The Bleeding Edge Page 5

  Taking the shotgun with him, he went out the back door instead, moving with the sort of quiet intensity that had kept him alive on numerous occasions in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

  He cut across the yard between the two mobile homes and crouched behind some shrubs. One of the strangers pounded on the door. Stark heard Fred’s voice come from inside in response, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  “We’re looking for Antonio,” the stranger said.

  This time Stark understood as Fred said, “He’s not here.”

  “We know better, old man. Let us in. Antonio’s our amigo. We just want to talk to him.”

  Stark didn’t believe that for a second, and he figured Fred was smart enough not to believe it, either.

  “You’d better leave now!” Fred shouted. “I told you Antonio’s not here. I’ve already called the sheriff!”

  “The sheriff?” The one who appeared to be the ringleader of the trio laughed. “What have we done, old man? We just asked if our friend was here, that’s all.”

  “I’ve got a gun!” Fred’s voice shook a little with fear, but it had determination in it, too.

  That threat brought wheezing laughter from the biggest member of the trio. He asked, “You want me to kick the door down, Nacho?”

  “No, the crazy old hombre might really have a gun. No point in any of us taking a chance on getting hurt.” The one called Nacho paused, evidently to think over the situation. “Go around back and bust in that way, Chuckie. They won’t be expecting you.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we take Antonio with us and teach him he can’t run out on us, the—” Nacho added some vile curses in Spanish.

  With the heavy footsteps of a big, clumsy man, Chuckie came down the steps from the Gomez porch and started around the mobile home. Stark drew back deeper in the shrubs, completely hidden in the thick shadows. Chuckie rounded the corner and started toward him.

  Stark let the big man move past him. Then Stark stepped out, lifted the shotgun, and drove the butt stock against the back of Chuckie’s head. He hoped Chuckie had a thick skull. Whether he did or not, the son of a gun was just too big to take any chances with.

  The thud was loud enough to be heard out front, but the one called Nacho was talking again, probably to distract Fred and whoever else was inside from Chuckie’s attempt to break in. That effort was going to backfire, because Chuckie had fallen to his knees and now pitched forward onto his face without making a sound.

  Stark rested the shotgun barrel against the back of Chuckie’s neck and reached down with his other hand to search for a pulse. He found one. Chuckie was out cold but still alive.

  Stark straightened and glided to the corner of the mobile home. On the porch, Nacho called, “We’re gettin’ tired of waiting, old man. Open up and send Antonio out here now. Nobody gets hurt.”

  Stark stepped out into the open, brought the shotgun to his shoulder, and leveled it at the intruders.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Nobody gets hurt as long as you leave now.”

  The third man, the one who hadn’t said anything so far, turned toward Stark and his hand started toward his waist. He stopped short when he saw the shotgun pointing at them.

  “Jalisco!” Nacho said.

  “Not good,” the one called Jalisco said. “He’s too close. He can blow us both apart with one shot.”

  “That’s right,” Stark said. “I won’t lose any sleep over doing it, either.”

  “Where’s my brother?” Nacho demanded.

  “Chuckie? He’s sleeping. You’ll need to come get him and haul him back to your car.” Stark’s voice hardened. “Then you need to haul ass out of here while you still can.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doin’, viejo,” Nacho said softly. “You don’t know what you’re gettin’ in here.”

  “Maybe not, but I do know exactly how much pressure it takes on the trigger of this gun to make it go off . . . and it’s not far from it.” Without lowering the shotgun, Stark moved to the side, closer to the street. “Come get your friend. Now.”

  Enough light spilled over the yard from the headlights for Stark to see that Nacho was seething with rage at being defied this way. Jalisco was colder, more calculating, and therefore probably more dangerous, Stark thought. He watched both of them very closely.

  Finally, Nacho said, “We’ll go. But we’ll be back.”

