The Empty Land (A Hunter Kincaid Novel)

“What Mexican?” A sharp punch to Sam’s kidney took his breath and dropped him to his knees.

“You can make this easy or hard. Where is the Mexican?”

Sam rose to his feet and braced one hand on the refrigerator for balance. “Give me a chance to catch my breath, okay?”

A second punch to the same kidney took Sam’s voice and it felt like something wet broke inside him. He grasped the refrigerator handle to keep from falling. “Okay, okay. Jesus, don’t hit me again.” He straightened, moving his hand to the top edge of the refrigerator for more leverage. “The only Mexican I’ve seen came by here a couple days ago. He’d been shot. I doctored the wound as best I could, then he left.”

As if to confirm it, another deep shadow moved in the gloom and said, “Nobody else here.”

The first voice, the voice of the man who hit him said, “Did he leave something with you?”

“No.”

The voice was silent for several seconds, then said, “I cannot take your word on that. Sit at the table.” The man’s hand touched Sam’s upper arm as if to lead him to a chair. The voice said to the other one, “Zip tie him to the chair, get a towel and fill a bucket with water.”

Sam slid his hand across the top of the refrigerator and grasped the handle of his Colt. He flipped off the safety with his thumb as he pulled away from the man’s grasp and spun to fire in the same movement. The kitchen bloomed with light and noise, and Sam saw two men wearing night-vision goggles before it went dark again.

He fired twice more, seeing the two men duck away in the flashes, frozen in movement like still photos. Sam raced out the front screen door, and cut to his right to circle the house.

Voices yelling in Spanish carried through the night, and then the harsh booms of automatic fire. Sam made the corner as a bullet slammed into the wall, spraying his face with fragments.

Using his memory to guide him as he raced into the darkness, Sam dodged water faucets, stacks of rocks, and other items. As his night vision improved, he went faster. A pale path beckoned and he took it into the boulders of the foothills close behind the house. He slowed, chancing a glance behind, and saw what appeared to be three or four men. Sam made use of the rocks and brush, keeping them between him and the house. He knew how well night vision goggles worked, and he wanted to give them no opportunity to see him.

Sam moved toward the first low crest, then stopped and looked through a fist-sized opening between two large boulders. He studied the house, seeing the two men with the night goggles scanning the area. One of them pulled off his goggles, then the other one followed suit. One of the others went inside and turned on lights while two others trotted into the night, returning ten minutes later in two vehicles with their beams on high. In the increased light, Sam noticed something on the edge of the porch and he squinted to make it out.

It was Chula, and she was dead. Sam’s eyes stung. He raised the forty-five and sighted at one of the men for a long time before lowering it. He knew that one shot would have them back on his trail like wolves on a fresh scent. He couldn’t risk it. Sam moved higher into the foothills and farther from the men.

Miguel whispered softly, “Sam.”

Sam jerked, then settled. “Miguel.” He touched the Mexican’s arm. “They’re hunting us both now. We need to get out of here.”

“Where can we go? It will be daylight soon, and if they use the helicopter to hunt us from the sky…”

“We’ll hide in a place I know.”

“And then?”

“We’re going to find out what the hell’s going on.”

***

Riffey asked Holland, “You want us to burn the place down?”

Holland said, “Not tonight. If we leave it, he may return. After all of you scour the place and take every weapon and bullet you find, assign someone to stay and watch for him.”

“You want this guy pretty bad.”

“I want the camera if the Mexican left it with him. If he doesn’t have it, I will make him tell where the Mexican is.”

Riffey shook his head, “We can’t wait around too long on this. Time’s running out.”

Holland was looking away from him and said, “I’ll worry about the time. Do as you’re ordered.” Riffey’s lips thinned, but he didn’t speak. Holland continued, “Have the men pick up shell casings and police the area, then we leave.”

“All right. I’ll take care of the dog, too.” Riffey said. He checked the weathered adobe outbuildings and located the tool shed, then removed a shovel and returned to the porch. Using a small xenon flashlight to look over the yard, he found a suitable place, then picked up the dog and took her to a garden area bordered by several peach trees. He dug the hole, placed Chula gently in it and covered her with soil. Riffey looked around again, found a number of smooth, fist-sized rocks and placed them in a circle around the small grave, with a large piece of flagstone covering the top. “You were a good dog,” he said, then returned the shovel to the shed.

Ten minutes later, the men finished searching and left the ranch in their vehicles. As Holland drove, he asked, “Why did you bury th

e dog?”