Cover Fire: A Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 2) Read online

  Praise for Cold Fire, featuring Hawk Tate

  It is a passionate, even desperate tale of problems that really exist and tragedies that could have been real. It grasps the reader starting with the first word and never slows down. I thoroughly enjoyed it and highly recommend it to anyone looking for a story they can care about. It is only as violent as the world really is, only profane as the circumstances gave rise to, and completely devoid of sex. The author did not allow anything to clutter up the clean lines of a well-engineered masterpiece. – Amazon Reviewer

  Excellent, riveting story. Well-written. Great character development. Spanning the globe from the American northwest to the southwest, from Washington to Mexico to Russia, a former DEA agent faces his demons, rewards his friends, and the payback for his enemies is superbly executed. The allusions throughout to Jeremiah Johnson are priceless. Highly readable and highly recommended. – Kindle Customer

  It was good when I started reading and it just became better and better. It was great to read a book that didn't have a formulaic plot, but kept evolving with subplots with unexpected turns. The characters were well defined and the text is very nicely written, again, not your formulaic novel. A great read. – Amazon Customer

  Other works by Dustin Stevens:

  The Boat Man

  Cold Fire

  Going Viral

  Quarterback

  Scars and Stars

  Catastrophic

  21 Hours

  Ohana

  Twelve

  Liberation Day

  Just a Game

  Ink

  Four

  The Zoo Crew Novels:

  The Glue Guy

  Tracer

  Dead Peasants

  The Zoo Crew

  Cover Fire

  A Hawk Tate Novel

  Dustin Stevens

  Cover Fire

  Copyright © 2015, Updated 2016, Dustin Stevens

  Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

  But I have promises to keep,

  and miles to go before I sleep.

  -Robert Frost

  My wife hated when our daughter slammed the front door. She despised the way it would swing back and smash into the frame. The way the aging screen, lined with vertical tears and streaks of rust, would rattle. The way the sound of it would reverberate through the house.

  She loathed it so much that her few real tirades that I can remember could be traced back to that front door.

  Without fail our daughter, in all her youthful exuberance, would shoot straight out across the porch and into the yard. Not until she heard the crack of it slamming behind her would she stop, a wince of realization crinkling her face. On cue, my wife would storm out a moment later, anger coloring her face a bright shade of crimson, wagging an angry finger, threatening docked allowance or no dessert.

  The times are few that I can think back on it without smiling.

  Only once can I remember the scene playing out any differently. On that day, unlike most others, the door slamming was not an accident.

  Alice, just five years old, pushed it as far as she could, trying to make a point the best way her young mind knew how. She opened it out as wide as the springs would allow, until it almost touched the side of the house, before letting it swing back with a crash.

  The noise echoed through the house as I stood and watched through the front window as she stomped to the edge of the porch and sat down on the step. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, her chin resting on the scraped kneecaps.

  Tears streaked down her cheeks as she sat and waited for the response she knew was coming. I could tell she wanted to turn around and look for my wife, Elizabeth, to come out hot on her heels, but she never did

  Instead, she maintained her position, her tiny body aimed straight ahead.

  “I got this one,” I said to my wife, reaching out and patting her on the arm.

  To my surprise, she did not object. She offered no harsh words about the door slamming, didn’t say a thing, in fact, as I walked outside.

  I took a seat beside my daughter and wrapped my arms around my knees. Already dressed for the road, my coat was too hot for the early fall weather, the seams on it straining slightly as I wiggled myself into a more comfortable position.

  “Hey, honey,” I said softly, my voice even.

  “I’m sorry I slammed the door,” she whispered, her voice thick. She sniffed, the effort lifting her chin a few inches up off her knees.

  “That’s alright.” Chancing a glance to the side, I could see her gaze aimed at the ground before her, eyes focused on nothing in particular. “Believe me when I tell you I feel the same way right now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, a touch of weariness present.

  “Then why?” she asked. “Why do you have to go again?”

  A long moment passed. In the distance a dog barked. And in the tree out back a cicada was chirping out a steady rhythm.

  Everything about the moment was like a perverse take on quintessential Americana, a cruel reminder of what I was leaving behind, what I might never see again.

  “Because they called and said they need me,” I finally responded.

  Once more I ventured a look in her direction, seeing the worry lines etched on her tiny face. Not once did she meet my gaze as she stared off in the distance, her little body rigid.

  Only a few inches separated us on that front porch, but already, I could tell she was pulling away, fearful as she envisioned what surely lay ahead.

  “It isn’t fair,” she whispered, dropping her chin back onto her knees. The tears had stopped falling, but her eyes were red and puffy.

  My own father was a man of very few words. His mere presence could be intimidating, reducing men to silence with his withering gaze, but rarely did he ever utter a word that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

  For that reason, when he did speak, people listened.