  “Don’t bother,” Stark told him. “There’s nothing here for you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, old man.” Nacho jerked his head at his companion. “Let’s get Chuckie.” He blustered at Stark, “He better be all right. He’s my brother.”

  The two of them came down the steps. Stark tracked them with the shotgun’s barrel as they went to the side of the mobile home, bent down to take hold of Chuckie’s legs, and then dragged him across the yard to the car parked at the curb. With grunts of effort, they lifted the big, senseless form and let Chuckie tumble through the open door into the backseat. Stark kept them covered the whole time.

  Jalisco slid behind the wheel. Nacho went around to the passenger door. He opened it and yelled across the top of the car, “This ain’t over, old man! It ain’t anywhere close to over!”

  Then he jerked a revolver from the sagging waistband of his trousers and opened fire.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Stark had been expecting a move like that, so he was ready for it. He dropped to one knee as two shots blasted from Nacho’s gun. The bullets were already going high because Nacho had rushed the shots. They whined well over Stark’s head.

  Stark was in the habit of always being aware of his surroundings and being aware of where he was in relation to other things. He knew that Nacho’s bullets would pass harmlessly between his mobile home and that of the Gomezes. Backing up to both of their lots was a big sheet-metal shed where the owners of the park stored mowers and other equipment. The bullets would hit that shed without hurting anything.

  The butt of the shotgun was socketed firmly against Stark’s shoulder. He pulled the trigger an instant after the shots spouted from Nacho’s gun. Buckshot smashed into the side of the car. Behind the wheel, Jalisco let out of a yell and tromped the gas. Nacho had to dive through the open passenger door to avoid being left behind as the car leaped ahead with its powerful engine roaring and wailing like a banshee.

  Stark pumped the shotgun and fired again as he tracked the car. Both taillights went out as the buckshot smashed them to smithereens.

  A door slammed, and Stark glanced over his shoulder to see Fred Gomez charging out of his house. Fred came to a stop, thrust out the .45 automatic he held in his right hand, and gripped his wrist with his left hand to steady it as he fired three shots after the speeding car.

  If this had been a movie, the car would have blown up as one of those bullets struck its gas tank. Stark knew that in real life, that was practically impossible, so he wasn’t surprised when the car careened around a corner with screeching tires and accelerated away into the night like the proverbial bat out of hell.

  It was possible that one of Fred’s shots had penetrated the back window and done some damage, though. Stark supposed they’d have to settle for that.

  His ears were ringing a little from the racket. As the echoes of the shots began to die away, Fred said, “My God, John, thank you! I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

  Stark straightened and pumped another shell into the shotgun’s chamber just in case Nacho, Jalisco, and Chuckie came back. He thought that was pretty unlikely, but it was better to be prepared.

  “People will be calling to report those shots,” he said, “so I’ll ask you this while I’ve got the chance, Fred. Is Antonio in your house?”

  Fred opened his mouth to reply, then closed it without saying anything. Stark had a hunch his friend had been about to lie to him but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “Yeah, he’s here,” Fred said after a couple of sec
onds. “He showed up a little while ago. He’s in some sort of trouble, John, and he needs help.”

  “With varmints like that after him, I’d say he must be. You know what it’s about?”

  “Not really,” Fred replied with a shake of his head, and Stark thought he was telling the truth.

  “Let’s go have a talk with him and see if we can’t figure something out.”

  Fred looked like he wasn’t sure about that suggestion.

  Before they could move, Alton Duncan came trotting up, carrying a .22 rifle.

  “Hey, are you guys all right?” Alton asked.

  “We’re fine,” Stark said. “Some fellas tried to break into Fred’s house.”

  “A home invasion?”

  “Something like that, I expect.” Stark didn’t want to spread word of Antonio’s connection to the trouble until he knew what was going on. “I heard the commotion and stepped out to see what the trouble was.”

  “I already called 911, and I imagine plenty of other people did, too, when they heard that shooting. The deputies ought to be here pretty soon.”

