The Devil's Standoff

chapter 3

Rough hands dragged Hettie to her feet. Someone shouted in Spanish at her, and she raised her hands. They’d been caught by the Mexican border patrol.

A second behind her, Uncle and Cymon tumbled out of the aperture shoulder to shoulder. The old man cursed as a soldier kicked him in the side, then yanked him to his feet. Cymon was snared and dragged away, and the startled horses were rounded up. Their captors prodded them on with the barrels of their rifles toward a tent. Coyote was nowhere to be seen.

Hettie’s left palm itched as Diablo struggled to prove its worth, but she suppressed the revolver’s urge to leap into her hand. The men would kill them before she could even get a bead on them.

Wanna bet? The thought came like a murmur in the dark. Hettie clenched her empty fist.

In the large tent, a long table rested in the center. Myriad piles of papers were weighted down with rocks, and the pages stirred in the hot, dusty breeze. A man in a dark, smartly cut jacket looked up from a sheaf in his hand, one thick, dark brow rising as he took in the prisoners. One of the soldiers said something to him in Spanish. Hettie didn’t know much of the language apart from one or two phrases she’d picked up from folks in Newhaven, but she knew gringos was rarely used as a term of endearment.

“I am Captain Jose Sanchez of the border guard,” he addressed Hettie in slightly accented English. She was surprised he was talking to her rather than Uncle or Walker, but perhaps that was a disarming technique. His dark eyes, gleaming with the slightest hint of green, bored into hers. “My men say you were sneaking across the Wall with that coyotaje.”

“We’re just trying to reunite these girls with their family.” Walker stepped forward. A soldier cuffed him in the back of the head, and the bounty hunter groaned.

“I was talking to the señorita,” the captain said crisply. He redirected his attention to Hettie, those uncanny eyes skimming over her. He put a hand in his pocket. “My apologies if you were injured. We are not animals here on the border, but you must understand that we have a duty to protect our lands from intruders. We will not harm you unless provoked. Just tell us where you are headed and why you were with that criminal. You can trust me.”

Pressure built in her throat, squeezing her vocal chords. Words gathered on her tongue, but she swallowed them down. She dug her fingernails into her palms. The man was using a truthtelling spell on her. She fought it, knowing that blurting out the wrong information would get them all jailed or worse. But if she didn’t speak, the border patrol would know something was amiss and probably jail them anyhow.

“That’s my sister.” She nodded at Abby. “And it’s just as the man says. We’re trying to find our father and mother.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Ma and Pa could only be found in the afterlife.

The captain sat on the edge of the table. “And this one?” He gestured at Jeremiah.

“My uncle. Not by blood.” Also the truth.

The young captain slipped his hand out of his pocket, and the pressure on Hettie’s throat and tongue eased. “If your parents are in Mexico, they would have let you through the gate at Nogales. It is not that far from here.”

Hettie thought fast. She tucked her chin down demurely and roughened her voice. “Not without documents. Our ranch was attacked by bandits. Our house and everything we had was burned in a fire. My parents went across the border first to establish themselves and sent for us a few months ago.” The best lies were half-truths, and this was mostly true. The captain had taken her for a weak, loose-tongued young woman, and probably thought she would sing with the least bit of pressure. She made herself look small and forlorn, pushing tears into her eyes by biting her tongue. “We just want to be with them again.”

“To start a new life in Mexico, eh?” He tilted his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I might believe that. But apparently you don’t know how things work south of the Wall. This is not a land of milk and honey, señorita. There are more dangers here than you can imagine. The snakes and scorpions will get you if the sun doesn’t. And now we have el chupacabra.”

Hettie’s skin prickled. “Choo … choopa-cabra?”

“A demon monster. A creature from hell itself. It has been attacking villages all over the countryside. Three days ago it decimated a herd of cattle just south of us.” He smirked at Abby. “They say it eats little boys and girls who misbehave.”

Abby whimpered and turned away. The soldier behind her laid a firm hand on her shoulder, his rifle pointed at her feet.

The captain inspected his nails. “If your parents had come across the border, they were cruel to have sent for you. Things are not easy here for people like you. We don’t trust you gringos easily. Every day, criminals and derelicts creep into our country between the cracks in the Wall like cucaracchas. Men who’ve done great evil seek salvation in my home and expect it because they think they are better than us.” His eyes were hard and hot as his glare panned across his prisoners, the accusation a brand pressing against Hettie’s skin.

