Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(62)

In that gift of life, on the dirt bank of the Rio Grande River, Arturo Sanchez had been given a second chance at life. He took the gun he'd been intending to use to kill himself and tossed it into the river.

Sanchez escorted the traumatized mother and daughter the rest of the way, which turned out wasn't far from where they'd crossed. The hospital in San Antonio del Bravo was only a ten-minute walk from the crossing. Sanchez learned from the mother that a US citizen can cross the border to receive medical treatment free of charge.

Sanchez hadn't known this. Even though he buried his father there, he had only been in town less than a week when his father was shot dead. Sanchez moved on, taking refuge with an uncle in Nogales. Learning a secret about the town his father was buried in greatly intrigued him.

San Antonio del Bravo, Mexico and Candelaria, Texas, total population combined to be less than two hundred. In Candelaria, Texas, sick people drove nearly three hours to get to the nearest hospital. That is, if they chose to remain within the boundaries of the US border. The choice became easier when the hospital was a roped crossing of a river, followed by a ten-minute walk. The woman had felt an unfamiliar pain in her side and was worried for the baby growing inside her.

He saw the mother and her two daughters every now and again. They would always wave and Sanchez would send them a rare, dazzling smile. He'd been ferrying people ever since.

Born out of survival, two cultures merged to form one community, achieving a human connection unbound by any walls or boundaries.

Hatch continued to scan for a threat as the water raced them to the crossing near San Antonio del Bravo. Against the backdrop of a slowly setting sun, Hatch peered ahead at the river as it disappeared behind a large silhouette of a boulder. The water grew angry as The Devil's Hand grew larger.





Thirty-Nine





The speed at which the raft moved down the river had increased exponentially over the last several minutes. Ayala was conscious, but weak. His wrist was adorned in his father's gaudy wristwatch which dangled loosely, its jingle heard over the sound of the water.

The naming convention for the boulder they were fast approaching was spot on. The Devil's Hand looked like a massive black fist of stone. The river caught the setting sun, bathing it in a reddish orange glow. To Hatch the devil's fist looked encased in hell's fire.

"Ready." Hatch lay flat across the right side of the raft. Her thighs pinched wet rubber. Her Glock contained eleven rounds of ammunition and sat at the small of her back. Angela had adjusted and tightened the bandage around Hatch's left hand. The fire poker had done some damage, and would require medical attention, but all five fingers still responded to her subconscious commands, although their response came slowly and with an incredible amount of pain. Hatch didn't like losing her gun hand, temporarily or otherwise, to Moreno's sadistic activity but was grateful she had another. She found the simplest plans to be the best. The one concocted by Hatch and Sanchez during the final stretch of water before reaching the boulder was as simple as they got. Sanchez was going to drop Hatch off before getting to the rock. Sanchez, knowing the area the way he did, assessed his memory of its layout and selected the best possible location for an ambush. When asked why, he said it’s where he would take the shot.

Sanchez said The Devil's Hand was not one giant rock, but two. The largest boulder, the fist, rises thirty feet above the water it rests beside. Its misshapen body stretched along the bank for a hundred feet or so. The smaller boulder, the thumb knuckle where the rock formation's namesake originated, nestled itself ten feet down river from its bigger companion. The gap between the two rocks was where their shooter would most likely be. And that's where Hatch was heading.

The timing had to be perfect. Sanchez calculated an approximate window of time Hatch would have once released on the shore based the river's current. He factored it all in a matter of seconds and determined Hatch would have approximately one minute to get from the designated release point to the objective. Hatch suggested Sanchez park the boat while she swept the shooter's nest. His logic came from the sight of the black hat he'd seen, the same one that now bore the well-aimed result of Hatch's sixth shot.

Sanchez had a hushed reverence when he spoke of its wearer. And when he spoke the name aloud, Ayala, who was barely maintaining consciousness, widened his eyes and stared at the river guide. They called him El Vibora. The Viper.

Hatch listened to the tale of El Vibora told by Sanchez. The cartel hitman's story read more like that of a villain in a children's book. Hatch thought he would have fit perfectly in Ayala's story about the seed and boulder.

In Sanchez' retelling, one thing was abundantly clear, whether or not the tale of the killer bore embellishment. The Viper was not a threat to be taken lightly. And in honoring that wisdom, they decided pulling the raft ashore left them more vulnerable and less mobile should they encounter El Vibora or another of the cartel's hunter kill teams.

Hatch had one minute to get out of the water, cross the rocky terrain of the devil's fist, find the shooter and a vantage point to neutralize him, and all before the raft entered the crosshairs of The Viper's scoped rifle.

Sanchez promised to slow the raft as best he could. The bullet hole in the floorboard had been effectively patched but without the inflated bladder of the thwart to provide rigidity. The ability to stabilize the rubber vessel became harder the closer they got to The Devil's Hand.