  “We’ll be glad to talk to them, but we don’t know much,” Fred said. “All I’m sure of is that those guys probably would have gotten in my house if John Howard hadn’t showed up to run them off.”

  Alton nodded and said, “I’m glad it wasn’t any worse than that. You want me to hang around and keep an eye out?”

  “No, they took off in a hurry,” Stark said. “They won’t be back any time soon.”

  “I hope not.” Alton scrubbed a hand over his face. “It used to be so peaceful around here, and then suddenly it’s like . . .”

  “A war zone?” Stark suggested as Alton’s voice trailed off.

  “Yeah. I didn’t want to say it, but . . . yeah.”

  Stark understood the feeling. He hoped he was wrong, but he had a hunch things were going to get worse before they got better.

  For the time being, though, he wanted some answers. Maybe Fred’s troubles weren’t any of his business, but he’d just been shot at, so he figured that gave him a few rights.

  “Okay,” Alton went on. “If you need my help, just give me a holler.”

  “Sure,” Fred said. “Thanks.”

  He waited until Alton was gone, then continued, “Antonio’s not going to like it if I bring a stranger into this.”

  “Antonio and I aren’t strangers. We’ve met before.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t really know you. And you’re white. I’m afraid my son and his wife, God rest their souls, raised him to be suspicious of anybody who isn’t Latino. I don’t know if he’ll open up with you around.”

  “Let’s give it a try,” Stark said.

  “All right. Come on.” Fred smiled faintly. “After what you did, the least I can do to repay you is offer you a beer.”

  “And I’ll take it,” Stark told him with a smile of his own.

  They went up the steps and into the mobile home. Aurelia stood with her hands resting on the kitchen counter, looking scared.

  “Are they gone?” she asked.

  “Long gone,” Fred told her.

  “When you went charging out there with that gun like . . . like the Lone Ranger, I didn’t think I’d ever see you alive again.”

  “You know better than that. Anyway, it was more like I was the Cisco Kid.”

  “Don’t joke!” Aurelia said. “This is serious business.”

  “It is,” Fred agreed, growing solemn. “Where’s Antonio?”

  “He’s in his old room. He wanted to go out the back door and run, but I begged him to stay and tell us what’s wrong.”

  “I hope he didn’t climb out the window,” Fred muttered as he led Stark along the hall toward the bedrooms. “When somebody gets scared enough, they don’t think straight. They do just the opposite of what they ought to.”

  Stark knew that was right. He hoped Antonio hadn’t fled into the night, too. They couldn’t help him if he had.

  Antonio was still there, standing in the darkened room. Enough light came in from the hallway that Stark could see the knife clutched in the young man’s hand.

  “It’s just me, Antonio,” Fred said. “It’s all right. Those men are gone.”

  “They’ll come back,” Antonio said, his voice drawn tight with strain. “Who’s that with you?”

  “It’s John Howard Stark, Antonio,” Stark said. He kept the shotgun pointed at the floor. He didn’t want Antonio to feel any more threatened than he already did. “We’ve met a few times. I live next door to your grandparents.”

  “John Howard saved us all,” Fred said. “He ran those men off.”

  “They’re still alive?”

  “Yeah, as far as we know.”

  Antonio said, “Then all you really did was sign your death warrant, Señor Stark. Because they won’t stop now until they’ve killed you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As the car roared through the night, Nacho Montez pounded the dashboard in frustration and ripped out curse after curse in Spanish. It was bad enough that they hadn’t gotten their hands on Antonio, but to be chased off by some old gringo . . . it was a blow from which Nacho’s pride would be a long time recovering.

  The only way to fix it was to kill the old man, to kill Antonio and his grandparents, to kill everybody in that whole damned retirement park if they had to.

  “Settle down,” Jalisco said. “We know where he is now. If he tries to leave we’ll know it, and we can take care of him then.”

  “We don’t know for sure he’s there,” Nacho said.