  That afternoon, I thought of him. I thought of how many times the same conversation had played out with the two of us in much the same way it was now with my daughter. Me, young and angry, not wanting him to put on his Army uniform and leave. Him, trying to let me know he had no choice, that everything would be okay.

  “Alice,” I said, dropping my voice just barely above a whisper, “there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t fair, but this isn’t one of them. People like you and me, we have responsibilities.

  I reached out and placed a hand on her knee, her skin soft and smooth, her leg so small beneath my palm.

  “They’re not sending me away to be mean. They’re sending me away to make sure nothing bad happens to good people.”

  For the first time since stepping out on the porch, my daughter shifted and stared straight up at me. She considered me a long moment before placing her tiny hand on mine and smiling, a gap showing between her front teeth. “You promise?”

  A matching smile appeared on my own face. “I promise.”

  What I had no way of knowing in the moment, and wou
ld think about thousands of times for years to come, was that was the last conversation I would ever have with my daughter.

  Part I

  Chapter One

  The last few bits of pink, purple and orange were clustered together on the western horizon as Lake Pawlak pulled her Jeep to a stop. The tires beneath her squealed slightly as the aging rig ceased its forward momentum and rocked back a few inches.

  Remaining seated behind the wheel, Lake twisted her gaze to the left and held a hand to her brow, using it as a visor to examine the scene. She waited in that position, rigid, her view bathed in the multi-colored hue, until the image was exactly as she wanted, before reaching onto the passenger seat and hefting up her Nikon S3.

  Without once taking her attention from the sunset, she raised the camera and snapped a series of shots, the Nikon clicking off one after another.

  Not until the final few rays were above the horizon and the last of the ticking had died away from the cooling engine, did Lake replace the camera onto the seat beside her and tug the keys from the ignition.

  “Didn’t expect it, but I’ll take it.”

  It was her first time ever out in this part of the state, the trip planned in haste on a tip from a friend. Landscape photos were getting top dollar in the freelance market and while any tourist could walk down to the pier and shoot a few over the water, it took a real pro to venture out into the sand.

  Lake’s hope was that the difference would be rewarded with ample compensation, an infusion her bank account was in dire need of.

  She slid down from her Jeep, the ground hard-packed beneath her. The treads of her running shoes crunched with each step as she shut the door and walked around to the back, dropping the tailgate and inventorying her supplies.

  Stowed in a row on the threadbare grey carpet were three items.

  On the left was a sleeping bag rolled tight, an all-weather purchase advertised to insulate down to 30 degrees, though in her experience that claim proved faulty at anything south of 50.

  Even at the higher altitude, she didn’t expect a night nearly so chilly, the early spring weather already starting its rise to summer.

  On the right side of the space was a canvas photography bag for a Nikon system with a variety of lenses – wide angle, telephoto and an expensive zoom lens that was her favorite. Various pockets stowed wipes, memory cards, and everything else she would need to snap off 100s of shots before returning.

  The final item wedged tight in the middle, was an old cooler, the blue exterior faded from years of exposure to the elements. Inside were a quart of water and two Snickers bars, more than enough fuel to carry her through the next nine hours.

  There was a time not so long ago she wouldn’t have even thought to bring it along, but the voice of experience told her to, just in case.

  “Alright,” Lake said, her native Texas accent contorting the word as it passed her lips. Pushing out a heavy sigh, she took up the straps on the sleeping bag and slung it over her back. Once it rode even between her shoulder blades, she hoisted the camera bag onto her left arm, her upper body naturally tilting a few inches to the side to accommodate the load.

  The last item was the cooler, placing it on the ground between her feet long enough to close the tailgate before hefting it up. She could feel the water inside sloshing around as it rested against her thigh, swinging gently by the handle as she set off into the gathering darkness.

  The terrain extended upward at a 30-degree angle. Underfoot, the ground shifted from the hardpan trail to softer sand, her feet sinking a few inches with each step. Tan powder spilled over the tops of her running shoes as she went, sliding in along the sides of her bare feet, grinding into her skin.

  Mere minutes after sundown, the sand was already beginning to cool. In spite of the persistent evening breeze, her body actually began to warm as she trudged along.

  Lactic acid built in her calves and quads as she pushed on, her breath growing shallow at the higher altitude. Casting a glance over her shoulder she could just make out the Jeep parked far below, nothing more than a shadow in the darkening world.

  “Just a little further,” she grunted, feeling the weight of her supplies grow heavier with each step. She climbed on another few minutes before the ground began to mercifully level out a bit, the night sky opening up above.

  The location was not one she had planned ahead of time, the entire undertaking put together in a matter of hours. If left to her own devices, she would still be at home plowing through the first season of True Detective, though an angry visit from her landlord had put an end to those plans.

