Saguaro Riptide

ONE

Woody’s balls were killing him.

Shit. That motel bitch could kick like a fucking mule. Had to be she knew karate or something.

He paced along the junkyard fence. The bitch was hiding in there somewhere. Her kick had sure enough doubled him over, but he’d managed to straighten up just in time to see her scramble over the chain-link fence.

Woody shined a flashlight through the chain-link but didn’t see a goddamn thing besides busted-up cars.

He’d found the flashlight in the bitch’s house. While he was looking around, he’d traded the sharpened toothbrush for a meat cleaver, too.

The cleaver was pretty damn sharp. Maybe he should just jump the fence, go after her.

But her dog was in there, too. And Woody didn’t want to go up against a pit bull, not even with a meat cleaver. Shit. He’d just been dog-bit the other day. The monk had, anyway. And Woody couldn’t see himself making any mistake that the monk had made.

Man, it seemed like he’d been pacing back and forth for hours. The motel bitch was hiding, and there was no sign of the boxer or the bitch in the black bikini. Woody swore. Maybe he should just bag the whole deal. Find the keys to the motel bitch’s Volvo and hit the dusty trail. Worry about getting himself some trim somewhere civilized, like Tucson maybe.

Yeah. Why not.

He went into the bitch’s house one more time. Her purse lay on the sofa. Woody grabbed her car keys. Figured, what the hell, and grabbed a wad of greenbacks, too.

It’d be good to see this fucked-up place in his rearview mirror, anyway. Just put the whole deal behind him. Coming here had been the monk’s idea, anyway. Woody should have figured it would be a king-sized mistake.

Woody counted the bitch’s money as he stepped out the door. Sixty-seven bucks and change. He shook his head. But, shit. . sixty-seven bucks was better than noth-

“Freeze, asshole.”

Woody froze.

The sheriff said, “Drop the cleaver.”

“Do it now,” said the deputy.

Sandy couldn’t believe her luck. She climbed the chain-link fence and ran across the parking lot.

Wyetta had her pistol trained on Woody Jefferson while Rorie patted him down. “Sheriff!” Sandy shouted. “Jesus, am I glad to see you! That son of a bitch practically broke down my door. He tried to rape me, and-”

“Hold it right there,” Wyetta said.

Sandy couldn’t believe it. Wyetta had turned, but she was still holding her pistol as if she were ready to shoot.

Only now the gun was aimed at Sandy.

“Ease off, Wyetta,” Rorie said. “Sandy doesn’t know what’s going on here.”

Wyetta’s eyes narrowed. “Just how do we know that, Deputy?”

“Hell, Wyetta. We don’t know for sure. We don’t know anything for sure, I mean.”

“And I’m tired of that. Deputy. There’s only one thing I want to know-what happened to that goddamned money. I want to know for sure, and I’m not leaving this place until I find out.”

“But if Sandy knew about Komoko-”

“Hey,” Sandy interrupted, because she was getting mad. “I don’t give a shit about Komoko. The only guy I care about is the bastard who tried to rape me. I want you to lock him up.”

Wyetta shook her head. “Sorry, Sandy. We can’t do that. Not until we sort a few things out.”

“Goddamnit, Sheriff. You don’t seem to understand. This son of a bitch tried to rape me ”

“Uh-huh.” Wyetta nodded. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”

“Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“Sure.” Wyetta nodded at Rorie. “Deputy, put the cuffs on Ms. Kapalua-Dayton, and find some little out-of-the-way place where she can cool off.”

Rorie did as she was told and walked Sandy toward the motel.

“Maybe we’ll be talking some more, Sandy,” Wyetta shouted.

Sandy tried to turn, but the deputy pushed her forward.

The motel owner cussed a blue streak.

“Shut her up,” Wyetta said. “The last thing we need is for her to be screaming her head off when Baddalach and Benteen show up.”

The deputy’s hand brushed Sandy’s shoulder. “You’d better do what she says,” Rorie whispered. “It’s going to be okay. We’re on a tough case. It’s about to break wide open. Here. Tonight. Right now Wyetta doesn’t trust anyone. But I know that you don’t have anything to do with this. Just trust me, and you won’t get hurt.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Sandy shouted. “That guy tried to rape me! Just let me go! Jesus, just let me get out of here!”

