Hunter's Moon (A Hunter Kincaid Novel)
“Is the front desk okay with giving me a key to check out her room?”
A small smile spread across his lips. “No, they are not. But they also rarely look up, if you understand. A credit card or knife should open this particular door.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Of a certainty. If you would like, finish your drink and I will entertain the people at the front desk while you check.”
They watched the other customers and the slow moving cars and trucks on the street, so close Hunter could almost lean over and touch them as they drove past.
Rudy motioned with one hand at the surrounding town, “I love it here, even with all the troubles I find the people are good people.”
“I agree.”
“The heat is a problem, but then there is always ice and cool drinks to celebrate it.” He smiled as he said it.
A new black pickup, it’s body jacked up on oversized tires, passed by on the street and Hunter gave it some notice but couldn’t see through the tinted windows. Rudy said, “I’ve seen them before around the town.”
Hunter asked, “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe cartel?”
“I do not think so, but one can never be certain along the border.”
“Which one is in power here? They change every time there’s fighting, which has been frequent.”
Rudy said, “It was the Juarez Cartel, but not now, so your guess is as good as mine.”
Hunter drained the last of her Pacifico and said, “I need to use the restroom, be right back.” She rose and spotted the black pickup coming again, this time with the passenger window down. She yelled, “Look out!”
The barrel of an AK-47 emerged and immediately sprayed the crowd with automatic fire.
In reflex, Hunter grabbed air where her pistol normally rode on her hip. Rudy half-turned in the chair as several rounds struck him, knocking him to the floor, where he didn’t move. She sprinted away and heard the screams and yells from people in the line of fire as the bullets tore the sidewalk bar apart.
She glanced once at Rudy and saw a red, spreading pool under his head.
Three men sitting at one table in the cafe returned fire with pistols, obviously a rival gang. They caught more fire as two more gunmen rose from the pickup bed, yelling and shooting.
The man shooting from the pickup window stopped shooting as he reloaded another clip, then swung the muzzle searching for more targets.
He saw Hunter and the muzzle stopped moving. Hunter jumped behind a large cinder block column as the rounds thumped into it and ricocheted into the far wall.
And then they sped away.
People cried and wailed. Men cursed and swore vengeance. The sounds of sirens could be heard coming their direction. Overturned tables and chairs and broken glass and blood streaked the café floor.
Hunter’s mind raced, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She didn’t want to be questioned by the police on this, asking whom she talked with and what they talked about. She needed to disappear.
The hotel lobby and front desk were deserted, with people either hiding or emerging to help the wounded. She entered the hotel and hurried up the stairs to the open walkway on the second floor. She spotted room 216 halfway down. Rudy was right, her knife had the door open in a few seconds.
Hunter entered the room and let her heart stop hammering as she leaned her back against the closed door. She remembered one thing that stood out as the firing started; the shooter at the window was Japanese, or at least oriental. No doubt about it.
She looked around the room, taking her time, noting the clothes still hanging in the small closet, the empty beer bottles on the side table by the bed. An ordinary occupied room, except this one had no people coming back to it. Checking the drawers turned up nothing, as did checking all the pockets on the hanging clothes. The travel kit in the bathroom had the usual items, with no false bottoms on the shaving cream can.
She found it in the bathroom, taped in place with a small strip of scotch tape, under the tank on the toilet. She stripped off the tape and held the camera’s small SanDisk in her fingers. 33 megabytes. Putting it in the front pocket of her jeans, she eased open the door and looked up and down the outside walkway. She didn’t see anyone, but heard people coming up the stairs to the second floor.
They were police.