Revenge of The Dog Team. William W. Johnstone

on the path ahead. That, the starlight, and the beams of a half-moon that had only recently risen above the mountains to the east would provide the only illumination needed or desired by the coyotes as they made their way back to home base. Out here, headlights would stand out like a neon sign.

      Gomez reached tentatively for the bottle in Choey’s hand to possess himself of a final taste. All that did was focus Choey’s attention on it. He drained the dregs and threw the empty bottle in the direction of the pickup truck, already well out of reach. Choey swayed, taking a wide-legged stance to better maintain his balance. Fierro indicated the SUV with a tilt of his head, said, “Might as well get going.”

      “What’s the rush?” Choey said. He turned toward the women, wobbling a bit as he did so.

      They stood in a clump, huddled together. Heads bowed, eyes downcast. It had been a long, hard trip north; they’d been brutalized and assaulted virtually nonstop by their transporters pretty much from the start of the illegal crossing. They’d been passed along by several sets of captors before falling into the hands of Alacran’s captors. They held no illusions about their immediate and future prospects.

      Choey said, “Let’s take a better look at what we’ve got. Get those bitches over here, into the light.”

      Fierro’s tight-lipped mouth turned down at the corners, but he said nothing, just stood off to one side with his arms folded across his chest. He knew that if he pointed out that Rio was waiting for them back at the rancho, Choey would delay their departure all the longer, just out of spite. So he kept his mouth shut and let Gomez play the flunky. That was part of the fat man’s job.

      Gomez herded the females in closer to the fire. “This way, girls, don’t be shy,” he said, chuckling lewdly. He lined the women up so they stood shoulder to shoulder between the fire and the boulder in whose lee it was sheltered.

      The fire was built from pieces of deadwood, twigs and broken branches and such gathered from the nearby brush and stunted dwarf trees dotting the area. Thin gray wisps of smoke were aromatic, smelling of mesquite and dry sage.

      The women wore T-shirts or sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. The desert night air was cool, chilly, but it was warm where they stood, with the fire’s warmth radiating off the tilted plane of the rock face behind them. Even so, they shivered.

      Choey lurched toward them. The nearest was Lina. She stood unbowed, staring straight ahead into the darkness beyond the crackling flames. Long straight black hair hung down on either side of her oval face. She kept her expression blank, but her eyes were wide and dark. Her breasts were high and full against a lime-colored T-shirt.

      Choey, swaying, gripped her shoulder in one hand to steady himself. The other hand squeezed and groped her through the shirt, not gently. Lina squirmed, breathing hard through clenched teeth, biting her lip at one point to keep from crying out at the rough handling. All the while, she kept staring over his shoulder into space.

      When he let go of her, she choked back a shuddering sob. Choey took a step back, grinning. He caught sight of Gomez, frowned, and said, “More tequila!”

      “It’s all gone,” Gomez said.

      “Like hell! Don’t give me that. I know you, you drunken pig, you’re sure to have an extra bottle or two stashed away somewhere.”

      Gomez assumed what he thought was an expression of heartfelt sincerity; he looked like he’d just been caught stealing from the church poor box. He began, “Choey, I swear to you that that was the last of it—”

      Choey rested his hand on the chrome-plated pistol sticking out of the top of his belt at his hip. “Make it quick before I put a hot round into that fat ass of yours!”

      “Maybe there’s one left in the SUV. I’ll take a look,” Gomez said, scuttling away toward the vehicle. Without hesitation, he went to the passenger-side door, opening it. The dome light went on, throwing a tilted yellow square of brightness out the side of the cab and across the gritty, charcoal-gray sands.

      Gomez bent over, leaning forward from the waist and sticking out a rear as wide and round as a garbage can lid as he pawed urgently under the passenger seat.

      Choey said, “What a target, I can’t miss!”

      “Wait, wait!” Gomez straightened up and turned around, holding a bottle by its long neck. “I found one!”

      “Big surprise,” Choey said.

      Gomez hurried to him, masses and mounds of flesh all a-jiggle. He had less than a dozen paces to cross, but by the time he reached Choey, he was panting and heaving like he’d just finished running a marathon.

      Choey snatched the bottle away from him, saying, “Give me that before you drop it, you fat fool.”

      Gomez was too out of breath to speak. Choey uncapped the bottle and tossed the cap away. He lifted it to his lips and drank deep, making significant inroads into its contents.

      His bleary gaze fell on Amparo. She was slight, girlish, with a sharp-featured birdlike face. Her eyes bulged like a pair of black olives, her lips were compressed into a thin white line, and her pointy chin trembled.

      Her fear was palpable, and Choey seemed to expand physically under its impact. He stood there for a moment, savoring it, while the cowering girl shrank from his nearness. Groggily noticing the bottle in his hand, he looked for someplace to put it. Gomez had caught enough of his breath to volunteer, “I’ll hold it for you—”

      “Keep your filthy paws off it or I’ll shoot them off,” Choey said. He set the bottle down on a rocky outcropping.

      He reached for Amparo. “There’s not enough of you to make a meal out of—” He grabbed a fistful of her shirt and pulled, tearing it away down the front and baring her chest. “A scrawny chicken!” he cried, laughing.

      He grappled his hands onto her breasts, one in each hand, pulling and twisting them. Squealing, she sank to her knees, her fluttering hands feebly trying to fend him off.

      Fierro said, “Rio paid for her, she belongs to him—”

      “Shut up,” Choey said, not looking up from what he was doing. His hands worked harder, more viciously, Amparo’s shrieks shrilling. She clawed at his face, and suddenly it was Choey’s turn to howl. His grip broke, and she sank in a heap at his feet, the rock face behind her propping her up into a half-sitting position.

      Choey half turned toward the fire, revealing a set of four bloody furrows that Amparo had clawed into his cheek. An expression of wonderment showed on his face as he gingerly, almost delicately raised a hand to touch the afflicted area. He held his hand to the firelight, ruby droplets of blood beading his fingertips as he fought to focus his gaze on them. A shadow flickered across his face.

      Roaring, he turned back toward the girl, thrusting his arms down and grabbing her neck in both hands. He jerked her to her feet and held her up in the air, throttling her. His expression was maniacal. Noises escaped from him as he strangled her.

      The only other time Fierro had heard noises even remotely like that, they had come from a man who was burning to death in a house on fire.

      Amparo’s small sneakered feet thrashed in empty air as Choey held her at arm’s length, wringing her neck. Something snapped and her feet stopped kicking.

      Gomez stood there open-mouthed, motionless, staring stupidly. Cursing under his breath, Fierro started forward.

      Marisol, standing to one side of Amparo, picked up a softball-sized rock and slammed it against the side of Choey’s head. It made a wet, chunking sound.

      This time, Fierro cursed out loud. In a lightning-like flash, he could see his entire life before him if a fatal blow had indeed struck down Choey Maldonado, whose brother Rio had charged Fierro to protect Choey at all costs. A flash was all that was needed, for what would remain of Fierro’s life was sure to be short and unpleasant.

      Choey was still on his feet. Amparo had fallen from his suddenly slackened grip. Marisol, a study in grim