Rorie hesitated.

And then she said, “I can’t do that.” She pressed her pistol lo the back of Sandy’s head. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up.”

Woody had to admit that the look on the motel bitch’s face had been priceless. Shit, it was just too rich-he tries to rape her, and she ends up wearing the cuffs.

He just had to laugh at that.

He laughed real good.

Until the sheriff whacked him upside the head with her pistol.

“You can’t be serious,” Rorie said.

Wyetta didn’t so much as crack a smile. “Do like I told you, Deputy.”

Rorie unbuckled her gun belt and tossed it at the black guy.

It hit him in the chest and fell to the ground.

“Pick it up,” Wyetta said. “We’re gonna have us an old-fashioned shootout, just you and me.”

“You’re crazy,” the black guy said. “Shit. I didn’t do a goddamn thing. First you hit me with your damn gun, and now you want to have a gunfight. I mean, this macho shit is way too much. You want to arrest me, then arrest me. But if you want to grow a dick, why don’t you just go get a damn operation or something.”

“You better do like I tell you or I’ll grease you where you stand. I swear I will.”

“Shit. I ain’t doin’ another goddamn thing until you take me in, book me, and let me talk to a lawyer.”

Wyetta’s eyes were on fire. Rorie had seen the sheriff primed and ready plenty of times, but never like this. Wyetta was actually shaking.

She was way too worked up. And Rorie knew that too much emotion could get in the way when it came to bad business like this.

Wyetta could get hurt.

All because of that damn money. Wyetta wanted it real bad. But they couldn’t seem to get hold of it. And every bend they came around seemed to bring them that much closer, but every bend seemed to lead to a dead end. First the Ouija board directing them to Ellis’s place, where they’d found nothing more than a hole in the ground. Then the boot print in the dust sending them here to the motel, but the chicklet who wore combat boots wasn’t anywhere around.

Neither was the boxer.

But the black guy was here. He’d tried to rape Sandy Kapalua-Dayton and, failing that, had stolen her money. And he was going to steal Sandy’s car, too, because he had her keys.

Rorie bit her lip. This buck didn’t know a damn thing about Vincent Komoko’s money. He wouldn’t be stealing sixty-seven bucks if he had the two million. He only wanted some Hawaiian-Irish-Navajo pussy and a stolen car that would take him down the road.

If Wyetta would just slow down for a minute she’d see that was the way it was. But the sheriff of Pipeline Beach had worked up a real head of steam, and that meant trouble for anyone who stood in her way.

Especially a smart-mouthed asshole like Ali Baba.

But he seemed so cool. Biding his time. Standing there as straight and stiff as a lawn jockey.

“C’mon, jailbird,” Wyetta said. “You know you want to do it.”

“You gonna lose your badge over this. Sheriff.”

“Pick up the gun. All you’ve got to do is bend over. You know how to do that. I figure a pretty man like you did a whole lot of bending over in prison.”

“Now, just you listen-”

Wyetta glanced at Rorie. “Help this nigger.”

“Wyetta, I don’t think-”

“Don’t you dare argue with me, cowgirl. Strap that goddamn belt around his waist.”

Rorie moved forward.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the black guy said, and he snatched up the gun belt and cinched it tight.

“That’s real good,” Wyetta said. “You’ve got a waist just like my woman’s. Nice and thin. Just the right size for a lady’s gun belt-no wonder you sell ’em.”

“I should warn you,” Woody said. “I do this for a living. I’ve killed twenty-three men.”

“There’s one way out of this,” the sheriff said. “Tell me what you know about Komoko and the money.”

“I don’t know shit about any Komoko.”

“Then we’re done talking,” Wyetta said. “Skin it, Woody.”

A cold grin rippled across the black man’s lips.

He squinted.

Because a wave of bright light crested behind Wyetta and Rorie, washing the desert floor, splashing three huge shadows against the cinder-block wall of the Saguaro Riptide.

The black man stared into the light.

“Allah be praised,” he said.

He yanked the deputy’s pistol and opened fire.

Jack was halfway up the rear staircase when he heard the crackle of gunfire from the far side of the motel.

Then he heard a scream.

