An American Kill Read online

  Also by John Stonehouse

  The Whicher Series

  An American Outlaw

  An American Kill

  The Whicher Series Books 1 & 2

  Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

  An American Bullet

  Watch for more at John Stonehouse’s site.

  An American Kill

  John Stonehouse

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by John Stonehouse

  Copyright © by John Stonehouse 2015

  * * *

  John Stonehouse has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover Design by Books Covered

  Chapter One

  Webb County, TX.

  May 1992

  * * *

  Through the night scope at Whicher's eye, the south Texas brush shimmers under a sweep of desert stars.

  John Whicher. US Deputy Marshal. Lawman. Newly-badged.

  He squints into the scope.

  With his thumb, he flicks the upper of two lens-switches, turning on the illuminated reticle.

  He rolls the knurled switch, bringing up the brightness, sighting the three-point cross hair on a bank of shale.

  Blackbrush and guajillo move in the light wind. At five hundred meters, the outline of Spanish dagger is stark against the midnight air.

  He sweeps the scope—right to left across the flats.

  Along a fifty-mile front, law enforcement officers wait on the border with Mexico.

  He searches the empty land, looking for a face, an outline. For the first sign of the ragged men that cross the river, to walk the brush, to stumble among the thorn and scrub. Illegal crossers—migrants. Coyotes; the guides that bring them in.

  In his mind's eye he sees other faces—men with dirt-blacked skin; hands high, stepping from Iraqi trenches. No gun, no uniform. Glass eyed, full of animal fear. But it's twelve months since Desert Storm, a part of history now. The night scope is not connected to any weapon.

  Lawman, he tells himself—what you are now. Who you are.

  Mojados will cross tonight, just as every night. Wetbacks, a handful here, a handful there. Each band will follow a coyote, paid to get them through. Like Randell Creagan. Thirty-five. From Port Arthur, east Texas.

  For two days, the Marshals Service have had a bench warrant for his arrest.

  Creagan's a car thief, an ex-trucker. And according to Border Patrol, a part-time coyote.

  Whicher lays the night scope on the passenger seat of his Chevy C/K truck. He pushes open the door with a boot. Steps out, stares into the darkness.

  He thinks of the distance between patrol zones—a Dimmit County deputy two miles west—his boss, Marshal Reuben Scruggs, about the same again, east.

  He takes out the Glock 19 from the shoulder holster. Lays it on the roof of the cab.

  The list of units on duty runs to Dimmit, Webb and Maverick County Sheriff. Plus Border Patrol. But Randell Creagan or any other coyote could walk straight through the line. Unseen. Simplest thing in the world. In all that space.

  Unless they got unlucky. Which case, things could turn fast. Get ugly.

  Whicher takes off his Resistol hat. 4 and 5/8th crown, stone color felt. He wipes sweat from his brow, listening to the night sounds. Heated air moves against his skin.

  The beat of cicadas slips in phase, then out again. He settles the hat back in place.

  Wind stirs the brush, heat ticking off the truck.

  From inside the cab is a burst of static.

  He jolts, despite himself. Steps to the truck—stares in the open window.

  The radio's silent.

  He stands a moment. Thinks of countless night ops—3rd Armored Cavalry, leading a Scout Platoon. Then shrugs it off, no point calling brass over nothing. He slips the Glock back into the shoulder holster.

  The smell of desert fills the air. Baked earth, hot sand, aromatics. In the far distance, heat lightning pulses, silent. He leans against the Chevy hood, steel warm from the big-block motor.

  A white flash streaks into orange in the middle distance. A point of brilliant white. For a split second, then it's gone.

  He stares at the spot, mouth open.

  There's a second flash. A third.

  He strains to make out a sound, reaches in the truck. Grabs the night scope, presses it against his eye. He scans the scrub, rolls the tube gain maxing-out the brightness. The image in the lens is meaningless, saturated. He snatches the scope away, fixing the position in his mind.

  He jumps in the pickup—whips the radio transmitter off the dash hook. “Dispatch, this is Whicher. I have a sighting. Multiple gunshots...”

  Three shots. Quickly taken. Muzzle flash, unmistakeable.

  “Estimate, one to two miles north-west...” He turns the key in the ignition. No response from the radio.

  He brings up the truck lights, hits drive, turning the Chevy in line with the fixed spot in his mind. Six months out of Glynco; new to law enforcement—not to this.

  The radio crackles. “Dispatch. You see gunfire? Can you get there?”

  He stomps the gas. “I'm in route...”

  The truck tires bite into the primitive earth, brush screeching beneath the chassis.

  He picks up speed—ahead is a gravel draw, a rise beyond it. The marshal floors it out, truck barreling into the depression. He swerves by a low stand of mesquite, steers across the scrub, ground rising to a sandy ridge. At the top, the Chevy's lights disappear into blue night. Whicher brakes to a stop, dust billowing.

