ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Read online

  Javier was in his sleeping bag, still asleep. Jesus crawled quietly out of the shelter, stood and stretched. The sun peeped over the eastern range to touch the upslope plants, the downslope still in shadow. Jesus found the spring, stripped off his shirt and slapped cold water over his torso. He filled a pail with water, brought it back to the wickiup. When Javier awakened it would be there for him to cook breakfast. Finally I can contribute, Jesus thought.

  He walked up into the patch of sunlight, felt the sun's warmth on his shoulders. He inspected the young plants. All that Javier had taught him yesterday came to him. Birds chirped joyfully in the trees, the smell of new growth came to his nose.

  There was a new sound, a low vibration at first that grew into a rapid thump and then a roar. The peace of the morning was shattered. He heard Javier yell, "Get down!" A helicopter materialized over the ridge and descended toward them, no more than a hundred feet above the trees. Jesus dropped on the damp earth among the plants. He lay still. The craft hovered over them for several long seconds, then turned and roared south.

  The moment it was gone, Javier hurtled from the wickiup. He spoke into a small radio he held in his hand.

  Jesus found his feet, stumbled down the slope toward him. His knee flamed from the awkward landing when he dove to the ground. I've messed it up again, he thought, anguished.

  "They found us," Javier said as Jesus approached. "We've got to move quickly. At least they didn't drop anyone, maybe they don't have enough men, but someone will come up the mountain soon. We have maybe an hour to clean up and get out."

  "Where will we go?"

  "We'll go deeper into the mountains, hide out until we get instructions. Quickly now, load up that box of supplies."

  The two men worked feverishly. They packed up all they could carry and buried the rest.

  "Load up as much water as you can," Javier said. "We don't know where our next water will come from."

  When they were ready, Javier looked like a pack mule with his large pack, tools, and a gallon bottle of water dangling from his waist. Jesus was similarly loaded. He wondered how he could possibly hike any distance.

  They brush-crashed down the slope beside a ravine, turned east on a worn path. After a kilometer or so, Javier stopped. He put down his load and turned to Jesus. "Don't move. We have to do something about your knee."

  Javier went into the brush, knife in hand. He reappeared shortly with two saplings, measured them against Jesus' leg, cut them to fit. He tore three strips of cloth from a T-shirt to hold them in place. "Try not to bend this leg," he said. "We must take the stress off your knee. We have a long way to go today. Our freedom and maybe even our lives depend on the distance we can travel."

  Jesus managed to hobble along the path. He adjusted his stride to improve his pace incrementally. But when Javier turned off the path and thrashed directly up the slope, things changed. Jesus struggled to keep his knee straight, to keep the heavy load balanced. After a hundred meters Javier called a rest stop. Jesus moaned in pain.

  "I know this is difficult," Javier said, breathing hard. "We must do the unexpected. There is a path here. It will be easier, but we have to go fast."

  After they drank water, Javier led them along the faint trail deeper into the mountains. Several times Jesus heard the faint whomp-whomp of a helicopter somewhere behind them.

  By noon, both were hot and exhausted. Sweat flowed freely down their faces and necks and stained their clothing. Jesus' knee throbbed. Javier called a halt above a narrow arroyo.

  They removed their loads. Jesus sat on a boulder with his leg stretched before him. Javier passed him the water jug.

  "Just a sip or two. We must preserve it."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I spoke to Jorge on the radio before we left," Javier said. "There is a cave to the east of us with supplies for emergencies like this. I have the GPS coordinates; we can locate it with my phone. First, we must put as much distance as possible between us and the grow."

  "How far is the cave?"

  "I don't know yet. However far it is, that is how far we must go." Javier's lips tightened. "There is another difficulty. Jorge has learned that men from a rival cartel search for us. They could be behind us right now."

  "What will they do if they catch us?"

  "They will kill us."

  Jesus was stunned. "Why?"

  "They want to drive us out. This cartel wants to take over our trade and become suppliers for this whole area. If they kill us, none of our people will dare work out here."

  "What can we do?"