Jesus. It was all happening way too fast.

And it wasn’t supposed to be happening this way. Nothing was supposed to happen yet. He wasn’t even in position.

He glanced at his battered Timex. Jesus, what the hell was going on? Where was Benteen? What had happened to all that shit about a flanking maneuver, about drawing Wyetta and her deputy out into the open? Shit, the two of them were already out in the open. And they were shooting. It had to be them-

And Benteen had to be crazy, jumping the gun. Either that, or she’d fallen into a trap-

If they’d killed her. If she was already dead-

Fuck that. Jack pulled the Heckler from his belt and charged down the landing. The last door was open-the door to the hit man’s room-and a slab of light spilled across the concrete walkway, but Jack didn’t even pause to investigate because he could see three people in the parking lot below.

Two of them were staring at the lights.

One was down on the ground, coughing up blood.

The lights scorched the desert, a dozen angry globes bearing down on the gravel parking lot below.

Jack grabbed the railing with one hand as he came to the end of the landing. Still, his momentum nearly tumbled him over the side.

Jack steadied himself, then racked the slide and chambered a round in the handgun

He was really going to do this.

He had to do this.

He took aim.

But the sheriff was already aiming at him.

She’d heard him chamber that round.

Wyetta’s pistol bucked in her hand.

A bullet trenched the meat of Jack’s left forearm just below the elbow.

The Heckler tumbled through the night.

***

The gun landed in front of the black guy, sending up a splash of gravel. He didn’t even grab for it. He was too busy hacking up a dark stream of blood. Down on his knees, one hand under his coat, where a bullet from Wyetta’s.44 American had excavated one hell of a burrow.

A bloody rattle raked his throat, and his eyelids fluttered heavily as his muddy brown eyes tracked that tight bank of lights which skimmed the desert floor.

The lights were coming, and coming fast. Had to be a truck with high beams and fog lights and even a rack up on top.

Just like the rust-bucket Dodge Dakota that Kate Benteen drove.

That bitch. She was too damn smart for her own good. Sending Baddalach through the back door while she raced hellbent for leather through the front.

“It’s a goddamned diversion.” Wyetta squinted, moving back. “They’re trying to sucker us.” She pointed at the second story landing. “Baddalach’s up there. Gotta be he’s trying to grab the money while Benteen plays off-road games. I’m going after him.”

Rorie said, “What do you want me to do?”

“Kill the little bitch,” Wyetta said, and then she snatched up Baddalach’s pistol and tossed it to the deputy.

Jack couldn’t quite figure out how he had ended up on his knees. He didn’t remember making the trip at all.

Light spilled across the landing from the open doorway. He got up, looked at his arm. A chunk of it seemed to be missing. There was a whole lot of blood.

A bullet cracked the cinder-block wall just above his head.

“Don’t move, cowboy.”

Wyetta Earp started up the staircase.

Jack dove through the open doorway and slammed the door closed with his feet.

He was up in a second. He locked the door and rammed the deadbolt home. Then he scanned the room, searching for a knife, a club, anything-

The only thing he found was Sandy Kapalua-Dayton.

She lay on the bed. Her wrists were handcuffed, and her legs were bound with an electrical cord tom from a lamp.

A hand towel was jammed in her mouth, held in place by a bandana.

Sandy’s eyes bulged. Her face was a startling shade of purple.

And then a wild spasm wracked her body, and she tumbled off the bed and thrashed about on the carpet, her head banging the floor like a runaway jackhammer.

Rorie stepped past the dying black guy and aimed the boxer’s pistol at the headlights.

The truck kept coming. Three hundred feet away. . two fifty. . The driver had to see her by now. Two hundred. . one fifty. . But the driver didn’t slow down, didn’t so much as swerve-

Rorie pulled the trigger. The first bullet smacked the left headlight and she corrected her aim. . one twenty-five. . the pistol rocking in her grip, two shots through the radiator and. . one hundred. . steam spit through the grille and the next two shots spiderwebbed the windshield dead center and. . eighty-five. . seventy. . Rorie adjusted one more time, fired. . fifty feet. . and the bullet-pitted glass and the battered Dodge Dakota swerved wildly, kicking up sand and rocks and brush like a wild bronco.

