us.”

“Yep.”

Rye shook the glass to make the ice clink against the glass. “That’s one crazy good sound. Wouldn’t you agree, officer?”

“Aren’t many sounds purtier than that.”

“Especially with the heat index getting close to what …”

“I’d say it’s over 100 …”

“What do you say, hombre?” Rye displayed the glass of lemonade. “Ready to give up?”

The suspect dropped his head and nodded. Sweat dropped from his chin to sizzle on the pavement. The swagger left him like air from a flat tire. Zach and Rye set their lemonades on the hood of the Tahoe and sauntered over to him. They lifted him off the ground and walked him over to the SUV. Rye gave the man a sip of his drink while Zach held his handcuffed hands.

“Gracias.” The man licked his lips.

Rye nodded towards Zach’s Ford Crown Vic. “De nada. Now get in the car. You better have a legit ID, or I’ll deport your hide outta my state. And fast.”

Rye held the car door open. Zach assisted the prisoner into the vehicle, putting his hand on top of the man’s head to prevent him from banging it against the car frame. Just before the prisoner went into the car, he looked back at the diner. His eyes opened wide.

Rye followed his gaze. A Latino male stood in the shadow cast by the diner and a grove of palm trees. Rye noted the man’s attire: black jeans, black western shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, black Stetson, and black cowboy boots. Tattoos decorated his left forearm. Rye stared at the man’s mirrored sunglasses, unsure of what he saw. Did the sun reflect off the sunglasses, or did the guy’s eyes glow behind the sunglasses? The man in black turned to leave.

“Hey! Wait up. I want—” Rye hurried toward the departing stranger as the car door slammed shut behind him. Rye glanced at
the prisoner, who stared out the back window, face drained of color, eyes fixated beyond Rye.

Rye followed his gaze, but the man had vanished. In his place, hidden in the shadows, a black dog squatted staring at him with dull, yellow eyes and a fanged snarl.

Thump!

Thump! Crack
.

“Hey,” yelled Zach. “Cease kicking the window now!”

Thump! Crash!

“Crap!”

Rye wheeled to find the prisoner kicking the remaining glass out of the window. Reese crumpled to the ground, hands covering his eyes. Streams of blood leaked from cuts on his face. The prisoner used his feet to pull himself closer to the car door, his legs dangling out the window.

In three steps, Rye stood at the door. He drew back his bowstring and aimed the arrow at the prisoner’s chest. “Morning’s early, and I haven’t killed anyone yet. So try it.”

The prisoner then inched his legs back into the car.

“That’s right, hombre, stay put, or I’ll pin you to that seat like a butterfly.”

Rye knelt to assist Zach, who had his eyelid pried open. Rye set his bow on the blacktop.

“Got a piece of glass in my eye,” Zach yelled.

“Let me see,” Rye yelled back.

Someone behind him cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, Chief.”

Rye jerked his head around as his hand went for his sidearm. Expecting the Latino in black, Rye stared up at the silhouette
hovering over him. The blinding sun behind the speaker rendered his face invisible. Shading his eyes, Rye squinted at the shape and recognized the familiar Golden Gate Del Mar straw hat.

“Hey, Doc.” Rye released a sigh of relief. “Can you lend us a hand?”

“Yes, sir.” Doc knelt next to Reese. The man looked more like an aging biker with his graying ponytail pulled tight, skull and crossbones bandana, and sleeveless denim shirt revealing hairy arms. Rye had borne witness to the many wounded bodies stitched up by the man. “Let me look, son.”

He took over holding open Zach’s eyelid. After a brief examination, he said, “Appears to be a couple shards of glass in there. Try not to blink.” The doctor opened his knapsack with one hand and withdrew a red plastic box. From the box, he extracted a pair of tweezers.

“Be as still as possible,” Doc ordered, “I’m going after them pieces of glass.” With a few deft movements, he removed one glass particle after another. Then he reached into the knapsack and withdrew a bottle of sterile contact solution. “This might burn.”

The doc squirted the eyeball with the solution and leaned in close to get a good look at the eye. Satisfied, he released Zach’s eyelid.

“How’s it feel?” Doc said, head tilted.

“I don’t feel nothing in there, but my eye hurts like a bad sunburn.”

Doc pulled a clean handkerchief out of his sack and handed it to Zach. “Keep that on ’til I can git you fixed up right.” He stood, helping Zach up. Rye followed suit, grunting.

“He’s going to be okay?” Rye asked, worried.

“Chief, I dressed worse wounds in ’Nam, and the men turned out alright. So I think he’ll be okay.” Doc patted Zach’s shoulder. “I’m heading into Yuma to pick up some supplies. I believe he lacerated
his cornea. I don’t have the facilities in town to treat this. As a precaution, I think Zach oughta go with me. I can drop him off at the Yuma Regional Medical Center and bring him home on my return. He’s going to be out of commission for a few days.”