  Below is a flat plain—ranch land, cut with shallow arroyos. Dry grass, thorn brush. A light is showing. A moving light.

  He stares at twin beams, less than half a mile off. A coyote like Randell Creagan would be on foot—the lights ahead were a vehicle.

  He nudges the front axle over the ridge, steering down a dirt bank. Through the windshield, he sees the vehicle lights change direction—turning, stopping.

  Another light shows, a flat beam, moving across the scrub.

  It's tracking the ground like a searchlight. Shining straight out from the vehicle.

  Whicher stops. He puts the night scope to his eye.

  A man is running through the brush.

  Ran
ge indicators in the reticle show him at roughly three hundred meters. The vehicle's just visible, a pickup—out at eight hundred plus.

  The marshal steadies his breathing, watches the beam of light. A cop's flashlight? It's super bright. The scope bursts into blinding green—a split second, before the gain auto-compensates.

  A shot.

  Whicher searches for the running man—spots him. The lens pulses green again. The man staggers, changes direction. He doesn't stop.

  The marshal grabs the radio transmitter. “All units, who's firing?” Another shot lights up the scope. “Repeat—who's firing?”

  A burst of static. “This is dispatch—marshal, nobody's firing, what's going on?”

  Two more shots, Whicher hears the faint crack of the rounds. He sees the man hit in the back, impact pushing his body ahead of itself, legs flailing like a child.

  He drops the transmitter, floors the gas. The truck bounds forward into the brush—lights picking out the stumbling man.

  And then he's vanished.

  The searchlight beam from the shooter vehicle snaps out.

  Whicher grabs the transmitter, holding it close. “I've got a gunshot victim ahead...”

  The radio crackles. “We're sending the nearest unit; Marshal Scruggs—he's about three minutes behind.”

  The pickup's headlights are moving, turning away.

  “I see the shooter leaving.”

  “Check the victim...”

  “I need to pursue...”

  “Check the victim first. Put on all your lights—next unit needs to see you.”

  Whicher turns the truck in an arc—watching the retreating pickup, trying to memorize the line. Ahead is a clearing—a stand of trees, a stock tank. From an iron windmill, fence posts stretch away, smooth wires shining in the Chevy beams.

  A figure's lying at the edge of the brush. He's on his side, black hair, rag-like clothes, knees drawn up toward his gut.

  Whicher brakes to a stop. He pulls the Glock from the shoulder holster.

  The man on the ground is Hispanic, late-twenties—around the same age as Whicher.

  The marshal jumps out, runs crouched, army habit. “Speak English?”

  The man's eyes are round with fear, blood leaking out of him, pooling in the dirt.

  Whicher squats, heart racing. “Habla inglés?”

  The man's head rolls back, one bloody hand dropping from his shirt.

  “Alright.” Whicher reaches out, touches him on the shoulder. Every muscle in the young man's body slackens—he's sinking into the earth. “It's okay,” the marshal breathes. “Alright. It's alright...”

  The young man twitches, shakes against the ground. Then the twitching stops, he lies inert—light gone from his eyes.

  Whicher stands, swallows. Stares out across the scrub.

  In the distance, pinpricks of red show—tail lights on the shooter's pickup.

  He runs to the Chevy, climbs in the truck bed, flipping open the tool chest. From inside, he picks out a road flare. He rips off the cap, striking the flare against the friction surface—it sparks, catches, starts to burn.

  He jumps from the truck, sets the flare in the ground. It lights up the windmill, the stock tank, the fence wire. Twisted branches of a plateau oak flick shadows on the dead man's body.

  Whicher climbs in the cab, swings the truck around.

  Ahead is broken country, dipping, rising. Brush and cactus choke the land. He grabs the radio. “Dispatch—this is Whicher. Gunshot victim is a male, Hispanic. Injuries fatal.”

  “You're there with him?”

  “I've marked the position with a flare. I'm in pursuit of the shooter.”

  There's a pause on the radio. “Marshal, you need to wait for back up...”

  “He's getting away, we're going to lose him.”

  The Chevy bucks and kicks over the worsening ground, tire noise rising to a pummeling drone. He bursts through a tangle of thicket—drops three feet into a dry creek—back end rearing as the front wheels dive.

  He gets off the gas, bracing, head snapping forward. The chassis grounds, veers right—he points the hood to where the creek bank's fallen.

  The truck climbs, powering up the bank. He searches for the pickup—no sign of lights. The brush is dense, grown to head-height. He turns left then right, scouting out a way forward.

  In the Chevy beams he sees the broken wall of an abandoned house. Roof fallen, one wall robbed out to knee-height for the stone.

  Something catches the marshal's eye, he stands on the brakes.

  He stares, reaches for his weapon. Sees an arm, a shirt-sleeve draped across the wall.

  “Dispatch?”

  The radio hisses. “Go ahead.”

