The Devil's Standoff

chapter 9

If there was one way to describe the men travelling through the gate at the Wall at Nogales, Arizona, benign-looking was it. Their nonthreatening outward demeanors likely helped speed along the processing of their papers, despite the seal of the Pinkerton Detecting Agency raising the eyebrows of the sleepy bureaucrats.

The guards on the American side of the border unbolted the simple wood plank gate, eyeing the travelers charily. Their horses walked past and into the long tunnel bored through the Wall at a sedate speed, not because their masters required it, but because the magic buffeting them would allow nothing more urgent than a plodding pace down the hundred-yard tunnel.

Agent Ling Tsang of the Division of Sorcery gritted his teeth against the sensation of a million probing spells burrowing through him like fingers through a barrel of pickled smelt. In his opinion these suppression spells were a waste of magic: the bureaucracy alone was enough to deter anyone wanting to cross legitimately from either side. They’d been lucky it’d only taken a week to process their papers. Unfortunately, his companion was not as grateful for the expedited service.

“Damned paranoid pepper guts, making us wait all that time only to slog through this magic mire like some criminal plebes.” Thomas Stubbs kicked his horse again, but the gelding couldn’t move any faster. A hot wind sang through the tunnel, but it provided little relief from the stifling heat within. The Pinkerton agent took off his bowler hat and wiped the sweat from his shiny brow. The bruises mottling the man’s head were fading. Stubbs had been too stubborn, too proud, and likely too superstitious to let Ling heal them.

“We should’ve taken the train.” This had been Stubbs’s mantra the entire ride. The older man was on the portly side and clearly wasn’t used to long journeys on horseback or sleeping out in the open. Ling had learned that Stubbs rarely strayed far from the Pinkerton Detecting Agency’s office in Chicago, except when it came to finding the Devil’s Revolver. When he did travel, he used costly remote Zoom tunnels to convey him. That was not an option south of the border. “Damn nuisance, horses are, and they stink. You cowboys need to embrace the future.”

“Automobiles need fuel, which we cannot carry, and they are unreliable on this terrain,” Ling reminded him. “As for the train, we’d never be able to track our quarry on the rails.”

“We don’t need to track them. We know where they’re headed. Taking the train, we would’ve gotten where we needed to go weeks ago, and wouldn’t have had to live like heathens.”

Ling’s patience was longer than a winter shadow, but even he was tired of Stubbs’s griping.

He should have ditched the Pinkerton agent a long time ago. He’d had ample opportunities. Unfortunately, the Division had insisted he work with Stubbs, who knew more about the mage gun and was more attuned to Diablo’s infernal power than Ling. He had a feeling the partnership was meant to keep tabs on the Pinkerton agent, as well, though the Division never shared any information above an agent’s pay grade. And while Ling might have the rank of Paladin, he was a Celestial in the Division’s service, and they paid him accordingly.

At the end of the tunnel, a group of men in military uniforms awaited them. The man in the center had a bandage around his head, and his arm was in a sling, but his dark, smartly cut jacket was pristine, and he sat erect on a thin pony and watched their arrival with stony dignity.

“Captain Jose Sanchez of the border guard,” he introduced himself as they emerged. The pressure of the magic probe eased, and the horses shook their manes. “Welcome to Mexico.”

Stubbs nodded. “Thomas Stubbs, Pinkerton Detecting Agency. This here’s Ling.”

The captain barely registered Ling’s presence, which was just as well. Playing Stubbs’s lackey was annoying, but Ling knew he’d learn more if he observed in silence. Besides, his employment with the Division of Sorcery was unlikely to win him any favor.

Stubbs scanned the group. “I’m … honored to have such a welcome to your country. I don’t usually get more than a nod and a stamp on my papers.”

“I found your request for entry intriguing. It is not every day the famous Pinkerton Agency sends their agents south … that I’m aware of, at any rate.” Captain Sanchez nudged his pony onward, a wry twist to his lips. “You wrote that you were searching for a pair of Americans?”

“Two girls, one around ten years old, the other a young woman in her early to mid-twenties.” Stubbs walked his horse next to the captain’s pony. Ling stayed surreptitiously within earshot. “Any chance they passed through?”

“We see many refugees on the border. Anyone who is at all suspicious gets sent to Chihuahua for processing … or to the Wailing Wall for punishment.” He tilted his chin to one side and stuck his hand into his pocket. “What are these chiquitas wanted for?”

Stubbs grinned, lips peeling away from his teeth slowly. “They’re runaways.”