  Somewhere in the midst of the tongue lashing, she recalled the tip from a friend, spent fifteen minutes on Google Earth before setting out. The thought of staying within shouting distance another moment made her skin crawl, and the only thing she had to pack was the cooler, the rest of her gear already stowed.

  The camera bag always remained ready by the door, set to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. The sleeping bag stayed in the rear of the car.

  The drive from her place near Huntington Beach had taken just over two and a half hours. She had avoided the traditional Palm Springs and Joshua Tree to push further south, aiming her sights on the Anza-Borrego. No information had fueled her decision beyond an intense desire to get out of town and the hope that the more remote location would provide something nobody had seen before.

  The sunset she witnessed upon arrival only seemed to confirm that hope.

  Sweat dampened the back of her shirt and matted the blonde hair dyed pink along her temples as she inched her way up the ridgeline. Wind whipped down from the top, hitting her square in the face, pelting her skin with sand. She could taste it in her mouth, her eyes pinched tight.

  Overhead, stars began to dot the night sky, a waning moon providing ample light to guide her.

  Thirty minutes after leaving the Jeep, the trail finally relented. Lake was able to straighten her body from the lean she had adopted, covering the last 45 yards to the top of the ridge. Feeling her pulse race through her temples, she dropped the cooler and camera bag at her feet, and worked the pack from her back. She removed the bottle of water and took a small swig, working it around inside her mouth.

  The grit brushed along her tongue and against her teeth as she swirled it twice before turning over a shoulder and spitting it out. She felt the cool breeze pick at the perspiration on her skin as she surveyed the scene before her.

  Situated on the western rim, the desert floor stretched out below in a bowl more than a mile in diameter. The sides of the crater descended almost 200 feet to the desert floor. Scads of cacti and sagebrush dotted the ground, the area now bathed in moonlight.

  Nowhere, was there a sign of civilization, not the slightest hint that a human had ever set foot here. Peering into the distance, she couldn’t make out a single light of any kind, couldn’t hear a stray noise drifting through the night air.

  Panoramic views combined with a weather report that promised clear skies, the ridge would be the perfect place to shoot a sunrise.

  Or, more important, to capitalize on one.

  Chapter Two

  Thiago Ruiz ran the end of the match along the dashboard, igniting it with a spark. An orange flame blossomed from the end, a whiff of smoke rising, as he held it to the end of his Honduran cigar and pulled in three long breaths.

  On the final drag the tip of the cigar caught fire, the end glowing red in the darkness of the truck. Keeping his lips wrapped tight around it, he drew in a mouthful of smoke, savoring the sweet flavor as he extinguished the match between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Damn, that is good,” he whispered, flicking the match out the window and pulling the cigar from his mouth. Twin streams of smoke billowed from his nostrils as he stared down at the rolled tobacco in his hand, the only remnant of his native country that still claimed his loyalty.

  “Smells like shit if you ask me,” Hector Ortega said from behind the wheel.

  The commen
t did nothing to sour Thiago’s mood. “Too bad I didn’t ask you.”

  “It takes me a week to air out my truck every time you’re in here,” Hector persisted, glancing over twice at the man riding shotgun with him.

  Giving no indication he was aware of the man’s stare, Thiago regarded the cigar for another long moment before placing it back between his lips. He rolled it into the corner of his mouth, a steady pillar of smoke rising from the tip.

  Waiting a few extra moments to make his point, letting the haze fill the cab, Thiago jerked on the handle beside him, a rush of cool night air flooding in around him. He stepped out onto the desert sand, the treads of his boots sinking into the powder.

  Opposite him, Hector did the same, his truck door whining in protest with an angry screech of bare metal rubbing against itself.

  “You ever going to grease that damn thing?” Thiago asked, letting the sour look on his face show in his voice.

  “What for?” Hector replied. “Not like there’s a soul around to hear it.”

  Shaking his head, Thiago shoved the passenger seat forward and extracted a gun case from behind it. Propping the base between his feet, he tugged on the zipper, pulling it up to his waist.

  Reaching inside, he grasped the barrel of his HK416, sliding it free. Holding it in one hand, he tossed the empty bag back behind the seat before slamming the door shut.

  “How many are we expecting tonight anyway?” Hector asked, checking the slides on a pair of Sig Sauers.

  “Don’t know,” Thiago said, “boss just said it would be big. Well over a dozen.”

  “Damn,” Hector muttered. “We going to have enough room on the flatbed?”

  Thiago removed the banana clip from his HK. He hefted it in his hand to ensure there was a full load before jamming it back into place and wracking one into the chamber.

  In his experience an unloaded gun was worthless, even at times like this when it was just for show.