Revenge of the Dog Team Read online

  Indicating the Rover, Rio cried, “Sarkesian!” That was the only explanation needed. Tony ran up at the last minute and jumped inside.

  The Escalade took off after the Rover, abandoning the still-raging gun battle to pursue the fugitives. Exiting the compound, the Rover drove north, heading for Wild Horse Pass, pursued by the Escalade.

  A line of lights rushed up from the south toward the compound, as a row of heavily armed state police cars bore down on what was left of the firefight. Not trusting the Adobe Flats sheriff’s department, Kilroy had tipped the state cops to the blazing gang war, making sure that they wouldn’t arrive too soon to spoil the fun.

  He’d kept his word to Sheriff Boyle, though; no federal agents had come to descend on that dirty little town. It was the state boys instead, a fast-shooting flying squad of Western lawmen acting under the orders of the governor.

  Kilroy wasn’t there to meet them, though. He and Brand had taken off in the pickup truck after Rio and Sarkesian. The chase was on!

  FIFTEEN

  Day was breaking as General Zirani prepared to unleash his secret weapon.

  His Land Rover took Wild Horse Pass west through the Tres Hermanos Mountains. Rio Maldonado’s Escalade SUV followed close behind, with Kilroy and Brand in the Chevy pickup truck bringing up the rear.

  It was a frantic run through that narrow, winding, tortuous mountain pass, a narrow gap between towering cliff walls that rose up and up on either side. There was no paved road, only a dirt trail; no lights other than the headlights and taillights of the three vehicles. The entire pass was a falling rock area, and it would take little more than a medicine ball-sized stone fragment on the trail to blow out a tire or bust an axle and bring any one or all of the vehicles to a dead halt.

  No such mishap occurred, and the Rover was first to break free of the claustrophobic confinement of the cliffs bracketing the pass. Rock walls curved outward into a bell-shaped mouth, which gave on to the flatlands of the Black Sand Desert. Zirani wheeled the vehicle hard right, following the northward branch of the trail parallelig the western slope of the mountains.

  Rio followed, breaking out into the flat. It was here, opposite the western mouth of the pass, that his brother Choey, Fierro, and Gomez had been cut down in the night by sniper fire, the opening shots in a carnival of murder.

  Rio drove hard, keeping the northbound Rover’s taillights in view. He was reckless, lead-footed, pushing the Escalade as hard as he could, but unable to cut much distance between himself and the Rover. Zirani was pushing his machine to the limit, too.

  The pickup truck swung a wide, sweeping curve out of the pass, kicking up a plume of dust. Brand drove, intent, impassive. Just before breaking out onto the flat, he switched off the headlights, relying on the wan light of the dimmers and his own acute night vision. It was a ploy to minimize Rio’s and Zirani’s awareness of the third vehicle in the pursuit. For the past week or more, he’d done extensive driving in the area day and night, searching out its hidden byways, box canyons, hollows, and arroyos. He had a feel for the landscape and drove with authority.

  On the far side of the mountains, the sun was rising over the eastern horizon, but here the bulk of the range blocked the ever mounting light, leaving the trail and the flat thick with shadows. Overhead, the sky was lightening from plum purple to a rich royal blue in whch stars and moon were clearly visible.

  After ten miles, the northern trail opened on to the vast shallow basin known as Dead Lake. An oval depression whose long axis ran east-west, it had once been an extensive lake. But that was long ago, and its last drops of water had dried up thousands of years before the coming of recorded history.

  The lake bed was smooth and hard-parked. Like similar sites in the arid Southwest, it had served as a race track and playground for local speed enthusiasts to race their custom cars, dirt bikes, and all-terrain vehicles, but the takeover six months ago by a private company of the seemingly defunct gypsum mine bordering the basin had led to its being declared off-limits to outsiders, a prohibition that was strictly enforced by private guards who patrolled the area 24/7.

