forty

The engines were turned off. Five trucks but not the jeep. The jeep’s motor sounded puny after the throaty rumble of the trucks. It was barely audible above the sound of the wind and the flapping window shutter. Sarah Hellstrom looked relaxed in the passenger seat. Not handcuffed or tied up or in any other way restrained. She was a guest, not a prisoner. Grant felt disappointed.

The mercenaries disembarked and formed a loose circle around Grant. Tripp Macready swung his legs sideways and got out of the jeep. He looked at Grant, threw a glance towards Sarah, then focused on the Yorkshireman again.

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s a small town. We all have to get along.”

Grant nodded. “And I’m a rodent. I get it.”

Macready stood in front of Grant. “A lizard. Isn’t that what you said?”

Grant smiled.

“Rango. The Johnny Depp lizard Western. Yes.”

“The stranger in town.”

Grant finished the line.

“And strangers don’t last long.”

Macready tilted his head as if considering Grant.

“Except you ain’t a stranger no more.”

He held his arms out like Jesus on a cross. “You’re the Resurrection Man.”

He lowered his arms. “I remember you now. From the TV news. Boston, wasn’t it?”

“Jamaica Plain.”

“You’re a long way from home. Yorkshire or Massachusetts.”

“It’s a small world.”

“And this is a small town.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Just wanted to emphasize the point so you’d understand. I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the guy that provides for the good folk of Absolution.”

Grant nodded in the general direction of town. “Doesn’t seem like everyone agrees with you.”

Macready nodded. “And that’s exactly why I need to set an example.”

He made a come-hither motion with both hands, and two mercenaries broke off from the circle.

“Send them a message.” The mercenaries stood on either side of Grant. “That strangers aren’t welcome.”

Macready put his hands in his pockets. “They don’t last long. Me, I’m here to stay.”

Grant glanced across the street, then looked Macready in the eye. “You said I wasn’t a stranger.”

“Play on words. You’re a rolling stone that gathers no moss.”

Grant looked at Sarah. She flinched at the ferocity of his stare. Macready ignored the interplay.

“Passing through. Only you aren’t. Not anymore.”

He leaned forward for emphasis.

“You should never have got off the train.”

Grant weighed up time and numbers. Time was running out and the numbers didn’t add up. There should be more mercenaries than the few forming the circle around him. He glanced across the street again at the derelict buildings that looked so much like another desert township fallen on hard times. The shutter banged again. Loose canvas on one of the trucks flapped in the wind. Nobody opened fire from the cover of the buildings. Nobody set off the explosions around the killing ground.

Macready followed Grant’s gaze, then shook his head.

“Don’t go getting your hopes up.”

He held a hand above his head and gave a curt wave.

“There ain’t no resurrecting you from this.”

There was movement in two of the derelict buildings. Hunched figures shuffled into the open with their hands behind their heads. Bigger men herded the figures towards the trucks. The missing mercenaries.

“Your friends chose the wrong side.”

Sabata, Doc Cruz, and three others crossed the street, betrayed and captured. Grant looked at Sarah and let out a sigh of defeat. How could she do this to her own kind? Fellow citizens of Absolution. She lowered her head.

The prisoners were corralled between the first and second truck, out of the wind and away from Grant. The mercenaries holstered their weapons. The threat had been neutralized. Grant ignored them. He couldn’t take his eyes off Sarah, the first helpful face he’d seen after he’d arrived and the last person he expected to stand up for the Macready clan. She rubbed her wrists. The tiny movement caught Grant’s eye. He focused on the rawness just above the joints. Rope burns. Then he looked at the ropes still dangling from the cab of the lead truck.

Macready saw the look and nodded.

“I’m not stupid. Leaving her strapped across the truck wouldn’t look good coming through town. I cut her down at Sixto’s—where you planned on starting your little welcome party.”

Grant snapped his eyes back to Macready. Sarah Hellstrom didn’t know about the welcome party. How could she? She’d been taken long before he’d discussed it at Javier’s house on the edge of town. The old Mexican who was supposed to have set off the first explosion at the gas station.

Grant saw Macready’s eyes turn towards the main gates. Grant turned around. Javier walked through the gates with hunched shoulders and a protective arm around his daughter—the waitress from the barbecue. The girl in Scott Macready’s bed. He walked her down the street without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Macready broke the spell.

“It’s amazing what a man will do to protect his daughter.”

Grant saw Doc Cruz shudder but wasn’t thinking about the irony in that remark. He was wondering how much Javier knew of the overall plan they’d discussed in the old Mexican’s kitchen. Not all of it but enough. He knew who would be helping and where. He had helped place the gas bottles around the ambush site. Grant didn’t check to see if they were still there. They either were or they weren’t. He doubted if Macready had had time to remove them. He’d been on the road all night, and his son had been bed hopping.

Josiah Hooper. Grant tried to remember if Joe had been mentioned in any detail. He didn’t think he had. The sniper was Grant’s ace in the hole. The sniper and the cloud of dust racing south along Iron Mountain Road. Grant forced himself not to look up at the bell tower to see if the rifle was still pointing in his direction.

Macready pulled out his own ace in the hole.

“And don’t go thinking your call to Boston will do you any good.”

Grant felt a chill run down his spine.

Macready smiled.

“That’s a long drive across big country. This ain’t like the movies. Cavalry don’t always get here in time.”

Grant relaxed. That last remark told him Macready might know about the call but not what was said. The cavalry wouldn’t be coming from Boston. If John Cornejo had convinced the authorities, it would be coming from a lot closer, bringing thunder from the north just as the storm front was bringing it from the south. The meeting point would be Absolution, Texas.

Macready did that double wave thing again, and two mercenaries stepped towards Grant, weapons holstered to free their hands.

“Now it’s time for that example I was talking about.”

He indicated the front of the lead truck—“Shame to waste a good rope”—then reached into the jeep and pulled out a machete.

Grant flinched. Not at the prospect of being cut but at the confluence of memories and reality. Derelict buildings and a dusty street. Local militia and a man with a long knife. If he was angry before, he was furious now. He relaxed his arms so the men wouldn’t have anything solid to grab hold of. He flexed his knees.

A sudden gust of wind whipped sand around his feet. The flapping canvas went into frenzy. Something blew over in the nearest building across the street. The circle of mercenaries threw their hands over their eyes. The two nearest Grant were too late. Sand and grit stung like tiny needles. They turned away from the wind.

Macready stepped back, head down.

Grant slitted his eyes.

Nobody heard the engines breach the edge of town from North Eighth Street.

Everybody saw the compound wall explode in a ball of gas and flame.