Chapter 12
HARJO AND Mac faced the gathered townspeople. Sean remained with Honi, monitoring her contractions and doing his best to keep the terrified girl calm. Lightfoot occupied the bell tower, watching the contingent of Los Malvados where they waited about a mile out of town. Various phones, collected from the bangers the Wolves had dispatched, continued to ring-a-ding-ding as those outside tried to contact their brethren to find out what was going on.
The cabins behind the gas station-cum-motor court still burned, lighting up the night sky. The almost-full moon hung above the horizon providing patches of light and shadow where the Wolves moved, ever vigilant. Danny waited in the shadows of the tall wooden doors at the front of the church. Nate and Rudy patrolled the town’s perimeter keeping tabs on the convoy in case they sent in any scouts.
People argued and chattered, ignoring the two Wolves standing in front of the altar. Lucy, stripped down to jeans and a sweater, her nun’s habit tossed over a front pew, tried to bring the assemblage to order. Helpless, she looked to her father. Dasher pulled out an ancient Colt six-gun, aimed it at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The sharp report brought the noise level to a screeching silence.
“Y’all better listen up,” Dasher hollered. “These men are here to help us.”
“By killing the Los Malvados?” A woman stood up and shook her fist. “Before they came, we had a chance to survive. El Suerte will kill us now. He’ll wait. These men won’t stay and as soon as they’re gone, we are dead. The Los Malvados will line us up and El Suerte will put the bullets in our heads himself.”
The crowd erupted again.
“No good deed,” Mac muttered under his breath.
Harjo cut his eyes toward the Wolf, agreeing completely. “But we’re stuck now.”
“Yeah. I don’t see much hope here, Harjo. You got any ideas?”
“Too bad neither of us is a politician.” He started forward, but stopped when Lucy stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled.
“Shut up, people. Just…shut up. Do you really think life is so great with those assholes here?” She glared, her gaze taking in everyone in the pews. “I had to dress up like a frickin’ nun! Look what happened to Inez and Beth and the rest! They had to put out or else. They were raped, people. Don’t you get it? How many of you have been beaten? How many in your families arrested for carrying the cartel’s drugs? We do the jail time. Not them! They own us.” She stamped her foot. “I say it’s time to fight back, show them we aren’t their slaves!”
Her grandfather sauntered to the front of the church and faced his friends and neighbors. “The road north is open. You don’t wanna stay and fight for what’s ours? Start walkin’. But if you believe San Rios is your home, that it’s worth fightin’ for to keep? Then shut up and listen to what these men have to say. They know a hellava lot more about fightin’ than we do, and they can teach us enough to help ourselves.”
He stood there, feet braced, hands on his hips, waiting. No one moved, not even the woman who’d started the discussion. “All right then. Colonel? Sergeant Major? Tell us what to do.”
SEAN WORKED on making a batch of foo gas out in the hallway. He didn’t want to go far from Honi, even though Senora Artez was sitting with the girl. But at the same time, mixing gasoline with soap to make the poor anarchist’s napalm in the same room with a woman in labor was a really bad idea. Hell, mixing the stuff up indoors was stupid but there was no choice.
Two men helped and a woman showed up with a box full of Mason jars. He jumped up and gave her a spontaneous hug and kiss on the cheek. The woman blushed and stammered but stuck around to help. Turned out she was the queen of canning and a natural for making Molotov cocktails.
Lightfoot maintained his vigil in the tower. Two hostiles attempted to sneak around the flank and he dispatched them with cold efficiency. They went down one after the other before the sound even reached them. Swiveling his sights to watch the effect his shots had, his cold expression didn’t change. Taking a life didn’t come easy but at the same time, he had no moral compunction when it came to taking out assholes intent on bringing destruction and death down on innocent people.
The night before, while doing surveillance, he’d seen some girls stagger out of the cantina, stumbling and limping. The black eyes and bruises were hard to miss through his scope. And he didn’t need to hear the leering catcalls from the men to know what had gone on. Some might call him a cold-blooded killer. Unless it was their wife or daughter trapped behind those slatted doors.
A faint ping reminded him to pay attention to the here and now. Deep thoughts were best left for the after-incident report. Some idiot was firing a pistol toward the town. The bullet fell harmlessly in the desert. They had higher-powered weapons but were still too far away for them to be effective. Lightfoot wished they’d stopped a little bit closer. The main group was just out of range of his sniper rifle.
He didn’t turn around at the scrabbling sound behind him. He’d scented Nate before the other Wolf belly-crawled alongside.
“Do you need me to spell you?”
“I’m good.”
“Gonna try picking them off one at a time?”
“If they get close enough.”
“ Oorah .” Nate squeezed his shoulder briefly. “Buzz if you need a break.”
“Roger that.”
A moment later, Lightfoot was alone again, his weapon and his thoughts to keep him company.
Down below, in the square, Harjo, Mac, and Danny did their best to teach the basics of firearm safety to those who’d never picked up a weapon. Luckily, that was surprisingly few—mostly women and a few of the older kids. The youngest ones remained in the church. The plan was to send noncombatants to the church’s cellar until the fight was over.
Mac watched as a woman fumbled while trying to reload a magazine for an automatic pistol. If he had his way, everyone but the Wolves would be declared a noncombatant. Too bad the Los Malvados appeared to have an infinite number of reinforcements. More arrived seemingly by the minute.
As if on cue, Lightfoot’s voice echoed in his ear. “Bad news, boss. Another truck arrived. Add thirty SOBs.”
Souls on Board. Sons of Bitches. In this case, one and the same. They hadn’t brought enough ammunition for an extended siege. They had water, but food would also become an issue sooner or later. The hair rose on the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. And it wasn’t Lightfoot. A teenage boy sat on the adobe wall circling the well in the center of the square. He shoved shells into the magazine port, but his eyes remained glued on Mac.
Mac watched him. The kid didn’t look away. Stubborn. And arrogant with the sense of immortality that came with teenage hormones. His thoughts turned to Liam. Would he be there for his son’s first change? Would any of them survive to watch their children grow up, begin families of their own? Why had the Wolves gotten involved in any of this crap?
A small hand tugged on his camouflage shirt and he glanced down. A little girl, maybe seven or eight, held a sandwich in her hand. She lifted it toward him. “Here, mister. Grandma says you should eat.”
“Grandma? Where’re your parents?”
The girl shrugged. “Momma left. Papa was taken away by the bad men. He hasn’t come home.”
Dammit. He took the sandwich and the child’s smile lodged in his heart, a bittersweet ache reminding him that duty and honor mattered. And that was that. Steady, sure, ready to take on the world—and to make war once again.