  “Think I got another body...” He scans the building, Glock sweaty in his hand.

  “Marshal, say your position?”

  “Mile and a half from my patrol sector. North-west. Some abandoned house.”

  “Anything else? You see any landmark?”

  “Black as hell out here. I just crossed a dry creek...”

  “A creek?”

  “You need to get somebody down here.”

  “Alright, marshal. We're checking against the map.”

  Whicher eyes the property from the driver window—motor rumbling beneath the hood.

  “Marshal? We think you're near the old Channing place.”

  “Channing?”

  “It's a disused ranch. There's somebody not far from you...”

  “Be advised there's a shooter making his way out.”

  “We'll alert all units.”

  “He's in a regular-cab pickup, dark in color, black, maybe. I didn't get much of a look. He was headed north-west...”

  “We'll handle it, marshal. Stay with your vehicle.”

  Whicher stares at the house, thinking of the thin-skinned Chevy. Anybody inside looking to shoot, the truck wouldn't stop any round. He cuts the motor, snaps off the lights. Steps out, holding the compact semi-auto.

  He runs to the near wall. “US Marshal,” he calls out. “Anybody in there?”

  No sound, no movement. He takes a breath, steps along the line of the wall, scanning left and right. He can see part-way through the interior—bare walls, no plaster, roof beams hanging down. One wall is soot-blacked from a fire.

  The body of a man is laid across the broken wall. Two dark stains at his back—head slumped between his shoulders. Enough times he's seen it, in Iraq.

  He climbs the wall, moving into the building. “Anybody in here?”

  Another pace, another step. Earth underfoot iron-hard. He reaches a door to a derelict room, a kitchen. Inside are four bodies. Two young women. Two men.

  Touch nothing, he tells himself.

  He sweeps the space—walks through to an exterior doorway. Steps outside. At the back of the house, the ground is churned up, tire tracks everywhere. He sees the line of a dirt road running north.

  The brush is silent. There's just the sound of his own breathing. He steps back in the house, shutting down something inside—a lesson learned; self-protection.

  He stands a moment, eyes adjusting in the dark, starting to make out some detail. Strewn around are bags tipped out, clothing, food, plastic water bottles.

  The two women are crumpled at the foot of a wall, shot multiple times. They're fallen in opposite directions. A Caucasian male is laying on his back. Hispanic male, face down in a corner.

  The Caucasian is young, skinny. Camo shirt pulled up over his ribs. He's shot in the head, staring open-mouthed at the remains of the roof.

  The Hispanic looks like a campesino—country boy, judging from the clothes. His face is pressed to the dirt.

  Whicher turns to the women, they're early twenties, pretty, fine-boned. No field hands. One has black hair to her shoulders, very straight. The outline of her face graceful, even in death. Her arm is caught in a long necklace; it's broken by the weight of the fall, the beads scattered. On her bare shoulder is a small tattoo—a bird
in flight.

  The second woman is darker, hair short, a slight curl in it. The blood stained shirt she's wearing is buttoned to the throat.

  He takes a pace from the room, retraces his steps. Checks the first body—the man draped across the wall. He's Hispanic, twenties, a farm hand. The long-sleeved canvas work shirt is bulging; extra layers—typical of an illegal crosser. From the way he's fallen, he was trying to get out of the house.

  The marshal stares out into the dark beyond the wall.

  He hears the sound of a motor. Thinks of the dirt road coming in at the rear. He jumps the wall, runs along the outside of the house. At the end, he squats.

  Shafts of light are turning through a stand of trees.

  Whicher edges back, finger on the trigger guard of the Glock.

  Beyond the trees, a pickup truck's moving fast. It swings out from the end of a thicket, headlights sweeping the abandoned house.

  It pulls up, the driver door springs open.

  A man steps out. Tall, thin, back-lit in the headlights. He's carrying a pistol-grip shotgun.

  “US Marshal,” Whicher shouts.

  The man holds the shotgun level.

  Whicher stares down the front sight.

  “Border Patrol,” the man calls back. “Agent Talamantes. Carrizo Springs.”

  Whicher gets to his feet. “US Marshals Service,” he says. “Out of Laredo.”

  Talamantes turns toward him. Hispanic, gaunt face. Collar-length hair.

  “Name's Whicher. You see any vehicle just now? A pickup truck, headed out?”

  “No, mano.” Talamantes lets the cut-down twelve-gauge swing at his side.

  Whicher fits the Glock back in the shoulder holster.

  The Border Patrol agent steps to the doorway of the house. “Dispatch said you have a body?”

  “Five bodies.” Whicher jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Inside.”

  Talamantes eyes him, running his hand over a thin mustache. He crosses the threshold. Whicher follows.

  Neither man speaks.

  Talamantes takes a flashlight from a cargo pocket in his fatigues. He shines it at each of the bodies in the derelict room.