Captain Sanchez waited, but the Pinkerton agent said nothing more. “Forgive my impertinence, Mr. Stubbs, but your refusal to disclose any more details leads me to believe there is more to your fugitives than you have let on.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Ling kept a close eye on the captain and the four men riding at their flanks. Stubbs’s insolence was liable to get them in trouble, and their badges wouldn’t protect them south of the border. If they learned he was a Division agent, even if he was only a Celestial healer, he could be accused of espionage and summarily executed.

They rode into the border camp between Nogales and Agua Prieta. It looked as though a firestorm had blown through it. Singed, ragged tents had been pegged into place somewhat haphazardly, and a pile of charred wood and debris that had probably once been a cart or horse paddock lay piled outside the camp.

“What happened here?” Stubbs asked, staring around.

“A small fire that got out of control,” the captain said offhandedly. “It was a stupid accident. My men have been disciplined.”

Under his breath Ling murmured an incantation, then wiped a palm over his brow, opening his third eye. A lavender miasma hung in the air like fog, saturating the camp. His jaw firmed—there’d been no fire. Something traumatic must have happened to Abby. Fear, anger, grief, pain, or worse must have triggered her into defensiveness. The captain and his men were lucky they were still alive and in one piece.

Until a few weeks ago, the young girl’s indigo power hadn’t leaked the least bit, which was why he’d never suspected her abilities had manifested. Then, at Sonora, he’d seen her toss grown men ten feet through the air with no effort and hex a man who still hadn’t stopped running. Whatever had happened to her when she’d been captured by the Crowe gang, it’d opened the floodgate of her power. It spilled from her like an overflowing bucket sloshing around, leaving trails wherever she went.

They entered the command tent. “In the spirit of good cross-border relations, I will write a letter of introduction to the man in charge of the processing facility in Chihuahua.” Sanchez poured Stubbs a drink from a bottle on his desk, and the Pinkerton agent accepted it gratefully. “And I will send two of my men with you to help you navigate our system.”

“That’s hardly necessary,” Stubbs said with false humility.

The captain matched his insincerity with a stiff half bow. “I insist. Our bureaucracy is quite opaque, and you will need interpreters. Besides, I was about to send some men to the city to resupply. I’m sure they would be delighted to show you the hospitality of our people.”

Stubbs grinned, but it was not in pleasure. “How … generous. I can’t see how we can refuse.”

They were further invited to spend the night in camp as “honored guests.” Ling knew enough Spanish to understand the captain was instructing the soldiers to house them in the worst tents and piss in their food.

“He’s lying about the Alabama girls,” Ling said when they left the command tent. “They’ve been here.”

“And they’re not in Chihuahua any more than my dear dead ma is.” Stubbs pointed. “You gonna unload my horse or what?”

Ling bit his tongue as a pair of soldiers passed. The men watched them suspiciously, and Stubbs sent him a quelling look. “Rub the horses down while you’re at it.”

They didn’t say anything more until they were ensconced in the tent the soldiers escorted them to, one a little too close to the latrines. Stubbs planted talismans around the inner perimeter and cast an anti-eavesdropping spell.

“We should leave as soon as possible and head for Villa del Punta,” Ling said. “Abby Alabama’s powers are growing. We need to get to her before she hurts someone.”

“We do that and we’ll tip our hand too quick. As far as anyone knows, we’re not chasing—” He made a gun-trigger motion with his pinky sticking out to mimic Diablo’s pricking thorn. “So don’t let on that we are. That mage gun is more than a story around these parts, as is Javier Punta.”

“But then why go on to Chihuahua? We know they’ve gone to the village. There’s nothing to be gained in prolonging our search.”

“You think the Mexican government is just going to let two Americans roam freely around their country? If we make a beeline for Villa del Punta now, we end up with our throats slit wherever we camp next. Only thing that keeps us from being jumped now is all the paperwork that’ll go with finding two dead agents in a border station.” He started unlacing his boots. “Besides, Villa del Punta is a bleedin’ magical fortress. If the two of us tried storming it, we’d be thrown clear across the Wall in pieces. If the Alabamas are there, we’re going to need a lot more help to get them out.”

He shook the sand from his boots, then removed a little piece of blue-green feldspar from the heel. Feldspar was a powerful and expensive talisman against influence spells. The Division of Sorcery had given Ling a similar talisman, though it was not as showy as the piece Stubbs was cleaning off. He wasn’t even certain it was a Pinkerton-issued talisman—it was far too expensive. Stubbs inserted it back into his boot.