“Whatever it takes.” Rye looked for the dog. It had vanished.

Dan Olberlein’s dirty-white Freightliner M2 box van idled in traffic at the Nogales Mexican/Arizona border on I-19. Car by car, traffic crept towards the arches marking the Mexican boundary. Brushing stringy sandy hair from his eyes, he checked his watch again.
This is taking too long.

He rubbed the tightness gripping the back of his neck. To ease his jitters, Dan thought about the money he’d earn on this trip. Enough to pay off his gambling debt, finish college, and buy that engagement ring for his girl.

Traffic inched forward.

He looked out both side mirrors, worried that the pet store image painted on the side of his van would smear. Would the guards detect the fake?

Though he tried to focus on the money, he couldn’t erase the memory of the men who loaded the truck. He never would have believed that
ragheads
were helping the cartels if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

The air conditioning in the cab struggled against the heat. As soon
as he got paid for this job, he planned on spending a week with his girl in the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest. Just the two of them.

After what seemed like hours, Dan finally reached the Mexican/ US border. The meticulous border agents, dressed in their stupid green uniforms, cleared the vehicles ahead of him, one at a time. His hands grew clammy. The dusty red Pontiac in front of him pulled away in a cloud of blue smoke. With a tightening in his gut, he inched his truck forward.

Showtime.

A border patrol agent strolled over to his cab. Scrunching lower in the seat, he rolled down his window. Despite being in the shade provided by the bone-white, two-story offices above him, the desert heat blasted his face.

“Sir,” the agent said, peering under the bill of his green ball cap. His no-nonsense military stance reflected in the tone of his voice. “May I see your papers?”

Dan glared at the man’s nametag. “Sure thing, Senior Patrol Agent Chuck Stevens.” He handed the necessary documents over to the agent without another word. Agent Stevens scrutinized the papers.

“Your manifest says you’re carrying tropical fish and handcrafted Indian pottery.” The agent flipped between pages of the manifest.

“Yes, sir. My store’s displaying at a convention of fish aquatics, and I’m bringing in some new specimens. We’re using the pottery to
feng shui
our booth.”

Dan caught movement in the side mirror. Another agent strolled between the cars, leading a German Shepherd on a leash. A drug-sniffing dog.
This is going to turn ugly. And right now.

Two cars back, the dog stopped and sat down facing the trunk of
the beat-up Impala. Dan closed his eyes for a couple of seconds.

Let the games begin.

The dog handler spoke into a mic clipped to his shirt.

“Stay put,” Agent Stevens said and handed the manifest back to Dan. “There might be some trouble.”

I’m counting on trouble.
Dan eased his window back up.

In the reversed images of his side mirror, Dan watched a dozen agents surround the Impala, aiming Remington 870 shotguns at the vehicle. Stevens walked up and tapped on the driver’s window, ordering the persons in the car to exit immediately. Six Mexican males emerged from the car.

The Impala driver yanked a handgun from his waistband and fired point-blank into Stevens’ chest. The agent fell to the pavement. The other five Mexicans opened fire on the remaining agents. Two more border agents collapsed. Agents returned fire, dropping one of the Mexican gunmen and wounding another. Screams from surrounding cars blended with the shouts of agents. Glass shattered. Bullets plunked off cars.

The four Mexicans moved out with military precision. They maintained a barrage of firepower.

Someone pounded on Dan’s window, and he jumped. A short, dark-skinned woman in uniform stood at his door. “Sir, move your vehicle! Now!”

He waved a two-fingered acknowledgement. Shifting his truck into gear, he sped through the border crossing. Agents poured out of glass doors like gas out of a can. The four remaining shooters continued to lay down withering gunfire.

With the sounds of war diminishing behind him, Dan punched the truck into high gear.

Out of Nogales, the road cut through low hills of scraggly brush. A mile later, he came to an exit with a carwash.

He hurried the truck into the farthest slot, glad no one else was around. He had the place to himself. Dan fed quarters into the spray-washer and hosed down the truck.

The water-soluble paint bled away in streaks of colored suds, and in its place, a vanilla-hued box van emerged. He turned the hose on the lingering pools of water, hastening the last of the paint down the drain. After returning the sprayer to its containment housing, he opened the cab door and reached under the driver’s seat to extract two magnetic signs. Dan held them out and inspected the blue logo of an artsy roadrunner beside the name
Ablo’s Fast Delivery
. He attached one to each side of the cab.

It’s working. The plan is freaking working like a charm. I’m in the money.

He climbed back into the driver’s seat, fired up the truck, regained the expressway, and headed north.