A Fine Balance Page 6

  Another long silence, each passing minute increasing their vulnerability. There could be men strapping on weapons somewhere below, starting up the trail, gaining ground. Maybe more men than yesterday, converging from different directions, perhaps they were already in transit. Whoever was willing to forfeit a field of weed for the threat Mata posed would consider the boy an unaffordable liability. “Come on, Luis. That bunch who missed you yesterday are gonna try again this morning. We have to hustle.” He wondered what would happen if he forced his way in; would the kid freak, did he have a weapon? Could he shoot straight? He glanced at his wrist watch. “It’s almost eight. The bad guys are on their way by now. I figure they’re worried that you know something you shouldn’t and they want to make sure you don’t tell anyone. I don’t care what it is. It’s nothing to do with me. But one kid against guys like those who wrecked your camp doesn’t seem fair to me. Okay?” He kept talking, hoping to gain the boy’s trust, reassure him, nudge him along--if nothing else see if he could convince the boy that a deputy sheriff was the lesser of two evils. “You know I used to sleep in this cave when I was about your age. I’d come visit my aunt in the summer. Take a look to the right of the entrance, not too high up you’ll see the initials I carved in the limestone when I was eight. It took me a couple days.” A whisper of footsteps. “See’m? Can you make out the J, B, M? They’re kinda crooked but that rock was a bitch. My aunt’s cabin’s close by. We can call for help. My boss is a nice guy. He’ll come right away. Save us both.”

  “Where’s my brother?” The high-pitched voice trembled at the last.

  Confirmation. The deceased was a brother. But Jack didn’t dare pretend everything was fine or the boy might think he had only to stay put until his brother showed up. Nor was he about to lay out the gruesome details of the murder with the kid wavering. Opting for ambiguity, treading carefully, Jack said, “I don’t have real good news about your brother. I’m sorry. But he did what he could to protect you. He left a clue. That’s why I knew your name and came looking for you. But the bad guys must have figured out you were up here too. We have to stay ahead of them.”

  A rustle of sound, the saplings trembled.

  Was he coming out?

  More silence. The kid must have changed his mind.

  Oh fuck! Jack surged to his feet. “Hear that!” They had to get outta Dodge. The frenzied baying signaled dogs on the scent. “They’re coming with tracking dogs! We gotta move–now, now, now!” As he strode forward, the boy slipped through the screen of lacy saplings quiet as a shadow, fine-boned face, dark, thick hair sticking up every which way, a backpack on one shoulder, a Glock in his small, white-knuckled hand, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth set. The handgun was trained on Jack’s chest.

  Jesus, he was small. You forget. Jack shifted his voice back to bland, like a hostage negotiator talking down some bat-shit crazy from blowing up Manhattan. “I won’t hurt you, I promise,” Jack said, smooth as silk, his best bedside manner. “Take my weapons if you want. Put them in your pack. But hurry. Those dogs are coming fast.” The barking was louder, more frantic.

  “They’ve been here once already,” Luis said in English. He’d gone to school in L.A. two winters. “Without the dogs.”

  His English was good; learn a language when you’re young. “I know. I saw the men’s tracks. You must have been scared.”

  “I didn’t look. I just heard them,” he said in a small, muffled voice.

  Poor kid. “We don’t want to see them now either. Or ever if we’re lucky. I’ll carry you to confuse the dogs. Since they’re following your scent it might take them a while to figure out where you went.” He flashed a smile. “If you’re not going to pick up my guns, I will. Don’t shoot now. We need each other.”

  “I can shoot you know.” The Glock hadn’t moved off target, the suspicious little poker face intact.

  “I figured. You’re mighty good at covering your trail too.” Picking up his weapons, Jack holstered them, grabbed his jacket, slid it through a strap on his pack. He’d be working up a sweat keeping ahead of the dogs. Swinging his pack on his back, he held out his hand. “Put your weapon away or give it to me, then I’ll lift you up on my shoulders.” He didn’t want his head accidently blown off.

  The boy hesitated.

