The Soldier's Mission

She seemed to like that idea. “So how do you plan to do that?”

“Good question.” Paco pulled his sunglasses out of his T-shirt pocket and shoved them on then slowly lifted so he could scan the surrounding desert and mountains. “If it’s a sniper, we’re stuck here. If we move, they could take us out in a split second. But if they’re just using a twelve-gauge or some other sort of rifle, we might have a chance at making a run for the café.”

“My windshield is shattered,” she said, her tone sensible. “That means they could do the same to us if we move.”

“True. But a moving target is a lot harder to pinpoint than a parked car.”

“Maybe they weren’t aiming at us.”

Paco glanced around the empty parking lot. “We’re the only customers right now.”

“Your grandfather?”

“Doesn’t have an enemy anywhere in the world.” Paco held her there, the scent of her perfume merging with the scent of dirt and grim and car fumes. “And if I know my grandfather, he’s standing at the door of the café with his Remington.” He rolled over to pick up a rock. Then with a quick lift of his arm, he threw it toward the small porch of the rickety restaurant.

His grandfather opened the dark screen door then shouted. “One shooter, Paco. Coming from the west. Want me to cover you?”

Paco took his grandfather’s age and agility into consideration. “Only if you don’t expose yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“Are you sure he can handle this?” Laura asked, her words breathy and low.

“Oh, yeah.” Paco grabbed her, lifting her to face him. “Now listen to me. We’re going to make a run for the porch. Grandfather will cover us. You’ll hear gunshots but just keep running.”

Fright collided with sensibility in her eyes. “What if I get shot?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t protect me and yourself, too.”

“Yes, I can,” Paco said, images from his time in special ops swirling in slow motion in his head. “I can. But you have to stay to my left and you have to run as fast as you can.”

“Okay. I ran track in college.”

“Good. That’s good. I need you to stay low and sprint toward that door on the count of three.”

She did as he said, crouching to a start. Paco counted and prayed. “One, two, three.”

And then they took off together while his grandfather stepped out onto the porch and shot a fast round toward the flash in the foothills about a hundred yards away. Paco put himself between her and the shooter and felt the swish of bullets all around his body. Then he pushed her onto the porch and into the door, holding it open for his grandfather to step back inside.

The old man quickly shut the door then turned to stare at Paco and Laura, his rifle held up by his side. “Would either of you care to explain this?”

Laura’s gaze moved from the old man to Paco. “I don’t know who’s out there. As far as I know, no one wants me dead.” Watching Paco, she could believe the man might have a few enemies—probably several heartbroken women among them. “What about you?” she asked, wondering what was going on inside his head.

His grandfather chuckled at that. “Only about half the population of Arizona, for starters.”

“Thanks.” Paco replied with a twisted grin. “Grandfather, I forgot my manners, what with being shot at and all. This is Laura Walton. She thinks I need her help.”

“Do you?” the old man asked, putting his gun down to reach out a gnarled hand to Laura. “Nice to meet you. Sorry you almost got shot. I’m Wíago—Walter Rainwater.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Laura said, her breath settling down to only a semi-rapid intake. The weirdness of the situation wasn’t lost on her but she was too timid to shout out her true feelings. Turning back to Paco, she asked, “What do we do now?”

Paco didn’t answer. Instead, he went through a door toward the back of the café then returned with a mean-looking rifle. “You wait here with Grandfather.”

Walter put the Closed sign on the door. “It was a slow morning anyway.”

“It’s always a slow morning around here,” Paco quipped. “Even when we aren’t being shot at.”

Laura twisted her fingers in Paco’s sleeve. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out there to track that shooter.”

“But he might kill you.”

“Always a chance, but don’t worry about me too much. I think I can handle this.”

Laura didn’t know why it seemed so important to keep him safe. Maybe because she hadn’t had a chance to get inside his head and help him over his grief. Or maybe because while he frightened her, he also intrigued her and she’d like to explore that scenario.

Shocked at her wayward thoughts, she chalked it up to being nearly killed and said, “Well, be careful. I have to give a full report on you.”

“I’m used to having full reports done on me,” he replied, his dark eyes burning with a death wish kind of disregard. “If I bite the bullet, you can just tell the powers that be that I died fighting.”

Laura ventured a glance at his grandfather and saw the worry in the old man’s eyes. That same concern strengthened her spine and gave her the courage to reason with him. “But we don’t know who you’re fighting this time.”

“I’ve never known who I’ve been fighting.” Paco graced her with a long, hard stare before he pivoted and headed toward the back of the building. “Stay put and lock both doors. Don’t come out until you hear me calling.”

Paco crept through the flat desert, willing himself to blend in with the countryside. The black shirt wasn’t very good camouflage but it would have to do. If he could make it around the back way and surprise the gunman, he’d have a chance of figuring out who was out there and why.

So he did a slow belly-crawl through the shrubs and thickets, careful to watch for snakes and scorpions. Stopping to catch his breath underneath a fan palm, he held still and did a scan of the spot where his grandfather had indicated the shooter might be hiding. A cluster of prickly pear cacti stood spreading about four feet high and wide alongside a cropping of Joshua trees centered on the rise of the foothills leading toward a small mesa. But Paco didn’t see anything or anyone moving out there.

Thinking maybe the culprit was hiding much in the same way as he, Paco slid another couple of feet, careful to be as silent as possible. The sun had moved up in the sky and even though it was November, the desert’s temperature had moved right along with it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and poured down his face. His shirt was now damp and dusty. He could taste the sand, feel it in his eyes. For a minute, he was back on that mountainside, waiting, just waiting for the enemy to make a move.

But fifteen minutes later, Paco hadn’t seen any signs of human life in this desolate desert. So he threw a clump of rocks toward the thicket and waited for a hail of bullets to hit him.

Nothing.

Grunting, Paco lifted to a crouch, his gun aimed at the Joshua trees a few feet ahead. He was a trained sniper so he didn’t think the other guy would stand a chance. But then, he’d been wrong before.

Laura hated the silence of this place.

Walter Rainwater didn’t talk. Not at all. If she asked a question, he’d answer “Yes”, “No” or “We’ll wait for Paco.”

She was tired of waiting for Paco. So she got up to look out the window for the hundredth time. “He should have been back by now.”

A hand on her arm caused her to spin around. Tugging Laura toward a booth, Paco said, “We need to talk.”

Surprised and wondering more than a little bit how he’d snuck up on her, she pulled a notebook from the shoulder bag she’d managed to hang on to in all the chaos. Maybe the episode outside had triggered something in Paco.