“I don’t like being watched,” Ling said.

“Then you’re in the wrong business. We’re going to have to put up with this escort. I’ve waited over thirty years to get Diablo. I’m not about to blow my chances by being impatient.” He cut Ling a look. “You need to slow down yourself. How do you expect to take Abigail Alabama back to the Division, anyhow? You gonna hit her over the head, tie her up, and sling her across the back of your horse?”

“I plan to reason with Hettie.” Ling hadn’t had the chance to explain the dangers Abby and the rest of them faced, but Hettie would understand why her sister needed to go with him. She was practical, reasonable. If she still refused to listen … Well, the Division had given him carte blanche to bring Abigail in.

“Good luck with that,” Stubbs scoffed. “Just remember that as soon as I get Diablo, our partnership is dissolved. I’m not keen on being anywhere near that little witch. Or her sister.”

Whether he was referring to Hettie or Abby, Ling wasn’t certain. “I won’t forget.”

“For now, we do as the captain says. We’ll head to Chihuahua, cooperate all the way there. We’ll be best buddies with our escorts and follow their lead.”

“The Alabamas could be long gone from the village by the time we get there. And what about Diablo? Walker Woodroffe said Punta wants to unmake the mage gun.”

“You believe that noble sacrifice crap, eh?” Stubbs snorted. “Figures. No, I don’t think there’ll be unmaking of any kind. Maybe Woodroffe believes the old man, but I assure you, no man with Punta’s power would relinquish it. He wants the Devil’s Revolver for the same reason any man does, and Hettie Alabama is hand delivering it to him.”

After a meal of pork stew that Stubbs relished but Ling left alone, the Pinkerton agent fell asleep on his pallet. While Ling was certain he could follow Abby’s trail to her location, he would be a fool to disregard Stubbs’s insight. The Pinkerton agent was just as determined to find Diablo as Ling was to find Abby. What Ling needed right now, though, was to learn just how potent her indigo powers were.

He left the tent to explore the camp, studying the patterns of Abby’s power to piece together what had happened. She’d been in the captain’s tent, but the brunt of her magic hadn’t been released there. A wavering cloud that grew deeper in color told him she’d been gathering her strength: she’d felt threatened.

The greatest release of Abby’s indigo power lay closer to the Wall, but a pair of soldiers stopped him from investigating further. The area was cordoned off; in the half dark, twisted piles of rubble rose from the ground like tombstones. The stench of rot and dust was thick and gritty in his mouth.

Through his own healing abilities, Ling sensed death and decay and a sense of wrongness, like a malignant growth bubbling over flesh. The Wailing Wall, he realized, and was glad the guards had stopped him. He had no wish to witness that particular molestation of nature’s laws. Whatever had happened with Abby had happened there. He shuddered and hoped none of his friends had met their end in the Wall’s stony embrace.

Former friends, he reminded himself sadly. The Alabamas had been the closest thing he’d had to family since his arrival in America. He remembered the looks of shock and outright betrayal when he’d revealed himself to be a Division agent. Hettie had looked especially hurt, but she didn’t understand the importance of his position, the gravity with which he held his post.

He would do anything to protect her and Abby. He needed to make her understand that.

At the medic’s tent, plaintive moans and the smells of blood, urine, and vomit would’ve warned anyone else away, but Ling was compelled to enter. Inside, five men lay in filthy cots, their clothes stained and reeking, their bandages and bedclothes in dire need of changing.

“What are you doing here?” A short, gaunt man with an unmistakable air of authority hastened toward Ling, eyes shooting darts from behind his round spectacles. “Who are you?”

“Your English is very good,” Ling remarked calmly. “Did you study in California?”

The man’s expression shuttered. “You must be with the gringo. If you are looking for opium, I don’t have any.”

“I don’t require your services. I thought I’d offer them.” He brandished the badge of office he showed only under the direst circumstances. The doctor stared wide-eyed at the silver pin fashioned after the staff of Asclepius—a snake twined around a rod set against the Division crest. The Mexican glanced up at him in surprise.

“I am Dr. Fernando,” he introduced himself, going red-faced. “My apologies. I did not know—”

“And I would prefer it stay that way,” Ling said demurely. “I am Dr. Tsang.”

“Doctor-patient privilege extends south of the border.” His seriousness assured Ling his silence was guaranteed.

Ling panned the room with his third eye. An indigo miasma hung in the room as thickly as the stench. “Tell me about your patients, Doctor.”