Captain Sanchez twisted his lips, regarding her steadily. “You are a little old to still be living with your parents, señorita.”

Her cheeks heated. She would appear to be in her midtwenties to him—an old maid by most people’s standards, and damaged goods by the rest. But she held his probing gaze, daring him to remark on her scar. “They need me.”

“Hmm.” He pinched her chin and turned her face roughly to one side as he examined the plume-shaped path a bullet had blasted across her right temple and cheekbone. “This is not so bad that a man would reject you for it. Depending on your cooking, I would have you.”

She snatched her face away. Diablo kicked into her palm, hot and heavy and primed to set this whole tent ablaze. No! she thought in a panic.

Walker lunged at the captain—he must have seen the infernal mage gun jump into action and meant to draw their captors’ attention away from it. Two guards grabbed him and punched him in the gut, doubling him over, then kicked his ankles so he fell to his knees. It was just the distraction she needed to slip the revolver back into her pocket. This was not the time or place to test her marksmanship, not with a rifle pointed at Abby’s back and a camp full of soldiers surrounding them.

Captain Sanchez smirked at Walker. “Have no fear, señor, I would never take a woman against her will. I promised you I would not hurt you, and I am a man of my word. We have other ways of dealing with lawbreakers. Why don’t I show you?”

The troops pushed the entourage out into the scalding noon heat. Hettie took in her surroundings, counting the soldiers and the layout of the tents. Wild whinnies off to the left told her Blackie, Jezebel, and Lilith were fighting their captors.

Above them loomed the Wall. The black granite surface was pitted and rough, deep grooves carved by water and time running up and down the length. It seemed to absorb all light and consume all attention, and it radiated a sickly heat that baked the earth around it. She stared up, the topmost edge lost in the hazy sky.

“They say it would take a man five days to reach the top of the Wall,” Captain Sanchez said near her ear. “No one has ever reached the apex and lived to tell the tale.”

“Because you caught them?” She forced awe into her voice. Flattery might get him to let his guard down further.

He snickered. “I don’t need to. There are a great number of unpleasant things guarding the Wall besides men with guns. The ones I catch come through with coyotajes the way you did.” He gestured toward their destination.

A lighter, lumpier section of the Wall had been portioned off by logs set into the stone. It almost looked like a scalable area stretching about thirty feet up.

But as Hettie neared, her stomach turned. She halted and turned to shield Abby’s eyes, but Captain Sanchez held her firm and pushed her forward and out of Abby’s reach. Then she heard the moans.

The writhing mass of fleshy faces stretched and contorted, their suffering plain in their slack-jawed expressions. Cracked and bloody lips gaped like rotting petals around foul, black mouths oozing with disease and decay. Flies swarmed around crusted, bloodshot eyes and hollowed-out pits of stone where eyes should have been. Some of the faces didn’t move at all. The noonday sun beat down on them, and the fetid smell of death wafted on the hot breeze.

“For decency’s sake,” Uncle muttered. “Don’t let the girls see this.”

“Everyone in Mexico knows about this. We teach it in schools, even. It is a necessary part of our bloody history. This is Sinner’s Block. Others call it the Wailing Wall … for obvious reasons.” He smiled, a strange light in his eyes. “The people sentenced to Sinner’s Block are the worst criminals. Murderers, rapists … and traitors.”

“Sure are a lot of them,” Uncle grumbled.

“Many of them are fugitives from your country. The Wall is a promise that those criminals seeking absolution or escape here find only unrelenting justice.”

Hettie forced herself to look at the block. The birds nesting among the faces higher up pecked at the protruding flesh. One haggard face awakened and screamed as a crow gouged and tore a strip from his nostril across his cheek. Abby covered her eyes and moaned. Walker stared resolutely at his boot tips.

The captain went on casually, “For many years, it was argued we should face Sinner’s Block into your country as a warning to invaders. But at the rate we’ve been catching illegal immigrants, the Wall will no doubt be covered on both sides.”

Four men in long robes marched forward, dragging a manacled man in the center of their square formation. He howled and tripped and struggled, but the manacles seemed to have been magicked to make him march. With a start, Hettie recognized Coyote.

“Ah, the latest addition.” Captain Sanchez beckoned them forward. Abby tried to pull away, but a guard shoved her, and she stumbled and fell. She cried out, gripping her scraped knee. The soldier wrenched her up by the arm.

