Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(64)

She tried to retrieve the image of Dalton Savage's face to replace the ghostly one hovering above. His face flickered but wouldn't hold. Her mind, in battle with itself, refused to drift.

El Vibora stood silhouetted by the warm oranges and deep reds of the setting sun. But that's not what caught her attention. It was the hole she’d placed with her sixth shot during their first encounter.

The sun sent its final goodbye to the day in the form of a cord of gold beaming like Zeus's lightning bolt through the small opening she'd created with her Glock. The goldenrod sailed a short journey until it found its end in the reflective surface of Ayala's father's watch from the raft. The reflection of light was intensified by the frothy mist created by the whitewater.

The beam bounced back toward the hole it had come from but at an angle, putting it in line with the devil's hitman's right eye. Then Murphy's Law changed hands with the devil and passed favor to the supine Hatch. And in the light reflecting off the Peacock Man's watch, El Vibora, The Viper, blinked.

A flood of tears marched down the killer's face, stretching a river across his cheek.

The first punch often ends the fight.

In the frozen speck of time Hatch realized something. It was the nagging part that wouldn't let her give way to her end. It was why she couldn't hold the image of Savage's face in her mind’s eye. She couldn't do those things, because there was a second part to the message her father sent, a message the devil's right hand never got.

If you happen to take the first punch, you better make sure you damn well finish the fight.

And in that moment, Rachel Hatch did what she did best.

Hatch had been in a knock-down, drag-out fight with the devil and his henchmen. A fight that began over twenty years ago on a cold morning near the lowland brook behind her family’s house in the small town of Hawk's Landing, where she found her father dead. But death had not ended the conversation between father and daughter that day. Nor any other to follow. Her father's words continued to find meaning in her life long after their first utterance. And the words fueled the stoked the fire inside her.

Finish the fight.

The age-old war between good and evil chose its battlefield to be the bank of a river, dividing two communities who used the rope between them to overcome their differences, outweighing those of politics and geography.

Then the devil's hound did as he was commanded. He stood with his back to the sun which, as any shooter will advise, is the best way to use the light to blind a target. And he did as training and experience taught him to do, as it had taught Hatch to do. But in the devil's haste, the killer he sent lacked the benefit of her father's wisdom.

If you happen to strike first, do not hesitate. With hesitation comes opportunity. And if it presents, you better take it.

The Viper’s right eye leaked water like a broken spigot. The cartel gunman rapidly blinked his eyes, only strengthening the tear-made river rolling down his face. Hatch seized the opportunity of El Vibora’s distraction.

The Glock within reach, Hatch grabbed it and got off one single shot before the man's eye had a chance to clear.

The blood flowing from the small hole in the center of The Viper's forehead at the T-intersection, where the bridge of the nose met his brow made its way down the right side of the legendary killer's face, joining the river of tears.

The rifle dropped from his hand. The Viper stood motionless, as if his body were in argument with death and not yet willing to concede his hold on life. The blood mixed with the saline of his tears and spread out like the twisted thorns of Hatch's scar. The blood running down made his face look as though the old scars of the rattlesnake's bite were opened and bleeding once again.

Just before The Viper fell, Hatch saw confidence in the man's eyes as he faced death, and she hoped to have the same when her time came. The fearlessness with which the killer walked away from the world was not all he demonstrated at his end.

In the last blink of his right eye, Hatch saw peace in its final closing. A peace that could be only achieved in death, but only truly appreciated by those who spent the better part of their lives walking hand in hand with death.

The darkness of his eyes fell with the gust of wind that knocked off his hat, a feat even her sixth shot had not been able to achieve.

Hatch watched the dead man's wide-brimmed black hat float down the river until it was swallowed by the raging whitewater.





Forty-Two





The raft served as a makeshift bed for Ayala. Sanchez rummaged the Lincoln for any medical supplies, and before finding a combat medic's first aid kit, the former FES operator came across a brown leather ventilated case with a large rattlesnake coiled inside. Hatch watched Sanchez release the snake away from the group into a cluster of rocks. The snake tasted the air with its tongue before disappearing down a dark hole. The noise of its rattle rang out one last time and then faded away.

Sanchez returned with the kit and he, with the assistance of Angela, went about tending to the wounded Ayala. The hole punched through the floorboard of the raft had torn wide open when they'd struck a rock. If Hatch hadn't fallen when she did, they would've been sitting ducks.

Ayala had the weak smile of a dying man on his face and limited words to accompany it. Time was of the essence and he needed to get to the hospital, the same one Sanchez had walked the pregnant mother and her young daughter to. The pale horse of the devil's servant would be used to ferry them the rest of the way. The white Lincoln Town Car had been parked behind the shade provided by a cluster of trees.