  Jack clenched his fists to stop himself from tousling the kid’s hair and saying, softly and soothingly, Everything’s going to be okay. Instead, he kept it impersonal, safer. “Seriously, kid, we can’t stay here. Those dogs mean business.” The barking was louder, more intense, a pack closing in on its prey.

  Luis straightened his skinny shoulders and said in a rush, “Tell me what happened to Jorge?”

  “I’ll tell you everything once we ditch these guys.” Almost everything. “Your brother did all he could to protect you. He was brave as hell. Now, seriously, we have to haul ass or it’ll be too late.” Then taking a chance the kid wouldn’t shoot, he moved forward, pulled the Glock from the boy’s hand, flicked on the safety, shoved it in his belt, swept Luis off his feet and settled him on his shoulders. “Hang on tight. We’re going over some rough ground.”

  Settling into a steady trot, Jack swung east, south-east. He knew this section of forest as well as he knew his backyard. Steering clear of the myrtle thickets and scrub brush, he moved through the redwood and Douglas fir forest, kept an eye out for low branches that might do damage to Luis, picked his way across two mountain streams, and otherwise sustained a double time pace for the next twenty minutes. Not that he didn’t have powerful incentive with armed men riding his ass. As for the cocksuckers who’d murder a kid, he’d like to see if they were as brave against someone who could put a few rounds in them.

  A short time later he burst through the rustic gate he’d helped construct years ago, ran across the meadow bordering the cabin and allowed himself a small smile. The playing field had suddenly leveled. You want us. Come get us.

  With Ella’s arsenal at his disposal he could hold off the bad boys until the cavalry arrived. Her gun collection was prime--sniper rifles, assault weapons, custom shot guns. Not to mention her antique weapons that were practically priceless. But currently it was high tech he needed. And that was priceless.

  Reaching the cabin door, Jack dropped Luis to his feet, swiftly unlocked the door and waved the kid in. Locking the stout door behind them, he nodded. “Follow me. I’ll hide you until I get rid of these goons.”

  “Are you gonna shoot’em?” Luis ran to keep up.

  “If I have to,” Jack said. He figured the kid wanted reassurance, not platitudes.

  “I think there’s lots of ‘em.”

  “Not a problem. I’ve lots of weapons.” Whatever life had thrown at him, Luis Mata had learned to roll with the punches. No tears, no panic–just tactical questions. “Here we go.” Jack stopped at an open doorway. “Go on in. See that desk. Get under it and don’t come out until I tell you. I’ll take care of this. Understand?” Without waiting for an answer, he dropped his backpack, pulled the Glock from his waist, walked over, set it on the desk, reached for the phone and punched in a number. When Morrie picked up, he said brisk and terse, “I’m at Ella’s. I have the kid but men with dogs are closing in. We need backup.”

  “Holy shit.” Which in fact was the case. “Sit tight til we get there.”

  “If only.” Dropping the receiver, Jack swiftly crossed the room to Ella’s gun cabinet. The custom-built cupboard housing a hundred twenty weapons had been Ella’s pride and joy. When he was young, she’d let him help her clean and polish her firearms. “Some women collect jewelry,” she used to say, “and some women collect other shiny objects.” In the evenings she’d sit in her green leather wingback chair with her feet up on the needlepoint covered hassock she’d embroidered, her water pipe on the table beside her, a glass of single malt in her hand and a smile of pure satisfaction on her face. He’d sit on the floor in front of the cabinet with a plate of Ella’s chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk and when he’d
point at a weapon and say, “Tell me about that one,” she’d describe it in detail, give its history if it was an antique weapon, recount where she’d found it, the dealer, price, how many were left in the world. He’d learned about arms and military history in those summers with Ella and by the time he was ten he could fire every weapon in her collection.

  Sam Blue Cloud, who lived above the library, had set up an outdoor firing range and Jack had learned how to shoot from the best. Raised on the reservation in the fifties, Sam had grown up hunting for food. In his world he’d learned that ammo was expensive. If you wasted it you might go hungry. He’d taught Jack to make every shot count.

