Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (36 page)

Opening the car door, Rye tilted his head to listen. He only heard the typical night sounds and the oncoming thunder. But no helicopter. The bird had been in bad shape, so it couldn’t have gone far
.
Glancing at the glass-enclosed backside of List’s house and the fire reflecting off its remaining windows, Rye figured List wouldn’t wait much longer to detonate the building.

“Dad, look,” Manny said, pointing.

Following his son’s gaze, he spotted the flashing lights of the incoming Bell copters. Seconds later, he spotted the white letters under a side window: FBI.
’Bout time.

“Son,” he shifted in his seat to face Manny, “open that glove box. There should be a handgun in there. I make sure all WPD vehicles keep one. Be careful.”

Manny reached in, pulled the weapon out, and held it up.

Rye breathed in deeply and released the air.
God, I don’t want to do this. But I really don’t have a choice.
“Nope. You take it. I need you to cover my back.”

“But,” Manny started to protest.

“I was thinking of making you stay in the car. But I know you’d just get on the horse after I leave and trail behind me. Therefore, I’d rather have you ride with me.”

“Mom’ll kill me if I get hurt,” Manny said with some hesitancy.

“She’ll kill me for bringing you along.” Rye gave his son a half grin.

“She told me to stay in the car.”

“And you did. Until I said otherwise.” Rye smiled and said with a comical imitation, “I’m the law in this here town. And what I says, goes.” Father and son laughed. “¿Comprende?” Rye studied his son for moment. “Come on,” he said, sliding out of the car. “We got horses to find and a bad guy to chase.”

“And a mom to rescue.”

Standing at the front of the SUV, Rye considered which direction to take to look for the horses. Any sign of tracks would have been washed away by the storm. Beyond the beams of light, a horse whinnied. Rye pointed toward the sound, and Manny nodded. With Rye in the lead, they entered the thicket. Moments later, they found Oakmann’s Appaloosa and Piebald munching on some low vegetation. The Appaloosa raised its head while still chomping on grasses and eyed them.

“They’re probably spooked,” Rye whispered and motioned for Manny to stay put. Speaking in soothing tones, Rye approached them. He reached the closest, the Piebald, grabbed its halter, and rubbed its neck.

“Good boy,” Rye repeated in soothing tones. He motioned for Manny to take him. Approaching the Appaloosa, Rye repeated his performance. He rubbed the animal’s forehead and spoke silly nothings in soft tones.

“Check the cinches,” Rye said after wiping the rainwater off the saddle.

The FBI birds hovered in the background while Rye rushed through a checklist of the horses’ equipment. With leather creaking,
he swung up into the saddle of the Appaloosa. Nodding in approval, he heard the copters taking off.
Good. Now fly like the Devil’s after you.
He patted the horse’s neck, glad to see Manny already seated on his horse.

The house exploded. A fiery ball gushed skyward like an orange geyser. A shower of debris from the building began to crash down on them. Rye’s horse reared, hooves clawing the air. The Appaloosa twisted in circles, snorting and bucking. Its eyes opened wide, showing white. Rye held tight with his knees and gripped the reins.

He called out in soothing tones in an attempt to quiet the beast. After half a minute, the horse stopped fighting and began to settle. Rye continued talking in a relaxing tone. The horse shook his head up and down a few times and then calmed.

“That was soooo cool, dad,” Manny said, hands resting on the saddle horn. “Just like in the movies.”

“How’d your horse do?” he said gasping.

Manny shrugged. “He flinched some.”

I’m just one happy horned lizard that Manny didn’t get this crazy beast.

Rye gazed at the blinking lights of the FBI’s helicopters disappearing into the night. Fire raged at the former List home, filling the canyon with garish smoke and hellfire light.

He turned his horse toward the approximate direction of List’s exit tunnel.

“Manny, let’s ride.” Rye spurred his horse.