  "Travel fast. A soldier from the Sonora Cartel will meet us at the cave. He can protect us." Javier grimaced. "Until then, we must look out for ourselves."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jesus followed Javier down among rocks and scrub oaks into the narrow gulch. Although the gradient was gentle, they were often forced to leap over ledge or take large steps over fallen logs. Each took a toll on Jesus' leg. The jury-rigged cloth straps began to loosen. Jesus stopped several times to tighten them, valuable time lost. Javier, as always, was patient.

  When they reached the valley floor they rested. Javier produced cold pork wrapped in tortillas from his pack. Beneath the sheltering umbrella of a large oak they were protected from the sun and air surveillance. Jesus' knee pain eased to an ache and throb. His fear subsided in the framework of the bright bloom of the meadow around them. Birds darted from trees, ground squirrels peeked from their burrows. The sky was intensely blue, it was cool in the shade.

  Jesus thought how it might have been, in another time, to live in such a valley with his family. In his fantasy he saw Ana Dominga and Juanita play together in the tall grass. Isabella fanned herself gently and smiled at the girls from the porch of a tidy little cabin. He saw himself pause to watch them fondly, laden with fresh deer meat, the heavy meat digging into his shoulder, digging, digging...

  Jesus woke with a start.

  Javier's face was in his; his hand squeezed his shoulder. "Wake up, amigo, you can sleep when we reach the cave." He reached for Jesus' hand to help him stand.

  The leg had stiffened. He felt a sudden cutting pain and gasped. Javier checked his splint, tightened it. The knee was swollen like a grapefruit. Javier grimaced with concern. He picked up Jesus' pack, helped him into it. "We must keep moving. We do not know how close our enemy may be."

  They traveled east across the valley floor, kept to trees as much as possible. On the level ground, Jesus began to move better. He developed a rhythm, a step and a hop. His makeshift splint served him well.

  The valley narrowed, sloped up into another arroyo. The terrain was tougher. The sides of the gully closed in, the way steepened, the sun burned even hotter. The men sweated through their clothes. Jesus' shirt under his pack was a wet dishcloth against his back.

  Javier paused, took out his phone to check their position.

  Jesus sat at once, his leg one great throb.

  "We're just two miles from the cave," Javier said. "When we reach the top of this arroyo, we will skirt the summit of the next mountain, cross a saddle, and then, amigo, the cave will be across a small valley." Javier tucked his phone away, reached down to help Jesus to his feet.

  Jesus tried to straighten his leg with his hand. As he did, there was the sound a melon makes when it drops to the pavement. Javier let go of his arm, fell, his full weight on Jesus, crushed him against the rock where he sat. Jesus' leg doubled under him. He gasped at the sudden pain in his knee. He cursed, struggled to rise, tried to push Javier away. "Javier! What's the matter with you––get up, get up, you're hurting me."

  Javier didn't reply, didn't move. Jesus felt moist warmth flow down his neck, over his chest, along his ribs. He squirmed, rolled downslope out from uder the unresponsive Javier. Once free he turned on his side to straighten his leg, felt the shock of its pain, cried out. He touched the wet warmth on his chest, looked at his hand. It was covered in blood.

  Alarmed, confused, Jesus tu
rned to look at Javier. His head was on the ground, facing Jesus. His forehead and top of his skull were gone. A ragged red hole lined with brain matter and pulp was all that remained. Blood pooled on the ground.

  Jesus panicked. He wriggled and clawed like a lizard away from Javier's body, into a clump of bushes, crouched there, gasped for breath. It was impossible to see beyond the steep side of the arroyo. He waited, searched with his eyes, tried to slow his breathing. The pounding of his heart was so loud he could hear nothing else.

  He couldn't stay here; the killer would come looking for him. Where could he go? Where was the killer?

  Javier had said they would climb to the top of this arroyo then go east to find the cave. The cave was his only chance. He had to reach it to live. There was no choice. He had to continue up this arroyo.

  Jesus crawled, stayed low, used the cover of rocks and bushes. His right leg dragged behind him, the pain unbearable. His pack was a dead weight. He thought he should discard it, didn't do it; it was his protective shell. If the sniper shot again, maybe the pack would save him.