The truck crashed through the chain-link fence that penned the junkyard, slammed into a rusted-out Chevy and did not move another inch

Rorie waited. In the junkyard, a dog ran at the truck, barking like it was the end of the world.

But the truck didn’t move. It just sat there, all those headlights glowing like a portable football stadium.

Rorie checked the boxer’s pistol. It was an excellent weapon. A Heckler amp; Koch USP.45.

The only problem was that Rorie had emptied it.

She couldn’t finish Kate Benteen with an empty pistol.

Damn. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

She turned around, searching the parking lot for her own pistol. The black guy had dropped it when Wyetta plugged him. Had to be that it was around here somewhere-

The black guy said, “Surprise.”

Woodrow rose with some effort, staring at the lights.

He was still in the parking lot, but it was no longer morning.

He tried to remember. He had checked into the motel, and he had parked the Saturn in the lot by the junkyard, and he had taken his prayer rug from the trunk, turning toward Mecca to pray. .

And he had suffered another blackout.

A long one, because now it was night.

Woodrow could not imagine what had transpired in the interim. He only knew what had happened since he emerged from the blackout-he’d seen the lights in the desert, and he’d been shot by a female law-enforcement official who had departed the immediate scene, and he’d managed to shoot the woman’s partner. .

He stumbled forward, toward the lights. They had never been this close before. And being this close, he could tell for certain that they were not an illusion, no figment of a wounded brain.

The lights were real. If Allah would grant him the strength, Woodrow would know what was behind them before he died.

He stepped through a hole in the chain-link fence. A dog barked at him, but the animal was somewhere in the shadows and he could not see it. Still, he fired the deputy’s pistol into the night, hoping to hear the animal squeal because he recalled all too well the damage inflicted by Jack Baddalach’s dog.

Quite suddenly, the dog ceased its barking. Perhaps Woodrow had been lucky. Perhaps Allah had guided his aim.

He turned and faced the lights.

They beckoned him forward, and this time no needles of pain assaulted his skull, and no taffy-pulling machine tore at his brain.

Still, Woodrow was afraid. He hesitated, squinting into the light.

A silhouette shimmered within the pool of bright white fire.

The silhouette came toward him.

It was a woman.

Woodrow watched her come.

Her face was scarlet. Masked with blood.

Her clothes were black … but her hands were very white.

And in them she held a shotgun.

Woodrow raised his pistol.

The woman fired her shotgun.

Jack pulled the towel out of Sandy’s mouth. She gasped deeply, shivering.

“Easy,” he said. “Take it easy. .”

Sandy took another breath, and then another, and then her face wasn’t purple anymore.

Jack heard footfalls outside. Someone was running along the landing, just the way he had.

It had to be Wyetta.

Sandy’s fingers dug into his arm. The look in her eyes told him that she heard the same thing he did.

“Keep quiet,” Jack whispered, “and she’ll never know you’re here.”

Fortunately, Sandy Kapalua-Dayton was a skinny woman.

She actually fit under the bed.

Kate lay on the ground for a long time.

The shotgun recoil had put her flat on her ass. And even though she was a Montana girl and Montana girl’s got things done, she couldn’t quite get up the gumption to move. Partly because one of the deputy’s bullets had notched her right ear and nicked her skull, and she was still leaking pretty good.

That part of it was okay, though, because fresh blood made good camouflage. She’d smeared it over her face, just the way they taught her in the army. In a dangerous situation without the proper equipment, a soldier must improvise. And, hey, it had worked, because the hit man hadn’t known what to make of her until it was way too late.

But the hit man wasn’t the only one she had to worry about. There was the deputy. And the sheriff.

If the deputy was still out there, she was taking her own sweet time about showing her face. But maybe she was just a careful kind of girl. Maybe she was trying to figure a way to move in without getting her ass blown in half.

Maybe the sheriff and the deputy were flanking Kate this very minute.

Yeah. Could be. She’d better get to moving.

Kate gripped the shotgun. Just one more minute. One more minute and she’d start moving.

Damn. It was just too bad that the old Dodge Dakota didn’t have an air bag. Forget a bullet notching her ear-if she had had an air bag, she’d be fine right now. Give her a little bit of cushion and it would have taken more than a head-on collision with a Chevy junker to put a hitch in her getalong.