  The gypsum mine had been a going concern through the 1950s, when the last deposits of the mineral played out and the mine was shut down, shuttered, and abandoned. So it had remained until a half year ago, when the property was acquired by a private company. Since then, little had been done except for the installation of new, massive slab doors barring the cave mouth, the construction of some shedlike outbuildings for the minimal maintenance staff, and the establishing of underground fuel tanks and aboveground pumps. No mining activities had taken place. No geologists had surveyed the holdings or taken drill samplings in search of new, previously undiscovered deposits of the mineral. As far as the folk of Adobe Flats knew, not a single truckload of gypsum had been freshly excavated from the mines.

  They did know that the guards were a bunch of mean SOBs who issued a single warning to interlopers; if that warning went unheeded, the offenders were apprehended and turned over to the sheriff’s department, subject to arrest, trial, and heavy fines for the crime of trespassing on private property. In the West, trespassing is dealt with with a severity unheard of in other parts of the country, in some cases allowing property owners the legal right to shoot intruders on their posted domains.

  The mine and outbuildings were located at the east end of the dry lake bed, butting up against the foothills of the mountains. Now, with the sky lightening, lights still blazed in the cluster of structures grouped around the cave mouth.

  Nearing the southern edge of the lake bed, Zirani’s Rover left the main trail, turning right onto a dirt road that ran along the basin’s rim, driving east toward the mine. Rio followed, the Escalade kicking up dirt as it pursued the Rover.

  Reaching the eastern end of the lake bed, closing on the corrugated steel sheds clumped outside the mine, Zirani began honking his horn, blaring and blatting it with obtrusive blasts of noise that echoed throughout the locale.

  They served their purpose, flushing a handful of armed personnel from a guard shack out into the open. Rounding the southern rim, the Rover followed a curving dirt track northeast toward the lights and the guards.

  Making the approach, Zirani began flashing his headlights on and off, alternating light and darkness in a certain set pattern of shorts and longs. It was a recognition code, a prearranged signal that identified the newcomer as authorized personnel.

  Unmolested, the Rover rolled up to the sheds outside the mine, braking and sliding in the dirt to a sudden stop. Zirani and his passenger jumped out of the machine, joining the guards. Zirani barked out instructions, which the others were quick to obey.

  He, his passenger, and several guards raced to the mouth of the mine. The other guards remained behind, taking up defensive positions in anticipation of unwelcome visitors.

  The mine mouth, a hole bored through solid rock during the heyday of the mine’s production, was fifty feet high and 150 feet wide. It was sealed off by a set of double gates thirty-five feet high that extended the full length of the cave mouth. The gates were new, having been installed since the recent takeover of the property. They were made of anchor-wire chain-link metal and were covered on their inner surfaces by dark gray green canvas tarpaulins that screened the cave mouth’s interior from view. Set into the fencing at the sides were smaller, man-sized swinging-door gates that allowed personnel easy access to the cave without having to open the massive main double gates.

  Portable generators with cables powered the electric lighting system inside the mine. It was ablaze with light whose glare could be seen shining above the top of the thirty-five-foot gates sealing the cave mouth.

  One of the smaller side access doors was opened, allowing Zirani and his passenger to enter the mine.

  The Escalade skimmed east along the southern rim of the lake, following the course taken by Zirani. Rio had a kill-sized mad on. Tonight’s action had already put the taste of blood in his mouth; as if that weren’t enough
, family pride was also involved. He was pulling out all the stops.

  Coming down off the rim road, he pointed the Escalade at the area to one side of the cave mouth where Zirani had stopped, a cluster of flat-roofed, corrugated metal sheds. Unlike Zirani, he flashed no recognition code with his headlights to identify him as friend, not foe. In any case, Zirani had already made it clear to the guards that here was no friend approaching. As the Escalade bore down on them, they opened fire with assault rifles and handguns.

  In the SUV with Rio were Hector and Tony. They leaned out of the side windows, returning fire. Hector had a submachine gun and Tony had an Uzi-style machine pistol.

  Bullets shot out the windshield, spraying the interior with broken safety glass. Rio steered with one hand, firing a semiautomatic pistol with the other. He rested his gun hand on the dashboard, firing through the open space where the window used to be. The muzzles of the guards’ weapons flashed spear-blades of light, giving the Escalade’s occupants something to shoot at.

