“I think Jack’s inside contact just blew Dodge,” Hackberry said.
“Hack, this sucks,” Pam said.
“There’s nothing for it. We believe in what we’re doing,” he replied. “Those guys inside don’t.”
“You and I stay together. I don’t want any one of these bastards behind me,” she said. “They’re planning to kill us. I know it.”
Before Hackberry could answer, the back door opened a second time, and one of the biggest men he had ever seen came into the yard. His long-sleeve shirt looked like it was filled with concrete; his neck looked as stiff and hard as a fireplug; his hands were the size of skillets. But his face didn’t match the rest of him. It was too small for his head, as though it had been painted in miniature on his skin, his hair cut like a little boy’s. A MAC-10 hung from his right hand.
The man looked at the slop bucket on the grass and walked toward the barn, looking neither to the right or left, entering the open front doors and walking steadily toward the open rear doors that gave onto the pecan orchard.
Before he emerged from the barn, Pam Tibbs moved quickly out of the trees, throwing the AR15 to her shoulder, aiming it at the center of the large man’s face. “Drop your weapon,” she said. “If you don’t, I will kill you where you stand. Do it now. No, it’s not up for discussion. Do not have the thoughts you’ve having. Drop the weapon. No, don’t look at the others. Look at me and only me, and tell me I won’t kill you. I’m the only person on the planet preventing you from going straight to hell in the next five seconds. The first round will be in the mouth, the second one between your eyes. You will not know what hit you. Indicate what you want me to do.”
The man with the miniaturized face stared woodenly at her, his skin slick with rain, his chest rising and falling, the blood draining from his cheeks, mist blowing in his face. Pam closed her left eye and lifted her right elbow, her finger tightening inside the trigger guard. “Good-bye,” she said.
“I was just checking the yard. I got no beef with y’all,” the man said, letting the MAC-10 fall to the barn’s dirt floor.
“Thattaboy. Now on your face. Come on, handsome, do it. You’re making the smart choice,” she said.
As soon as he was on the ground, she handed her rifle to Hackberry and stripped a pair of handcuffs from the back of her belt and hooked up the man’s wrists, snicking the ratchets into the locking mechanisms. When she straightened up, she was breathing hard, her cheeks pooled with color. “They must know we’re here. What now?”
“We go through the cellar door. Let Collins and the Mexicans handle the upstairs,” Hackberry said.
She took the assault rifle from Hackberry’s hands and wet her lips. She looked over her shoulder to see where Collins and the two Mexicans were. Collins was talking to the Mexicans, all three of their heads bent together. Her breath was still coming short in her chest. “Hack, don’t let those guys get behind us. Listen to me on this,” she said.
“We’re going to be all right.”
“Saying it doesn’t make it true.”
“The way you took that guy down was beautiful. You’re my champ, kid.”
“Yeah, and this whole deal still sucks, and you’d better not call me kid again,” she said.
Not only had the two visual screens inside Jack’s head gone on autopilot and red alert, they had also gone out of control. On one screen, Jack had watched the female deputy disarm, take down, and cuff a giant of a man without breaking a sweat, patronizing him while she did it. That was more than impressive. Six like her could probably wipe out the Taliban, he thought. In fact, he felt a stirring in his loins that made him uncomfortable, not unlike a wind blowing on a dead fire and fanning to life a couple of hot coals hiding among the ashes. Rid yourself of impure thoughts, he told himself. Do not be beguiled by a painted mouth at a time like this. In spite of his self- admonition, he could not completely take his eyes off the female deputy.
Conversely, on the other screen were images that continued to disturb and anger him, namely Eladio and Jaime trading glances whenever they thought he wasn’t looking, both of them as transparent as errant children, both of them armed with Uzis.
“Through the kitchen, boss?” Eladio said.
“No, we’re going in through the patio,” Jack said.
“The kitchen is wide-open, boss,” Eladio said. “The big man with a child’s face left it open.”
“No, the French doors take us into the dining room, then down the stairs to the cellar,” Jack said. “You two will go ahead of me.”
“That’s not your usual method, Senor Jack,” Eladio said. “You are always our leader. No weapon does damage like your Thompson loaded with a full drum. It is magnificent to behold.”
“We’re involved in a military action here. We’re splitting our forces and catching our enemy in a pincer movement,” Jack said. “You know what that is, don’t you?”
“No, what is it?” Eladio asked.
“The Germans learned it from Stonewall Jackson. They put their panzers on their flanks, just like Jackson put Jeb Stuart’s cavalry on his. You boys are family. You think Stonewall Jackson wouldn’t take care of his boys?”
“What is this about Germans and rock walls? This sounds like bullshit,” Jaime said.
“Come on, boys, let’s have some fun. While the sheriff and his deputy draw everybody into the cellar, we’re going to put hair on the walls.”
“The gringos are not to be trusted, Senor Jack,” Eladio said. “The old one dotes on his puta. She has a foul mouth and looks at us with contempt. When they get what they want, they will dispose of us.”
“The sheriff is a straight shooter. But that’s also his great weakness,” Jack said.
“He shoots straight? Shooting straight doesn’t have nozzing to do with this discussion. You speak in nozzing but riddles,” Jaime said.
“‘Nozzing’? Son, you obviously have a speech defect,” Jack said. “When we get back to the States, I’m going to take you to a speech therapist, and we’ll cure this problem once and for all. In the meantime, Eladio, could I see your cell phone?”
“What you want it for, boss?”
“To make sure we have service here. It’s always good to be prepared,” Jack replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Through the bars in his cell, Krill could see the rain blowing on the fields and the side of the house, and the hills that looked like giant white caterpillars disappearing inside it. Mike stood in the middle of the room next to the Asian woman, who was still suspended from a rafter. Mike was opening and closing his hands, his wide-set eyes turned upward at the sound of feet overhead.
“I am sorry I caused you this trouble, hombre, ” Krill said. “I have been a soldier in the service of others, just as you are. We take orders from little men who never have to kill or die in battle themselves.”
“You talk too much,” Mike said.
“Give the woman some water. She’s done nothing to deserve what has been done to her.”
Mike’s attention was fixed on the sound of boots moving back and forth on the floor upstairs, and he could not be distracted. His blond hair was long and oiled and hung in strings over the tops of his ears. His eyes were so widely spaced, they looked as though they had been removed from his face and stitched back in the wrong place. He was a man to whom the fates had not been kind, Krill thought.
“Give the woman some water, and I’ll give you back the spoon,” Krill said. “Then Frank will not be able to use you as his scapegoat any longer.”
“Where is it?” Mike asked.
“In the chemical toilet. Where else?”
“Get it out.”
“You have to give the woman some water.”
Mike walked toward the bars. “You’re going to pay a big price if I have to come inside that cell.”
“I am not putting my hand in a toilet for you. I am sorry, senor .”
“Where are your shoes?”