Kind of like the Saudi, in fact. Because Black Hawk helicopters didn’t come with air bags, either, and crashing one of those babies nose-first into a sand dune was just a little tougher than this.

Kate still had the scars to prove it.

But she’d had Vince Komoko to get her through the Saudi. And he’d been so beautiful then. So good. A-one all-fucking-American.

Kate remembered bouncing around in the back of an Iraqi truck, busted bones grinding against bruised flesh while she screamed her head off, a couple of Republican Guards trying to loosen the zipper of her flight suit but it hurt so bad and she had to scream, and Vince was busted up too but he went after those guys just like John Wayne.

That gave the soldiers something else to do. They beat the shit out of Vince. Kate watched them do it, every inch of her screaming in pain because there were lots of bumps in that desert and the truck driver seemed determined to hit every one. . hell, you’d think desert sand should be smooth but it wasn’t. . and she’d never forget what Vince did for her out there. Not just saving her ass from rape. Taking that beating, he’d given her hope. Showed her that they could tough it out, no matter what. Make it through anything with their dignity intact.

Vince had shown her that, and she’d learned the lesson. Together, they’d survived. That was important.

But there was more to life than simple survival, more than just drawing breath. Kate knew that. You had to make something of your life, or survival meant nothing.

If you ended up all alone with two million dollars for company. .

If no one cared about anything but your money. .

If the only person you wanted to give it to wouldn’t even answer her phone. .

A tear spilled from Kate’s eye, washing a clean trail on her bloodstained face.

Maybe you couldn’t help but be alone when you died.

Maybe. .

No. Kate knew it was silly to think about that. She wasn’t going to die. She was just a little busted up. Just bleeding a little. Jesus, she was sure happy that she wore her hair long-it would cover the notch the deputy’s bullet had clipped from her ear.

It’s nothing, she told herself. Only a flesh wound. Once it scabs over, no one will notice it at all.

No one will notice because you live alone, girl. A cabin out there in the middle of the big lonesome. No one visits. Your phone doesn’t ring. You have really long conversations with your horses, but they haven’t learned to hold up their end of the deal.

You’re a solo act from here on out, remember?

And she asked herself-if you were dying, who would you call? If you had two million, who would you leave it to?

Was there anyone, anywhere?

Vince Komoko was stone-cold dead. .

But maybe there was someone else. This other guy. Jack Baddalach. He was out there somewhere. And he was alone, just like she was.

He was waiting for her. Counting on her. The way she’d counted on Vince in the Saudi. The way Vince had counted on her to drop everything and come to Pipeline Beach, Arizona.

Because she was a Montana girl, and you could count on a Montana girl, especially if her name was Kate Benteen. Anyone knew that. Because Kate Benteen got things done. She was a war hero. An Olympic champion. A rodeo rider. A movie star.

And she was damn good with a gun to boot.

Kate stared at the motel. It seemed to be a million miles away.

Aw, Christ. That was a lot of bullshit. The motel was maybe a couple hundred feet away, tops. All she had to do was get up, get her ass in gear. .

She’d do that.

Because Jack Baddalach was waiting for her.

Counting on her.

Baddalach. . Man oh man, but that pug sure knew how to kiss.

And maybe that was what she needed. Some seriously sensual motivation to get her rear in gear.

Yeah. She’d bail the boxer’s ass out of trouble, tune in that oldies station, steal another kiss. .

Maybe two. .

Yeah.

Kate got up.

Something battered the door. Once. . twice. . but the deadbolt held firm.

Gunfire exploded outside. Jack sidestepped as a bullet whipped past his ear, missing him by inches.

The door flew open.

Wyetta Earp stepped into the room, her pistol held high. Jack’s empty hands rose automatically.

Wyetta took one look at him and started to laugh.

“What the hell happened to your hair, cowboy?”

Jack shrugged. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“Then we don’t have time for it.” She stepped toward him, the pistol steady in her hand. “Where’s Komoko’s money?”

Jack had no place to hide and he knew it. The room didn’t have a back door, and Wyetta had a gun. But instinct told him he had to move, so he backed up.

“Stand still.” Wyetta cocked her pistol. “You give me an answer, or you’re dead.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “You think I’d be here if I did?”