  He crawled on, slithering snake-like up over rock ledges, clawing his fingers into the sandy earth to pull himself along. Any moment he expected to feel the punch of a bullet. The narrow arroyo was like a furnace. His thirst was overpowering, yet he dared not stop to drink water. Jesus measured his life in minutes, passing snail-like, one by one. He had one thought––he must survive for Isabella and the girls.

  The climb up the arroyo was endless, but at some point he noticed it had narrowed, the slope had eased. He peered behind him; saw nothing. No dust, no sound. Up above him, the defile ended in a three-foot high wall of red soil. Beyond it, there were trees. Santa Madre de Dios, he thought. Let me reach there alive.

  After another glance at the arroyo below, he pushed to his feet. His leg buckled, he almost screamed in agony but held his balance, clumped stiff-legged out of the arroyo into the trees and dropped to the ground. He tried to ignore the pain that coursed up and down his leg. He cocked his head and listened. All was quiet.

  Jesus dropped his pack and found his water bottle. The plain liquid never tasted so sweet. His knee pain was almost unendurable, sweat poured from every square centimeter of skin, yet he was alive. Each mouthful of water restored him that much more.

  There was no need for a plan, only one thing to do: try to find the cave. The trick was to survive that long. The assassin could be anywhere.

  Jesus retied his leg, clawed to his feet, shouldered his pack, and stumped on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The thick grove of oaks ended, the ground sloped away and knee high bunch grass began, the only cover occasional clumps of black sage and green-leafed coyote bush.

  Jesus paused to listen, searched the landscape. He moved down through the grass, keeping bushes between him and the distant ridgelines whenever he could. It took a long time to work down the open slope, with slips and falls. The agony that was his leg reached new levels of pain, but he dared not stop. Only when he came to a small stand of coyote bush did he pause to rest in its limited shade, his weight on his good leg. He wanted to sit, dared not. The faint trail led around the side of the hill. Javier had described such a route. It must be the right path. He pushed on.

  Chamise and coyote bush were plentiful now. They made the going tough, tugged at his clothes, pricked his face and arms, yet he welcomed it for the cover it provided. His pace slowed still more, with frequent rests to catch his breath, take weight off his knee.

  Around the face of the hill he came to broad areas of rockslide, difficult to cross, dangerous for the exposure. He crawled and slithered across these, his bad leg dragged behind him. Occasionally he gained a view; at one he saw a long saddle from his hill to the next, just as Javier had described. Jesus grew hopeful.

  There was a loud crack against the rock next to his hand, an insect-like whine of a ricochet; particles of stone stung his hand and face like a mass of bees. He pancaked on the barren rock, his heart a drum against the hard surface. Before thoughts could form, he was jerked to one side, heard the thunk of a bullet against his pack. He thrust himself forward along the ground, his hands grapples. He furrowed into the dirt beyond the plate rock. Another bullet struck behind him. He scraped on until he was among bushes once again.

  The sniper still pursued him, he thought in despair. He had followed, patient, waited his opportunity, looked for him to grow careless. Jesus wondered why it had taken so long. How far behind was he? It didn't matter, he thought. The killer would come.

  Jesus tried to stand in the shelter of the bush, wanted to see, but his stiff bound leg prevented it. Beyond panic, beyond caring, he wanted to give up. He couldn't. The image of his little girls was in his mind. He tried again to rise, heaved himself to his good knee, his useless leg stretched behind him like a broken rudder. With both palms on the ground, he brought his good leg under him, pushed upright, grabbed handfuls of prickly brush. His pack tried to pull him over; he teetered, held on, and half hopped, half bounced along the path.

  The long saddle was just ahead. It offered no cover, a tin rabbit in a shooting gallery. There was no choice. Stay and he would die. Cross the saddle and he would die. He might as well try to cross.

  Jesus hopped on, no hesitation at the exposed ridge, stumped ahead as fast as he could. His body was tensed for the bullet impact. He was a quarter of the way across, a third, almost half way. Was the assassin that far behind? Could he...?