Dawn approached like a sniper stalking a target. Black faded into a leaden overcast, remnant from the second storm. Fog hovered over the ground like dirty cotton. During the night, Rye rode in the pounding rain at a slow pace, not willing to risk the horses slipping on the muddy trail along the creek bank. The creek still roared with flash flood waters.

Stopping to give the horses a breather, he leaned over in his saddle to read the story left by tire tracks and footprints. The extra depth of the tracks indicated the ATV stopped here. A set of small footprints—probably a woman’s—headed off behind a rock and returned. The tracks appeared to be fresh. Definitely after the storm, and most probably, less than an hour.

He sat up straight in his saddle, the leather creaking. He figured they were nearing I-8 where this creek went under the expressway.
Where would they go when they reach the interstate?

“Dad?” Manny rode up beside him with a quizzical look.

“What is it, son?”

“Could they be going down to Goldwater?”

“The Air Force Range? Why’d they do that?”

“The Sand Tank Mountains.”

Rye bit his lower lip and thought a moment. “We’ll check it out when we reach the highway.” Rye held out his fist to his son and they bumped their knuckles together. “This creek heads towards the Sands. Some tough going in there. No real trails to speak of. But there’s catchments with water and caves to hole up in.” He looked off to the south. “Bet he didn’t get a camping permit.”

“C’mon, dad. Stop with your stupid jokes.”

“What? I’m not funny?” Rye turned serious. “Let’s see where the trail leads us.”

Within a half hour, they reached I-8. Standing water submerged sections of the road. Allowing the horses to slurp up some water, Rye studied the mountains rearing up over 2000 feet.

“Wait here,” Rye said.

He rode to the other side of 8, the horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the pavement. Ten feet from the road, Rye leaned over in the saddle to discover no tire tracks.
That’s odd.
He sat upright and looked right and left and back and drew a hand across his mouth. He rode on for another fifty feet and still found nothing. After riding in ever-expanding concentric circles, Rye concluded they never came this way.

He crossed back over I-8 and rejoined with Manny.

“Trail’s gone cold,” Rye said. He rushed a hand through his hair.

“It was boring watching you over there,” Manny said. “So, I kinda looked around over here.” Rye raised an eyebrow. “And I found something.” Rye noted the hint of pride in his son’s voice.

Manny spurred his horse, moving towards the curb. Rye followed.

Manny tugged on the reins to stop the horse and pointed to the ground. “This.”

The ATV’s tire tracks had splashed through a puddle, leaving ruts in the rain-soaked ground.

“Nice detective work,” Rye complimented his son.

Without warning, the edges of his sight went dark, and he fought off the vertigo threatening to overtake him. One of his visions. Eyes closed, he licked his lips. An image of Whiskey’s only Baptist church came unbidden into his head.

“Dad?” Manny’s hesitant voice broke into his dreamscape, and Rye blinked his eyes open. “Dad, you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s some Navajo thing. But I think I know where Mom is,” Rye said, fiddling with his dog tags under his shirt. “Let’s go get her.” He rotated his horse towards Whiskey and urged his horse into a gallop.

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

Rye lay on the wet ground atop a small rise, moisture soaking into his uniform. Using binoculars procured from the Appaloosa’s saddlebags, he pressed them gingerly against his battered face and studied the basin below. Nothing moved around the small white-clapboard church. It lay atop the exposed knoll like bleached bones.

He had to smile in spite of himself. He often cursed his vision-thing, but this time he welcomed it. Parked in the church’s parking lot, the WPD ATV waited by the building’s side door. The
opened
side door.

Rye sighed and swung the field glasses to study the ground behind the church. Rocky with evergreen shrubs. A covered patio with a brick grill, which Rye estimated to be seventy-five yards from the church. Seventy-five OPEN yards. It couldn’t be helped. That was the closest protection to the building. He crawled backwards through the thicket. When he cleared the ridge, he stood and headed for Manny waiting with the horses, a plan percolating in his mind.