“Abby!” Hettie glared at the captain. “She’s only a girl. She doesn’t need to see this.”

“On the contrary. If you want to live in Mexico, this is the first lesson you must learn. Traitors to Mexico are sent to Sinner’s Block. The coyotaje is a traitor for smuggling you gringos in. You claim to be hapless travelers—and I will accept that for now until you can be properly processed and your claims are proven. But in the meantime, he must pay the price for breaking our laws.”

The four robed men shoved Coyote against the Wailing Wall, two on either side of him. The faces pressing into his back groaned.

“Woodroffe!” Coyote shrieked. “You can’t let them do this to me! Save me, Woodroffe!”

“Woodroffe?” The captain turned. His dark green eyes seemed to pass over Walker several times, and he blinked hard before narrowing his focus. “Walker Woodroffe?”

The bounty hunter didn’t respond, even as Sanchez marched up to him. Walker stood a good three inches taller. “Look at me. Are you Walker Woodroffe?”

When he didn’t answer the captain barked at the guards to hold him secure. He drew a piece of sandblasted glass on a hemp cord from his pocket, brought it up to his eye, and spoke a few words. The glass flashed, and the captain’s eyes widened. “El Cobra.”

Coyote’s scream rent the air, and they all turned. The four robed men had placed their hands on the wood frame and were chanting in unison. The smuggler arched and thrashed, but his skin was glued fast to the stone. Then, slowly, he sank into the Wall as if it were quicksand, the fleshy surface creeping up over his limbs first, then sucking his loins and torso in.

Before the stone crept up into his throat, Coyote screamed, “Help me! God, don’t let them do this to me!”

“God will not help him,” the captain said with a sad sigh.

Rock climbed over Coyote’s wild hair, drawing it out of his eyes. The chanting continued over his hoarse cries. Only his face was visible now. Like demented masons, the four sorcerers placed their hands over his face and moved it to the lowest corner of the Wall, condemning him to the dust and bird dung accumulated there. Coyote’s wide-open eyes darted left and right, and he wailed through lips cracked open in one corner.

Abby sank to her haunches and curled into a tight ball, rocking on her heels.

“Not to worry,” the captain said lightly. “He won’t be alone for long.” He gave a command to his men, and four of them seized Walker and marched him toward Sinner’s Block.

“What are you doing? He’s done nothing wrong!”

“That man is worse than a traitor,” Captain Sanchez said viciously. “He is the messenger of the devil, a spawn of wickedness and deceit. I promise you, whatever it is he told you about guiding you to your parents, he was leading you into a trap.”

The sorcerers gathered at the edges of the Wailing Wall. Walker glanced back at Hettie in alarm.

Her heart lurched. Diablo leaped into her hand, and in a flash, she had it pointed at Captain Sanchez’s head. “Order them to stop.”

The man tipped his chin up, unconcerned. “Do that, and your sister and uncle are dead.”

Hettie glanced to either side of them. One man had a handgun pointed at Uncle’s chest. The guard behind Abby dug his rifle into her back. Poor Abby had wet herself. Liquid pooled around her feet as she rocked. Her face remained buried in her lap, and blood dripped from the scratch on her knee. Her sobbing grew louder.

Hettie’s left arm trembled, the weight of Diablo’s urge to kill straining her muscles.

She could do it. Diablo had shot three men with one blast before. But could she disarm both Uncle’s and Abby’s guards and the captain and save Walker?

We can.

Without killing?

Diablo glimmered in her vision, as if laughing at her.

“Tell your men to put their guns down,” she repeated. “Now.”

Captain Sanchez looked at her, bored. “Kill the old man.”

“No!”

The world turned into syrup. Hettie took aim and picked her targets, breathing hard, her heart bashing against her ribs at triple speed as she squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times.

Three balls of pure green energy glided from the matte black barrel, the first two sailing toward Uncle’s and Abby’s guards. The third floated leisurely toward Walker.

As Hettie whipped her hand back around to Captain Sanchez, she released her slipping grip on her time bubble.

The guards screamed and fell to the ground, clutching bloody stumps where their hands had been.

The third target hit its mark, exploding in a blinding green blossom of destruction in the center of Sinner’s Block. The sorcerers and soldiers cried out as rock tumbled down, unleashing a moist cloud of birds, old blood, rotted, petrified flesh, and flies.