  Rounds zinged and spanged the SUV. Rio took evasive maneuvers of a sort by whipping the steering wheel left and right, throwing a weaving motion in the Escalade’s oncoming charge in hopes of confounding enemy fire.

  A tire blew, either from a well-placed shot or from a stress-induced blowout. It was the left front tire, and Rio had to do some fancy handling to keep from losing control. He tossed his pistol on the seat to free both hands for the steering wheel.

  The SUV was upon the guards, who were scrambling to the sides to get out of the way. One moved too slow and was tagged by the vehicle’s front, rocking the machine with the impact before dropping out of sight under the SUV.

  The blown-out front tire caused the SUV to slew around toward the left. Rio fought to compensate. The SUV ran over a concrete platform about twelve inches tall, jostling its riders out of their seats; none were wearing seat belts. It took another hard bump coming down off the platform’s far side.

  Suddenly, a metal-sided shed loomed up in front of the SUV. Rio swung the wheel hard right and braked to avoid it, but too late, the Escalade careened sideways into the shed, broad-siding and knocking the wall down. The roof collapsed on top of the SUV, whose motor had stalled out.

  Rio’s chest impacted the steering wheel, delivering him a stunning blow. Hector, in the backseat, took a hell of a bouncing around. The headlights were still on, illuminating dust clouds that rose around them.

  Hector, that bull of a man, was the first to react. He still held his submachine gun. He opened the side door and tumbled out, engulfed by dust clouds. A metal support beam dropped from overhead, narrowly missing braining him.

  Wrestling open the driver’s side door, he hauled out Rio. Rio, stunned, was still able to stay on his feet, thanks to the support of Hector’s strong right arm. Tony wasn’t going anywhere. He’d broken his neck in the crash, and now his face was twisted over his shoulder at an unnatural angle.

  Hector started to drag Rio away, but the latter had presence of mind to remember his gun. It lay on its side on the front seat and he snatched it up. His chest was a zone of numbness and he was having trouble breathing. He couldn’t get his chest to fully expand to take deep breaths; the best he could do was take quick, shallow puppy-dog breaths. This weakness alarmed him.

  Hector half dragged, half carried Rio away. The figure of a guard loomed up in front of him. Hector shot first, cutting him down with a burst of submachine gun fire. An impressive feat, done one-handed; the recoil would have been too much for the average man to handle.

  A dozen paces away stood a concrete cube, housing some kind of pumping apparatus and control wheel. It looked like good, solid cover. Hector hustled Rio to it, rounds fired by guards zipping past them but not scoring. The guards’ firepower was noticeably diminished, their ranks having been thinned by the invaders’ assault. Rio took heart from this; he wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot!

  He and Hector dropped down behind the pump housing, momentarily shielded from enemy fire. Rio sat on the ground with his back to the wall, gasping for breath. His free hand, the one not holding a gun, felt around his chest to see if anything was broken. The hell of it was, he couldn’t tell for sure, one way or another. The numbness prevented him from gauging the seriousness of the injury. He told himself that it was nothing more or less than a mammoth bruising from which he would presently recover. His arms and legs still worked, he could hold on to a gun and see straight; shoot straight too, he hoped.

  A guard darted into view, shooting at him and Hector, but missing. Hector shot the other’s legs out from under him, and when he hit the ground, finished by shooting him dead.

  A shot hit Hector’s shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him down. Rio popped up his head to see where it came from. The shooter was covering behind a boulder to the right of the cave mouth. Zirani!

  Rio pumped some slugs at him. Zirani returned fire. Three other guards were scattered nearby, each taking cover and zeroing in on the pumping house.

  Hector wasn’t done yet. Using his good arm, he raised himself up out of the dirt into a sitting position, back propped against the wall. He sat next to Rio, protected by the pump house, bullets whipping harmlessly overhead.

  Rio dumped the empty clip, slapping home a fresh one into his pistol. Hector’s submachine gun was empty with no spare magazines, but he still had a long-barreled .44 holstered under an arm, which he now filled his hand with. Rio said, “We’ll get these bastards yet!”

  They grinned at each other.