  So Jack had been a gun guy from a young age. With plenty of fast twitch muscles and that hand-eye thing in spades he was a natural talent.

  Opening two of the glass doors, Jack lifted out four custom sniper rifles with state of the art scopes and set them on the Chesterfield sofa. Returning to the cabinet, he opened another door, pulled out two automatic AR’s and two MP5's and lined them up next to the rifles. Turning back, he slid out a drawer filled with ammunition, picked up eight .30-06 magazines one by one and shoved them in his pockets before pulling out four thirty round AR mags. Carrying them back to the sofa, he eased the magazines into the housing on each assault rifle and felt them lock into place. Then piling the weapons like cord wood, he swept them up in his arms and strode toward the door. “Stay where you are kid. I’ll be back.”

  Luis was out from under the desk the second Jack disappeared down the hall. Retrieving the Glock, he found two more clips in his backpack, laid them on the desk top and surveyed the room. If the cartel’s killers got past the deputy, they’d come in either through the door or windows. The dogs too. He slid the clip out, shoved it back in, checked there was a round in the chamber. Then he pulled up the desk chair, scrambled up onto the seat, aimed the Glock at the window and started to pray.

  Instinct or just a back-against-the-wall cry for help.

  Jack had always left prayer to those less qualified on the shooting range. Between Ella’s armory and his shooting skills, he planned on not only slowing down the attack squad but blowing up enough kneecaps that the bad boys would decide the kid wasn’t worth it.

  Moving from room to room, he raised windows enough to offer vantage points from which to fire, loaded the rifles and placed them under the windows. When he finished, he returned to the dining room and using the high end European binoculars, surveyed the likely approach the dogs would take. If the dogs had picked up their scent they’d be coming through the gate. He slowly swept the tree line and waited.

  He was thinking leg shots, not kill shots.

  No sense in dealing with all the paperwork that went with a homicide.

  He heard the barking a good ten minutes before the pack burst from the trees into the open. He started counting the men who followed in a rag-tag, sloppy formation without even an attempt at concealment. Cocky bunch. Although they considered a kid easy game; they hadn’t thought it through. Then again, men used to dealing with raw farmhands wouldn’t care if someone else was around. They figured sheer numbers would give them the edge. He counted a dozen carrying AK’s–standard issue for thugs and back country growers. But these jerkoffs weren’t from around here–a couple had those true believer tattoos that could pass for white supremacist shit up and down their arms, others had necks covered with gangbanger ink, they all looked as if they could use a shower. Except for the big dude leading the way: clean cut, clean jeans, close-cropped hair with military sidewalls. Arrogant stride. Ex-officer or ex-cop.

  Picking up a rifle, Jack slid it to his shoulder, popped the lens cap and smoothly focused four thousand dollars worth of optics on the man most likely to listen to reason. He could do a guy at a mile with this baby. And here he was all snipered up with the big dude in his cross hairs only fifty yards away.

  Cranking the scope down to three power for as clear and wide a view as possible, Jack squeezed off a warning round that tore up the ground in front of the big dude. A polite advisory: Stop or I’ll shoot.

  In the sudden silence, Jack shouted, “Go back where you came from or”– He dove for the floor as a barrage of AK rounds blew out the window. A millisecond later when the glass stopped flying, he sprang up, put a bearded man who was racing for the cabin in his cross hairs, fired, pivoted slightly, found another easy target, fired and raced for the door. Two piercing shrieks. Two smashed kneecaps. As he leaped for the door a banzai battery of AK rounds tore through the busted window.

  Amateurs. As if he’d stand there waiting to be shredded to a pulp.

  His next two shots from the kitchen were like shooting ducks in a barrel.

  He even had a chance to enjoy the bloody take down before his location was targeted. With more shrill screams echoing in his ears and another shower of flying glass in his wake, he escaped and took up his next position in the pantry.

  But everyone had bolted for cover, dragging their wounded with them.

  Not a shot in sight.

  He swept the tree line with his rifle scope, waiting for someone to twitch and hoped like hell Morrie had turned his siren on full blast the minute he fired up his car. He wanted this hit squad to hear that rescue was on its way.