  “If he wasn’t, his grandfather wouldn’t have acted the way he did. Antonio’s there, all right. That’s why I called Señor Espantoso and asked him to have men watch the park all the time.”

  Nacho drew in a deep breath. Jalisco was right, he told himself.

  In the backseat, Chuckie groaned. He was starting to come around after being knocked out by the old gringo. He had a lot to be ashamed of, too, Nacho thought.

  “If Chuckie had just put those damned heads in the right place instead of across the street—”

  “He got a little turned around,” Jalisco said. “It can happen, especially in a place like that where so many of the houses look the same.”

  The heads had been intended to send a message. A warning to Antonio that his grandparents would pay the price if his former friends were forced to hunt him down. He would hear about it and know that he’d better turn himself in.

  Of course it hadn’t worked out that way. Chuckie had left the heads at the wrong house . . . in a vegetable garden, of all things! Despite that, the grisly warning might have worked since it was right across the street from Antonio’s grandparents’ home. Obviously, Antonio had been lying low all day and hadn’t heard about it.

  Then somebody, one of the many sets of eyes who worked for Señor Espantoso, had spotted him heading for the retirement park, and Nacho, Jalisco, and Chuckie had been sent to get him. After all, it was their fault he had gotten away in the first place. It was their responsibility to bring him in before he could do any damage.

  Not that he could really hurt the cartel’s operation. It was too big for that now. Too many officials had been paid off, and too many people were scared. Antonio was just a minor annoyance, but he needed to be taken care of anyway.

  Chuckie sat up in the backseat, muttering curses. After a moment, he said, “Wha’ happened? Where’s Antonio? Didn’t we get him?”

  “No, we didn’t get him,” Nacho snapped at his dim-witted brother. “You let some old man knock you out. Then he threatened us with a shotgun and made us put you back in the car.”

  “Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Chuckie asked. He sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “We tried, you . . .” Nacho lapsed into cursing again.

  “You shouldn’t talk to me like that,” Chuckie said. “I’m your brother.”

  “Don’t remind me!”

  Jalisco looked at the rearview mirror and said, “
Policia.”

  Nacho twisted around in the passenger seat to look behind them. Flashing red and blue lights were coming up fast.

  “I’m not surprised. That old gringo bastard blew out our taillights.” He looked at Jalisco. “Pull over.”

  “I can outrun him,” Jalisco said.

  “No. Pull over.”

  “If they run the plates, they’ll see they’re not from this car. They’ll see the damage from those shotgun blasts.”

  “Do you care?”

  A smile curved Jalisco’s thin lips. “Not really.”

  “Well, then, pull over.”

  Jalisco guided the car to the side of the road. The lights of Devil’s Pass were visible in the distance, but this stretch of roadway was dark and deserted for the most part.

  The sheriff’s cruiser pulled up behind the stopped car. Two deputies were in it. The driver got out and approached Jalisco, resting his hand on the butt of his revolver as he did so. The other deputy got out of the car but stayed behind his open door. He played a handheld spotlight over the car. Nacho and Jalisco were visible, holding their hands in plain sight.

  The deputy spotted the damage the buckshot had done to the side of the vehicle. He said, “You fellas look like you’ve been in a war—”

  Chuckie rose up from the floorboard in the backseat then, in response to a hissed command from Nacho, and cut loose through the lowered window with the automatic weapon that chattered and jumped in his big hands. The stream of bullets tore the deputy almost in half.

  Even as the first deputy died, Nacho and Jalisco were out of the car, twisting and opening fire on the second lawman, who managed only to draw his revolver before slugs punched into his chest and drove him backward. He stumbled and fell. Nacho raced back alongside the cars and shot the deputy twice more in the head.

  The whole thing had taken seven seconds.

  When they drove away a few minutes later, after dousing the sheriff’s cruiser with gasoline and setting it on fire, Nacho felt a little better.

  He was ready to face Señor Espantoso now and tell him that Antonio Gomez was bottled up at the Shady Hills Retirement Park.