  Then came the roar of the Beast. The damnedest unholy racket, it came from inside the mine, the bellowing of a dragon in the cave. A mechanical beast, venting a full-throated howl of power. The shrieking noise did not abate, but continued increasing in volume and power, echoing off the mountainside.

  The massive double doors of the mine mouth were open now, slid back to the sides to unseal the cavern mouth and loose the beast on an unsuspecting world. An ungainly beast, a dragon, yes, but a flying dragon.

  It showed a squat, snarling snout topped by a bubble cockpit, a bulky fuselage with massive wings, and a pair of oversized humped cylinders in tandem just forward of a tail assembly featuring sharklike twin fins.

  Quivering with latent power, shrilling, shrieking, the monster machine lurched forward and began creeping out of its lair.

  On a high spot on the the dry lake bed’s southern rim stood the pickup truck. Kilroy and Brand had dismounted and now stood watching as the flying dragon rolled out of the mine and onto the dry lake bed. Rolled, because it was mounted on wheels.

  This was what it was all about, the missing plane whose mysterious disappearance some weeks back was the root cause of the murderous machinations that Kilroy had unleashed on Adobe Flats.

  It was an A-10 Warthog, an awesome weapon of destruction that had been stolen from the United States Air Force. A veteran combat flyer that had been in service since the Vietnam War, it was a product of Cold War thinking, the West’s only fixed-wing aircraft designed for close air support of ground operations.

  Under its nose was its primary piece of firepower, a multibarreled cannon whose controlling gearbox and ammo housing was the size of a compact car. What it was, was a tank-buster, equipped to wreak battlefield havoc on enemy armored forces. Its high-explosive incendiary and armor-piercing rounds could sieve a tank like a shotgun blast shredding a tin bucket.

  Here was General Zirani’s secret weapon for exacting a terrible revenge for the U.S.’s overthrow of Saddam Hussein’s regime.

  The seed was planted when Zirani had learned from Greg Mayhew’s ISS the timetable and route of the toxic train scheduled to deliver its hell-brew cargo of chemical weapons to the incinerator in Red Mesa, right here in the state where he had assumed a new identity with his cell of high-level fugitives escaping the U.S.-authored downfall of Saddam’s dictatorial domain. Red Mesa was less than a few hundred miles away. Surely no coincidence. This was the Hand of Fate, the workings of a heaven-sent destiny.


  Such was the opportunity; what was needed was the instrument to carry it out, the avenging angel. And everything was for sale in America, even a machine of divine vengeance and retribution, so long as you had the dollars. Zirani had the funds, millions of dollars in ill-gotten gains he’d looted from the Iraqi people during the golden decades of Saddam’s hegemony. He’d managed to salt them away in secret numbered Swiss and offshore banking accounts before the roof fell in on Iraq and he and his cadre had had to leave on the run.

  Safely established in the States with a new cover identity, Zirani was already in the process of establishing a deep-cover spy network whose goal and purpose was to bring terror and woe to the Great Satan U.S.A. Always on the lookout for those whose vices made them potentially useful tools, his wide-ranging net swept up the very creature he needed: Captain Pete Peters, Jr., USAF.

  Peters was a pilot whose personal flaws ensured that his military career was headed for a swift and ignominious end. He was profligate, a gambler, drinker, and woman chaser. Zirani had just the bait needed to lure Peters to the hook. She was Tamika Rasheedi, one of his trusted agents and a member of his entourage, a sex lure extraordinaire, an adept of sexpionage. Here in Adobe Flats, she posed as his niece Terri Sarkesian, hiding her good looks with a mousy hair color and unflattering hairstyle, no makeup, and a gauche and awkward persona. Layers of unattractive, ill-fitting clothing helped to mask her outstanding physique.

  But as Tammi, barely legal Las Vegas good-time girl, she was free to maximize her devastating female assets. Platinum blond hair, glamorous makeup, provocative form-fitting outfits all did their part in fashioning a formidable honey trap. Once the skirt-chasing Peters saw her, he was hooked. Once she got him in bed, with her uninhibited sexual techniques, he became mere clay to be molded to the purpose at hand. To impress Tammi, he’d gone wild at the gaming tables in Vegas, running up a debt of fifty thousand dollars to the casinos that had taken his markers.