Haunted

CHAPTER 32

MAX MOVES ALMOST AS SILENTLY AS I DO through the brush. In a minute, all I hear are the approaching footsteps of what I guess to be a dozen men. I grab Max’s duffel and head back toward the rocks and the burned-out truck.

I do nothing to hide my tracks. I want whoever is coming to find an easy trail to follow. One set of footprints. I want them to come after me.

It takes me far less time to reach the rocks than it will for those following. Gives me time to find a vantage point to use as lookout. While I wait, I open Max’s bag of tricks.

I was wrong. He doesn’t have a small arsenal inside, he has a big arsenal inside. Grenades, flares, a couple of handguns, a small case with a disassembled rifle and a sniper’s scope.

Boy Scout, indeed. Prepared to earn a murder badge.

In the side pouches are several more of those protein bars and the last two bottles of water.

I chug half of one, splash water onto the handkerchief and try again to scrub at my face. I can’t imagine how I appeared to Adelita—my face and clothes so soaked in blood.

Maybe the fact that it was one of her tormentor’s blood made it less horrific.

From what I gather from the sounds, the men have reached the place where Ramon, Culebra and Max stayed the night. I listen intently but the men don’t appear to be talking. They must be a well-trained gang of thugs, not wanting to give away their location. I imagine them searching the ground, finding the discarded wrappers and the empty water bottles. Now comes the tricky part.

Will they see where Max and I found Adelita hiding in the thicket, or will my more obvious tracks draw them away?

In a moment, I have my answer. They start in my direction.

Good.

A glance at my watch.

All I have to do now is keep them occupied for eight hours.

I wait until they reach the side of the road. I want to see who is leading the hunting party. They gather and stop in the cover of brush, whispering and pointing toward the rocks, the beams of a half dozen LED flashlights crisscrossing in front of them.

Then they step into the road.

It’s no surprise when I recognize the man in front, or when I hear his familiar voice call out.

“Come on out, Max,” Ramon says. “We have Culebra. It will go easier on both of you if you come out now.”

He doesn’t mention me. Either he hasn’t yet been in contact with Maria or he doesn’t want to let Max know that I’ve followed.

I consider my options. I could pick them off one by one with the rifle in Max’s bag.

No. Better to lead them on a merry chase away from the village, give Max more time to get away.

One thing I can do, though. Finish the job I started this morning.

I grab one of the grenades. Pull the pin. Toss it onto the burned-out bed of the truck.

The flash of the grenade flying through the air is caught by the searching flashlights. The men dive back into the brush.

The grenade explodes, flinging bits of wood from the truck’s side panels and charred bodies in a wide arc and reigniting the fuel that was left in the gas tank.

Now not even Horatio Caine could piece together what’s left.

A cry goes up from the group. Excited exclamations in Spanish. Evidently a piece of wood from the truck flew straight into one of the men. He staggers out into the road, flanked on either side by two buddies trying to drag him back into the brush. He’s fighting them. There’s a long, slender splinter no wider than an arrow projecting from his chest in front and out his back. The two trying to get him out of the road give up quickly and leave him to take cover again. The wounded man makes it no more than three or four steps before he collapses.

I don’t know how he keeps going but he raises himself onto his knees, grasps the wooden spear with two hands and pulls.

His scream hangs in the air longer than it takes the blood to drain from his body.

I watch the man die, feeling nothing, my mind a blank slate. No. That isn’t entirely true. I do have a thought.

One down . . .