Chapter 6
DUST SWIRLED through the empty streets. The people of San Rios hid behind shuttered windows and locked doors. No one stirred except for the raucous crowd at the Cantina Lobo. Inside its adobe walls, a dozen members of the Los Malvados lounged at scarred wooden tables, swilling cervezas and taking turns feeling up the four women serving them.
The mustachioed bartender looked like a real-life parody of a cartoon character gone to seed. He even wore the crossed bandoleers over his chest. Somewhere, a sombrero wore his sweat stains. The old-fashioned Colt .45 revolver at his hip lent an air of machismo, or so he thought.
Two of the men stood and grabbed one of the unfortunate women and dragged her toward the storeroom at the back of the building. She turned pleading eyes to the other women, only to be ignored. In the darkness of the storeroom, one man pushed her down on a ratty mattress. The stench of old beer, piss, and stale sex choked her so that she had to breathe through her mouth. While the men argued who’d go first, she caught the faint whimper and scratching coming from the next room and pretended to ignore it. The pregnant woman the Los Malvados had dragged in a week ago was in far worse shape than she was.
Two streets over, three men and a woman huddled in the kitchen of a small adobe house. Once upon a time, the shutters and front door had been painted bright blue and a bucket of flowers had bloomed on the front step. Now, peeling paint and rusted metal told the story of what had happened to San Rios.
“We have to do something. They take our women. They use us as slaves.” Young and foolish, the man’s dark eyes snapped with righteous indignation.
“What would you have us do, Mano? We have no weapons. We have no phones or cars. We are as trapped as that poor woman.”
The lone Caucasian in the room watched his companions before spitting into a tin cup. “We just gonna sit back and let them bastards kill all of us? They will, ya know. Ain’t no fuckin’ doubt in my mind.” He tipped the brim of his dirty cowboy hat with a grimy finger. “Sorry ’bout the language, Senora Artez.”
The woman waved her hand as she placed three bottles of beer on the table with a thump. “Talk. Talk is nothing. Somebody must go for help.” She stared at Mano. As the youngest and fittest, he was the natural choice.
Helpless anger settled on Mano’s shoulders. “Where should I go, Senora? The state police ignore us. The Border Patrol? They are worthless. That woman? The one they hold prisoner in the cantina? Her man is Border Patrol. Have they come to rescue her? No.” He spat the last word, a bitter pill he refused to swallow.
Pedro Artez pushed back from the table, the wooden legs of his chair scraping across the spotless tile floor. Heaving up, he trudged from the room. Returning a few minutes later, he tossed a leather bag onto the table. It clinked. The other two men stared at it intently while the woman gasped.
“No, Pedro. No. We will have nothing left.”
The old man loosened the draw string on the bag and emptied part of the contents on the table. Gold and silver coins and a few loose gems spilled out. “We will hire mercenaries.”
Dasher Fox, the old cowboy, pushed his hat back off his forehead. “Well looky there. I figured you’d been hoardin’, Pedro.” He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. Flipping it open, he withdrew ten bills, each worth a thousand dollars. “I’ll call your hand and raise ya a mite.”
Mano’s breath exploded in a huff. “This is not a poker game. We are talking about our lives. And the lives of every decent person left in this godforsaken place.”
Senora Artez reached behind her neck. Knuckles swollen from years of hard work, she fumbled with the clasp on the gold chain around her neck. Once free, she added it and the heavy, gold cross she’d worn for sixty years to the pile. “God will help us.”
The four of them plotted until well after sunset. As the sun turned the western horizon into a patchwork of salmon and crimson, Mano saddled a horse and headed north, into the desert. He didn’t look back, knowing the door behind him would be shuttered and locked. The fate of his people was in his hands. He couldn’t fail them.
RUDY SCANNED what appeared to be endless desert. Cactus and scrub held to the sand with clawed determination. A roadrunner paused, tilting a curious head in the Wolves’ direction before scurrying off in pursuit of breakfast.
Finishing off a bag of chocolate covered donuts, Sean’s eyes also scanned the horizon. “I feel like we’re a day late and a dollar short, bossman.” He glanced over his shoulder at Mac, who studied the topographical map spread across the hood of one of the SUVs.
“There’s not much out there besides sand, rock, and cactus.” Mac looked up and considered the Indian standing next to him.
Michael Lightfoot studied the map for another minute then raised his gaze to look south. “There are some hills. They might give us cover.”
Their former commanding officer, Colonel Joshua Harjo also searched the southern horizon. “We’ll have to come in at night, lights off. Good thing you guys can see in the dark.” His forehead furrowed as he picked out a dark speck moving among the saguaro cactus. “What’s that?” Four heads swiveled and six pairs of eyes followed Harjo’s pointing finger.
“Man on a horse.” Lightfoot was positive. “No cattle around, though.”
“Drug mule?” Harjo strained to focus on the solitary figure.
“Nope. Don’t think so. He’s carrying water but no bales of anything.” Sean scratched the back of his neck. “I got a weird feelin’ about this, bossman.”
“So do I, Sean.” Mac folded up the map.