The physician guided him from bed to bed, listing out the injuries and ailments each suffered. Broken bones for the most part, but also internal bleeding and the numerous problems that came with long periods of inactivity, unsanitary conditions, and malnutrition.

“I can ease some of their discomfort and speed along the healing.”

Dr. Fernando looked skeptical. “I have seen the benefits of Eastern ether magic on patients, but I am not sure these men will consent to treatment.”

Ling wasn’t surprised. Talismans were used to ground magic based on the belief that raw power would get out of control, but Eastern magic, or ether magic, was wielded without a physical anchor. An inexperienced and improperly trained sorcerer could lose control with unfiltered power, but that was true whether or not talismans were used. The stigma had more to do with prejudice against Celestials.

The doctor approached the more lucid patients and explained softly why el Chino was there. Most of them glared and made their refusal clear. Dr. Fernando sighed. “They would rather have me cut off their limbs than let ether magic touch them.” He went to the last bed, where the man who’d been moaning loudest lay, shirtless, sweating, smelling strongly of urine.

“Broke his hip,” the doctor said resignedly. “And he is succumbing to sepsis. Frankly, I’m not sure you can help him.”

“I can make him more comfortable, given permission.”

The doctor murmured to the man in Spanish. He eyed Ling and rasped something to the physician. “He says he will permit your help. Only, should he lose his soul, he vows to haunt you for the rest of your days.”

“Duly noted.” Ling gingerly drew back the blanket. The soldier’s legs and groin were draped in soiled bandages. His flesh was mottled with bruises. Ling closed his eyes and opened his palms, letting magic fill them like soft summer’s light in a shaded glen. He placed his hands on either side of the young soldier’s hips and concentrated.

The fracture was not small. Frankly, it was a miracle the young man wasn’t screaming. Ling pulled a thread of power from his body and wove it across the bone. As he did, a dull ache throbbed through his own hip. This was the price of being a healer: he took on the pain and sometimes the injuries of those he healed. He could not take all the soldier’s agony away without causing himself great harm, but he did what he could to ease his suffering.

When he pulled away from the fracture, he placed one hand over the soldier’s heart and slowed his blood flow. His eyes drooped closed, and his body slackened.

“He should sleep until noon tomorrow.” Ling stumbled forward, dizzy, aching. Dr. Fernando helped him into a chair.

“I thank you for that. It will mean a night’s rest for me and my patients, as well.” The doctor sat. “Forgive me for asking … how is it that a Celestial is a Paladin healer with the American Division of Sorcery?”

Ling picked his words carefully. “The same way all sorcerers earn their place in these times. With much training, much sacrifice.”

Dr. Fernando nodded sagely. He poured them each a drink from a flask he kept locked in his desk drawer. Ling gratefully accepted it, and they toasted each other grimly with the strong-smelling liquor.

“How did so many of your men get so badly hurt? Was there an accident?”

“I was not there. I have only heard the stories. Apparently, a group of gringos—two men and two girls—were arrested and brought to the camp by the patrol. Rumor has it one of the men was El Cobra, the son of Javier Punta.”

El Cobra. Walker Woodroffe had used the moniker Camden Cobra when he’d been fighting in bare-knuckle matches. It had to be them. “Where are they now?” Ling asked, trying not to show his interest too keenly.

“Escaped. It was quite a scene, apparently. Got their horses and rode out of here, leaving a mess behind. And,” he added, getting up and beckoning, “an unfortunate guest.”

Ling followed him to a muddy area just outside of the encampment. His heart thudded hard at the dark shadow lying motionless on the ground. As they approached, it lifted its head.

Cymon. He knew that big jaw and those soulful eyes—not to mention that smell—anywhere. The Alabamas’ mutt had been a fixture on the ranch. That he’d been abandoned told him their flight had been a desperate one.

The dog slowly got to his feet and hobbled toward him, whining as he butted his head against Ling’s outstretched palm.

“I rescued him from the brutes who were taking their anger out on him.” The doctor reached down and scratched behind Cymon’s ear. “I have done all I can. He is a tough dog.”

“He is.” A cursory examination told him Cy’s ribs were bruised, and his ankle was sprained, but he looked relatively well-fed and was on the way to recovery. Ling summoned a thread of magic and wove it through the dog’s whole body. Cymon sighed and cuddled closer as Ling removed the muzzle. “I will take the dog with me when I leave tomorrow.”

Dr. Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Well, if that is your wish. Though he may be too injured to be of any use.”

“I’m not concerned about his usefulness. He was part of a family once.” Ling caressed the dog’s big skull. “He will want to return to them.”