  Because with eight men still walking they could out flank him without breaking a sweat. Because with two windows blown out they had a way in.

  Because he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

  And the barking dogs were moving around to the south.

  Chapter 12

  Grabbing a MP-5, Jack was half way down the hall to Ella’s armory when the sound of breaking glass in the dining room stopped him. As he turned to deal with the intruder, Luis screamed, a staccato crack of AK rounds erupted and swiveling around, Jack sprinted for the armory instead. Seconds later, he rocketed through the armory doorway, firing.

  No finesse, weapon on full automatic.

  Just instinct, training, raw speed.

  The man’s head in Jack’s cross-hairs vaporized and a red mist sprayed over what glass was left in the window. The body hung suspended for a moment, then hit the ground a corpse. Jerking out the empty mag, Jack rammed through a fresh one before looking around. The kid was nowhere in sight. “Are you okay?” he rapped out.

  “Yeah. The guy was a lousy shot.”

  The muffled words coming from under the desk gave rise to a twitch of a smile. The mouthy kid had guts. But Ella’s old lead-lined desk had taken a few hits, lousy shot or not. “Just make sure you stay hidden this time. Don’t come out from under that desk no matter what. You hear? I can’t baby sit you and deal with the hit squad too.”

  “I was gonna help.”

  “You’re too young to help. Keep your head down. The dogs won’t like that dead body outside. They’ll stay away. Got it?” Whoever had come through the dining room window was in the house by now. Seven left. No sign of Morrie. Things could get dicey. He needed the kid to stay put. “I’d appreciate a fucking yes,” he gruffly said, already moving toward the door.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Which wasn’t exactly the tone of voice that suggested total compliance but he didn’t have time to argue. After a swift glance up and down the hallway, a curtained window four yards to his right the only source of light, he stepped out into the shadowed corridor and turned left.

  Men in the house. Time to focus.

  He’d covered half the length of the hallway when he heard a sing-songy bible verse drifting his way from the kitchen–low, raspy, out-of-tune, the rhythmic, thrice-repeated soldier of God phrase ringing with righteousness.

  Crap.

  One of the crazies.

  Back against the wall, Jack advanced cautiously, listening for the crunch of footsteps on splintered glass.

  He’d have to take out this wing nut. Permanently. The boy was too close to take any chances. Settling the Heckler and Koch sub-gun into his shoulder, he lightly fingered the trigger, kept his breathing measured, emptied his mind of al
l but the immediate mission. With luck the self-described soldier of God would step out in the hallway.

  If not...he’d have to go in and get him.

  As Jack approached the kitchen it was clear that the man was doing his singing to the left of the doorway. A quick thumb flick. Full automatic. Check.

  Come on, you bastard. Come out.

  He waited through another rousing chorus but, realistically, every second lost could bring in another punk. And lessen his odds of surviving.

  So, count of three–move in fast, drop him, fall back.

  One, two. Every muscle suddenly tensed.

  It was faint, the sound still miles away, but sure as hell–a siren. Would Morrie get here in time though? Should he take the crazy fucker out now or wait? Should he play offense or defense? Did he even have a choice with seven to one odds?

  In the midst of his debate, a shrill, piercing whistle sawed through the air like the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

  Was it the signal for an assault, a retreat, option ten of twenty?

  The crunch of footsteps fast-tracking out of the kitchen answered his question.

  The big dude had called retreat.

  A sudden silence welled up around him and dropping the subgun from his shoulder, Jack leaned against the wall and softly exhaled. He could feel the adrenalin pumping furiously through his system begin to ease, sensed the rhythm of his heart drop a notch or two, recognized once again that there was a world beyond the cross-hairs on his scope. It was a familiar cycle in the aftermath of the fight or flight response. Predatory instinct gave way to rational thought, the killing impulse was tidily locked away and his Prince of Darkness persona took a hike.

  He automatically counted off his lucky seven under his breath. A ritual that reminded him he was still alive, that his brain worked, that in his business luck counted.