Walker dove out of the path of the tumbling debris and rolled to his feet, hands ablaze with light. He clapped them together loudly and spread his arms, unleashing a wave of fire that set the tents in the immediate area ablaze.

Hettie watched Sanchez’s face go from smug to shocked in an instant. When he turned back to look at her, she had the muzzle aimed between his eyes.

“We’re leaving now,” she said, a metallic taste in her mouth.

But then Abby’s guard staggered to his feet. He shouted angrily and reached to grab Abby by the hair.

The moment he touched her, Abby slapped her palms down on the ground. She and the soldier splashed into a deep pool.

Hettie’s head exploded in stars as Sanchez backhanded her. She reeled back, dropping Diablo. The captain kicked her in the stomach. She gagged on bile-flavored air.

Abby screamed long and loud. Hettie glanced up just in time to see her rise out of the water, fists clenched and pressed against her temples, eyes squeezed shut. Her piercing wail grew louder and louder until it shook the air and made the back of Hettie’s eyeballs hurt. She put her hands over her ears as the pressure in her head increased.

Captain Sanchez staggered back, hands over his ears. He yelled at a group of soldiers, and they charged toward Abby, weapons drawn.

In a panic, Hettie called Diablo to her. She aimed as one of the soldiers lifted his pistol.

Abby took a breath. It sucked the air out of everyone’s lungs, and Hettie gave a wordless cry.

The next blast from Abby rolled out of her in a wave Hettie could see like heat shimmering off the desert sand. It bounded toward Hettie in slow motion as Diablo’s syrupy time cocoon enveloped her. She pushed to her feet and ran, sprawling for cover behind a pile of crates.

The wave hit like a locomotive, flattening the tents and soldiers. The knot of men who’d been less than ten feet away from her sister were thrown like rag dolls against the Wall, their bodies hitting with great cracking sounds. Silence fell as debris rained down from the sky and the fire raged.

Where was Uncle? Hettie peered around but couldn’t spot the old man.

“Hettie!” Walker staggered toward them. He didn’t the see the man behind him climbing to his feet, gun in hand.

“Get down!” She threw her arm out and pulled Diablo’s trigger.

Her heart raced desperately across the distance, torn free as Diablo’s power was unleashed to fulfill its purpose. The hell-green bullet made of dark magic and Hettie’s blood gleefully ripped through the man’s chest.

Hettie’s spine snapped back as her body shattered into a million glittering fragments and set her insides ablaze. This was the price of Diablo’s deadly power—nails driven into her eyes and fingers, fire racing over her skin and liquefying her innards as the infernal magic gulped down a year of her life in one painful, soul-sucking draw.

She was getting used to it, she told herself. This would be the seventh man she’d killed with Diablo.

Lucky number seven.

You’ve killed nine people, she corrected herself harshly as the final moments of pure agony released their grip. She needed to burn those two lives into her the way Diablo had the other seven. Two men she’d killed without the Devil’s Revolver. One of them with nothing more than her bare hands and a bit of rope.

Keeping that in mind made the agony more bearable. Like she really deserved it.

The pain subsided to a burning ache, releasing her from its paralyzing hold. It took her a few seconds to realize she was staring not into the sky, but into Walker’s worried blue eyes.

“We have to move.” He helped her to her feet. Abby stood nearby, whimpering.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, Abby.” Hettie pushed out of Walker’s hold and hugged her sister tight. Diablo stuck firmly to her palm.

The horses charged up, Uncle on Jezebel’s back. “C’mon.” They hastily mounted and rode out of the camp. A handful of soldiers had rallied and took aim. Walker threw two more waves of fire behind them, dissuading anyone from pursuing.

“Wait! Where’s Cymon?” Abby cried.

Hettie stared around. Where was their dog?

“Leave him!” Uncle shouted over the thunder of hooves.

“No!” Abby struggled in front of Hettie, but Blackie was already gathering speed, his strides eating up the dusty ground. Her little sister sobbed and cried Cymon’s name in the vain hope he’d come bounding toward them. He didn’t.

Hettie bit her lip and told herself Cymon would be fine. The soldiers wouldn’t take their wrath out on a poor, defenseless dog. And Cymon would behave himself. He wouldn’t see or know that Abby and Hettie were being threatened. He wouldn’t bite anyone without good reason …

She palmed the tears from her cheeks. He would be a good dog.