  A bullet kicked up dirt in front of him A second exploded into the same place. Jesus stopped.

  A voice came from behind. "Ah, amigo, what is your hurry? We have so much time. I have many bullets. Let's have some fun."

  Another bullet struck, closer.

  "Your friend is dead, amigo. He has no more head. He cannot live without a head, I think. Is that not true, amigo?"

  This time he heard the bullet strike behind him.

  The voice taunted him. "Amigo, you have hurt your leg. It makes you slow. I will remove it for you."

  Jesus felt a punch to the back of his bad leg. It flew into the air of its own accord. He slammed down on his back, bounced to his side. His pack slid up over his head. Pain came from his leg in a fierce wave. Jesus cried out. The heavy pack pinned his head to the ground. From a far away place he heard the smack of a bullet. He waited to die.

  A sound intruded into the twilight of his consciousness, cut through the waves of pain––a high-pitched scream. It was a cry of horror, of terror, the cry of a person frightened beyond endurance. It grew and grew. As he drifted into blackness Jesus wondered idly if he was hearing his own voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Zack arrived in the dining room for breakfast at six-thirty. Eagle Feather was already seated at a table, a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked up when Zack arrived. "I see your lazy habits haven't changed, White Man."

  Zack grinned and lowered himself into a chair. "Seems to me my lazy habits usually follow a night with you and some alcohol."

  Eagle Feather lifted both hands with an innocent expression.

  Zack waved at the waitress, pointed to his empty coffee cup.

  "What's the plan?" Eagle Feather said.

  Zack looked at his watch. "Rick Malden should be here shortly. We'll drive to the upper Sisquoc River. Our guide will find us up there. We'll continue tracking where we left off yesterday."

  "Sisquoc?"

  "Rick tells me it's a river that rises in those mountains and flows into the Santa Maria River east of here. We can take a forest service road up to it, save ourselves some hiking." Zack watched the waitress pour his coffee.

  "Sisquoc." Eagle Feather rolled it around on his tongue.

  "Sisquoc means stopping place in the Chumash language," The voice came from behind Eagle Feather's chair. It was Malden. "Rancho Sisquoc was a land grant from Governor Pio Pico to Maria Antonia Dominguez Caballero in 1854. Now they grow grapes. You gonna introduce us, Zack?"

  "Rick, meet my good f
riend Eagle Feather. He's been asked to come out here to watch over me."

  "Somebody's got to do it," Eagle Feather said, held out his hand.

  "Glad to meet you." Rick pulled out the empty chair between them, sat down. "Will you go with us today?"

  "He will." Zack answered for him. "He's one of the better trackers you're ever gonna meet. I think we'll get the job done."

  "Guess I can go home, then."

  "Not so fast," Zack said. "We need a ride."

  Malden chuckled. "We'd best get a good breakfast in us. I have a feeling it's going to be a long day today. Have you ordered?"

  Zack called the waitress back, the men put in their orders. They chatted amiably during breakfast. It felt to Zack as if they'd always known each other. "What do you think about this mysterious presence people talk about in those mountains? The Chumash guide spoke of it yesterday."

  Malden sighed and put down his fork. "Those are powerful images the Chumash people evoke. When you're out in those woods alone they come back strong to your mind. I'd be lying if I didn't say I've felt something out there. But it's probably the growers watching me watch them."

  "Nothing to it, then?"

  Malden frowned. "It may sound silly, but I've noticed a particular smell on occasion, a strong sweaty-musk sort of smell. I know it's not my imagination, I've watched Toker react to something at the same time." He shrugged. "That's as close as I've gotten to any mysterious presence."

  "Always trust your instincts. That's what I've tried to teach White Man here," Eagle Feather said.

  "I'm slow, but I'm starting to get it." Zack grinned over his coffee cup.

  After breakfast Zack and Eagle Feather went for their backpacks. Those went in the back of the truck, the three men on the big front seat. The truck sped down the straight ribbon of road that crossed the wide river valley.