Wyetta smiled. “C’mon now, cowboy. Don’t treat me like an idiot. You and your girlfriend came here tonight for a reason. And I’ve got the feeling it wasn’t just because you wanted to get into a gunfight with me and my deputy. I know what you came for, same way as you know what I came for. Just hand it over, and I promise that the end will come quick.”

“Okay,” Jack said, “you’ve got me.”

“That’s smart, cowboy. Let’s get this thing done.”

“The money’s in Benteen’s room.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” Jack said. “Really. It’s under her bed. .”

Kate’s foot found the brake pedal just in time to prevent the bullet-riddled truck from crashing into the side of the Saguaro Riptide Motel.

She dropped the stick into neutral and set the emergency brake. So far, so good. She still felt kind of woozy, but she was going to be okay.

Because she was thinking straight. She’d known, standing in the junkyard, that it was a long walk to the motel. So she’d climbed behind the wheel and driven there instead.

And here she was, ready to come to Jack Baddalach’s rescue.

She stepped out of the truck, the Benelli shotgun in her hands, her eyes scanning the darkness for a sign of Wyetta Earp or her deputy.

She saw the deputy soon enough.

The deputy was dead.

Kate had parked the truck on top of the woman.

Oh, man. She’d never run over a cop before.

Nothing she could do about it now, though.

She stepped over the deputy and started around the side of the motel.

Her foot struck something hard.

She looked down and spotted the Heckler lying there on the ground.

That meant that Baddalach didn’t have a gun.

That meant that he was in real trouble.

“The money’s in room 23,” Jack said.

“This is unreal.” Wyetta shook her head. “Money hidden under a bed … I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. Sheriff. Because it’s the truth.”

The space was tight on the landing. Wyetta was behind Jack, her pistol at his back. He knew he’d only have one chance, and if he blew it-

“Here we are,” he said.

“Open the door.”

“I don’t have the key.”

“Oh, man,” Wyetta said.

“Maybe you should shoot the lock,” Jack suggested.

She smiled, “I’ll kick it in, cowboy.”

“You sure? I mean, you had to shoot off the lock to get in the other room.”

“Step aside. . but don’t try anything funny.”

Jack pressed his back against the railing.

Wyetta holstered her pistol.

She sprang forward, her heel smacking the door.

It shuddered but didn’t give.

She kicked it again. . and again.

The fourth kick did the trick.

And that was when Jack moved. He slammed against Wyetta’s shoulder while her leg was still in the air, and his shove coupled with her forward momentum tumbled her into the room.

Jack landed on top of Wyetta, his right hand scrambling for her bolstered gun. His fingers found the grip, and he started to pull it, and he noticed that the perfume she was wearing was really kind of nice-

And her elbow cracked against his cheek.

Jack toppled to the side, feeling like he’d been whacked with a sledgehammer.

But that was okay. Because he had the sheriff’s pistol in his hand.

But Jesus, he couldn’t make his hand work.

And Wyetta was up. Her boot slammed his wrist and the pistol flew across the room. Jack watched it go and then saw her boot coming back from the other direction.

Instinct made him move. He leaned back, and her left foot sailed past his nose, missing him by less than an inch, and his hand lashed out and grabbed her right leg and he jerked her off balance.

She crashed ass-first to the floor.

And now Jack was up.

But he had to get past Wyetta to get to the gun.

He made a jump for it.

Her foot lashed out.

Caught him in the crotch as he sailed over her head.

He slammed the floor hard. Tried to get up.

The ref was counting. Five. . Six. . Seven. .

He had to get up soon.

Eight. . Nine. .

Because Wyetta was up.

And she had the gun.

She smiled at him. “Cowboy,” she said, “you can kiss your ass good-”

Gunfire erupted from the doorway.

Blood spattered Jack, and he blinked.

When he opened his eyes, Wyetta was flat on her back.

It seemed that most of her head was splattered across the wall.

Including her long blond braid, which clung to the plaster like some gory trophy.

“You all right, champ?”

Jack turned. Kate Benteen stood in the doorway, a smoking pistol in her hand.

Her face was covered with blood.

Jack smiled.

Somehow, she’d never looked better.