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

Rye looked skyward. Heavy clouds rolled overhead, squelching dawn’s light. He and Manny sat with their backs against the brick grill, hidden from any inquisitive eyes in the church.

Rye cleared his throat. “Manny, I’m gonna ask you to do something, I wish I didn’t have to.”

“Okay.” Manny’s voice quivered. “Anything to help Mom.”

“That’s good. Mom needs our help.” Noting the fear in Manny’s eyes, Rye mussed his hair. “I need you to take this rifle and use the scope to watch the windows. I’m going to have to cross the parking lot to get to the church. If List or his Mexican buddies glance out, I’ll be an easy target. They will attempt to kill me. I’m depending on you to have my back.” Rye held his son’s gaze. “That means … shoot to kill.”

“You mean … I’ll get to be like a SWAT member or something?”

Rye suppressed an emerging smile. “That’s right. I now deputize you to be the official Whiskey Police Department SWAT Captain. All that target practice we used to do is going to come in handy.”

“I miss that … I miss you, Dad. I mean, living with Mom is cool and
everything. But I miss having you around to do, you know, like guy stuff.” He laughed. “Mom tries, but she’s not very good at throwing a football.”

“I want to be a family again. I’d really love to have that happen. But right now, we got to focus on rescuing the captives.” Rye changed his voice to command mode. “You got that, Captain?”

“Yes sir.”

“This here rifle is a Smith and Wesson M&P15. It holds 30 rounds. I hope you won’t need more than that.” The rifle had been in a sleeve on the Piebald’s saddle. “Can you handle this weapon?”

Manny leveled an exasperated blank stare. “Dad, you know I can.”

Rye set the bow and quiver next to his son. “Take care of this for me. And, Manny, one last thing.” He removed his gun from his holster and stared into his son’s eyes. He chambered a round into the gun. “I love you.”

Using his arms and good leg, Rye rose from behind the grill and limp-ran for the ATV. Any second he expected to hear a shot ring out and feel hot lead smack into his body. Each puddle felt like muck grabbing his ankles. The splashes sounded too loud in his ears. Like a herd of mustangs. The closer he came to the ATV, the further away it seemed.

Then he reached it and lowered himself to the pavement. Breath came in ragged gasps. He peered into every church window, one at a time, studying each for any untoward movements. He saw nothing suspicious.
Did I make it without being noticed?
He made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. One last quick dash, and he’d be inside the building.

Stay alive, Dee. No matter what you have to do. Stay alive.

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

Manny sighted down the rifle barrel, searching from window to window. Closed blinds hung in each, except for the stained glass in the white clapboard section. Manny decided to ignore those windows, unless one of the lower panes opened.

He breathed a sigh of relief when his dad reached the ATV. Moments later, he watched his dad disappear inside the building.

“Oh, God, protect my mom and dad. I don’t want to lose them.” He pointed the rifle at another window.

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

Inside the church, Rye leaned against the wall beside the side door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the thicker darkness. It didn’t take a forensic genius to tell, by the destruction of the doorjamb at the strike plate, that the side door had been forced open. List and his cronies were here. The building smelled closed up, the air, stale. An air conditioner hummed, struggling to maintain the inside temperature to what felt like 80 degrees. He heard no other sound. He clenched the P226, ready to use it.

In one direction, the hallway went about fifteen feet to three stairs that led to a closed door at the top landing. Rye tiptoed that way. On the top step, he tried the door.
Locked.
He peered through the window in the door. It led to the sanctuary. A tiny platform. A piano. An altar railing separated the stage from twenty-five or so rows of hard wooden benches.
No one’s there.

He eased back down the hallway and passed the side entrance. Five steps further, an alcove intersected with the corridor. He
stopped, hugging the wall. Signs indicated the restrooms were located in the recess. He risked a quick glance. No one. With head cocked, he strained to listen. Seconds ticked away. Hearing only the wind whistling through an unlocked window, he figured the restrooms were empty. The hallway ended in several steps at another doorway. He tried the doorknob …