“He’s seen us.” Rudy’s hand dropped to the pistol holstered on his hip. “He changed directions.”
Nate was already stripping out of his clothes. “I’ll just go have a quick look.” Moments later, he padded off in wolf form, leaving his clothes in a pile.
“Damn.” Sean grinned broadly. “I think he’s really gettin’ the hang of changin’. Not bad for a newbie.”
Deciding to make camp for the night, they set about their duties, waiting for Nate to return with news. Harjo built a smokeless fire while Rudy grabbed big steaks from one of the coolers. They wouldn’t be able to eat like this again for a while—not without hunting. Sean placed a heavy cast-iron skillet on the coals and each man seared his steak to his own tastes. They’d just finished when the sound of galloping hoofs beat against their eardrums. Moments later, a lathered horse, its tongue lolling as it labored for breath stopped just outside the circle of light.
Moving slowly, Lightfoot stood. He murmured to the horse and cautiously approached. The animal flicked its ears and tail then stamped a nervous foot. With utmost patience, Lightfoot snagged the reins and placed a calming palm on the horse’s shoulder.
Harjo and Mac exchanged looks as Danny voiced everyone’s question. “Wonder what happened to the rider?
“And where’s Nate?” Sean stood, startling the sweating animal. He gave the nervous horse a wide berth as he scanned the dark landscape. In the distance, a wolf howled, echoed by a pack of coyotes. “Damn. The cousins don’t sound too happy tonight. Got the feelin’ Nate stole their dinner.”
Danny joined him and pointed to two shadows flitting through the night. “There. A man and Nate. Dude, that guy is probably pissin’ in his pants about now.”
Ten minutes later, a Hispanic man in torn and dirty clothes stumbled into their camp. His eyes showed whites all the way around and he shook like a leaf in a blue norther. He stuttered something about his horse then collapsed in a heap. Nate entered the circle of light, nosed the man and flicked one ear as if to say, “Idiot.”
Their guest was still unconscious when Nate returned in human form and fully dressed. “This guy thinks we’re Los Malvados. He kept muttering to himself about San Rios and how he had to find help.”
Moaning, Mano opened his eyes. He gulped as he realized seven hard men surrounded him.
Harjo stared down at him. “What’s your name?”
When he didn’t answer, Mac flipped him over and retrieved his billfold. He read off the name on the ID. “Manuel Gomez.”
“You might as well kill me now. I will not go back.”
“You’re from San Rios?” Mac squatted down in front of him.
Mano shook his head vehemently. “No. No. I don’t know this place.”
“That’s not what your license says. Why won’t you go back there?”
Caught, Mano dropped his chin to his chest. “Just kill me, okay?”
“Why would we do that?”
“You are Los Malvados, yes?”
“We are Los Malvados, no.”
Mano’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with speculation now. “You aren’t?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here? This is a bad place for anyone not branded by the Los Malvados.”
“We’re here for our own reasons.” Behind Mac, the other men shifted on their feet. He didn’t move.
“Are you police?”
“No.”
“DEA?”
“Not even warm.”
“Then who are you?”
Mac’s expression didn’t change. “The Los Malvados took something that belongs to us. We’re here to get it back.”
Mano gulped then licked his cracked lips. Sean tossed him a water bottle and he drank the liquid in a short series of swallows. “The girl? You are after the girl?” The hair on his arms and the back of his neck raised as a wave of angry energy washed over him. “She is there. In San Rios. The bastards locked her in a room at the cantina.” Feeling slightly braver, he chanced a look at each man. “Madre Dios, what are you?” he whispered.
“What we are is the Los Malvados’ worst nightmare,” Sean said.
Harjo dropped to one knee and stared into Mano’s eyes. “You are running away?”
“No. No! I swear. I was going for help. I have money. From the people.” He reached into his shirt and before he could blink, he was flat on his back.
Mac straddled Mano, fingers wrapped around his throat cutting off air until he likely saw stars. Sean stood on one hand. Rudy stood on the other. Danny had his legs. Harjo stood watching while Nate reached into Mano’s shirt and pulled out a leather bag. He weighed it in the palm of his hand. Mac loosened his grip as Mano’s eyes started to roll back into his head.
Gasping, the young man recovered enough to struggle, not that it mattered. “Give it back. It belongs to the people.”
Danny moved away and Mac rocked back onto his heels. Neither Sean nor Rudy moved. “Then what are you doing with it? Did you steal it? Run away?”
“No! Senor Artez. He gave it to me. I am looking for help. The police, Border Patrol. They’ve done nothing. They sat back and let the Los Malvados take over. We need help. We will pay.”
“So, you were looking for what? Mercenaries?”
“Yes. Yes. Men with guns who are not afraid to take on those cabróns and give us our town back.” His expression turned from pleading to defiant. “Are you such men? You say you are going to San Rios to get the girl. Will you do more? Will you help us? We will pay you. There is more. Once the job is done.”
Sean glanced around the group, counting out loud. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.” He started to whistle—a vaguely familiar tune, from a movie.