The Anatomy of a Hit

1: The Prelude

That early, pre-dawn morning, we parked the Jeep in the depression near the arroyo. In the darkness, I checked my watch—it was 3:04—then glanced at Deli. “Stay put, okay? Let me help you out of the Jeep.”

She only nodded.

I walked past the quietly ticking engine, looking for any of the small clumps of cactus that can appear almost magically beneath a foot, then offered her my hand.

We were both in jeans and dark, long-sleeved shirts. Once we were in the nest, and even on the way there, we would be all but invisible.

As she stepped down and we shouldered our rifles, I said, “I want you to stay behind me on the way in, okay? Hold onto my belt loop so I’ll know you’re there.” I smiled. “I’m more used to spotting cactuses in the dark.”

“I will.” She turned around and reached into the floorboard behind the passenger seat.

“What?”

When she turned back, she had two rolled-up towels from the motel in her right hand. She stuck them under her left arm and smiled. “Remember the jungle? These will be better than lying on rocks.”

I grinned and shook my head. “You are remarkable.” I kissed her lightly, then turned away. “Let’s go.”

We had to detour slightly only twice to avoid patches of cactus, and within about a half-hour we found our nest.

Again I checked my watch. It was 3:28. Two and a half hours to go.

There were still no vehicles or activity at the bunker.

Deli said nothing, but got to her knees, spread the towels and folded them at the front for the elbows, then gestured. “Take your choice, baby. I’ll take the other.”

If anyone came up on us—if any of those unnatural little sounds happened in the night—they’d either come up from behind us on the east or from our right to the north.

I walked past her, got to my knees at the north position, then pulled the Kimber and laid forward. Once I was settled, I put the Kimber between my elbows on the folded part of the towel.

Deli watched me and did the same with her Glock. A moment later, she glanced over at me. “This is real, isn’t it?”

I smiled. “We’re ready. It’ll be fine.”

A long moment after that, she said, “Thanks for not asking whether I want to go back to the Jeep.”

I smiled again, leaned to my left, and kissed her. “I knew better.” I hesitated. “I love you, Delilah Schiff.”

“With everything that I am, Jack Temple.”

We settled in and watched.

Now and again I rolled my left wrist up and checked my watch.

Now and again double-checked the date in my mind. Did I bring us out a day early?

2: Watching

We’d been in position for a little over two hours. Behind us, the mountains were stark against a sky that was just beginning to turn a shade of grey.

As if the world suddenly woke up, ahead of us motorcycle engines—one the low, throaty rumble of a Harley—sounded to the southwest. Then a trio of headlights appeared as spots in the distance to our left front.

Two in front, a third behind.

Beyond and maybe a half-mile to the left of the bunker, they came on. The beams of light were invisible except for where they stretched along the paved road that runs through the orange groves. Then they slowed dramatically.

The first and then the second bike turned off the tarmac road, then the third. The light beams bounced as they momentarily arced east to north illuminating the eerie, dusty green mesquites and creosote. Then they swept quickly over our position, and the bikes proceeded north toward the bunker.

Quietly, nerves edging her voice, Deli said, “I’ve got three bikes.”

My natural inclination was to say Duh.

Of course I checked that. “Can you make out the riders? I mean, how many?”

“No passengers.”

Perfect. So that’s three.

All three bikes disappeared for a moment, concealed by the bulk of the bunker, though we could still see the effect of their headlights on the brush to the north.

Then the headlights swept in an arc back to the east as they defined the back corner of the bunker.

I hissed, “Look away!” then closed my eyes and lowered my head.

Avoid night blindness. I should have mentioned that earlier.

A second later the sound of the engines changed.

I opened only my left eye and glanced up.

The bikes had stopped near the right front corner of the bunker. For an unnerving second, one headlight on high-beam brightly illuminated the brush in front of us. Then all three switched off and the engines died.

I glanced to my left. “Can you scope the riders?”

“Roger that. Three men.” She hesitated. “They all went into the bunker.”

“Okay.”

We breathed and watched and waited for the sky to grow lighter.

Every few minutes I checked my watch. And Deli.

She seemed fine. Then again, she doesn’t mean as much to herself as she means to me.

That would be impossible.

3: Still Watching

The western sky was still dark, the bunker and the groves still black and hidden, even though a seemingly ridiculous amount of time passed.

Finally, two more headlights appeared where the bike headlights had been.

Deli was on it. “A pickup.” It came on, then turned approximately where the bikes had turned, the headlights sweeping the still-dark desert. It also followed the same path north toward the bunker, then behind it, then to the east.

The engine died, two doors closed, and some quiet thumps sounded. Boots hitting the ground.

As I turned my head to ask, Deli said, “Five. We have five more.”

So that’s eight so far. But I only said, “You okay?”

“Fine.” She hesitated. “They’re all inside.”

I checked my watch. It was 5:53. Almost showtime.

The desert, the brush, and the bunker were all a lighter shade of dark.

I should’ve asked Jim Markham for a couple of grenades.

Except there might be hostages inside.

No, the door of the bunker’s open. They would have escaped.

Before we could relax back into breathing, watching, and waiting as the terrain grew slightly lighter, another motorcycle sounded. The headlight was still sharp and bright. The bike came from the same place to the southwest, followed the same path, and parked next to the three bikes in front of the pickup. Another single rider.

That’s nine.

I checked my watch. It was 5:57.

A moment later, the quiet groan of another engine, to the south and slightly behind us.

I looked. Paired headlights, and they were fairly steady—no paved roads in that direction—bouncing only occasionally over a bump or through a depression. A white box truck, dim in the morning light and towing a thick dust cloud. It came on.

Maybe it’s headed for Fortuna Foothills. Or maybe even toward the small Border Patrol checkpoint where the west side of the mountains meet the highway, Interstate 8. I-8 runs on past the Foothills to the west and into Yuma.

But a half-mile or so south and maybe a quarter-mile east of where we lay, the box truck slowed turned west onto the tarmac road. I had no doubt it would turn in where the bikes and pickup had turned.

It did. But instead of driving past the far end of the bunker, it drove past the near end and stopped in front of the northeast corner.

The headlights remained on, stretching away to the north, the engine idling.

Two doors closed, and the passenger stepped down. In work boots, jeans, and a button-down short-sleeved blue shirt he ran to the back. I wanted him, but as he rounded the corner of the box and stopped, I could still see his body, but not his arms.

I glanced to the left. “Deli, can you see him?”

“Yes.”

“Right temple. As soon as he opens the back. A double-tap.”

She took an audible breath and nodded. “Got it.”

4: The Beginning

Deli had eyes on the passenger from the box truck when he moved to the back, ostensibly to open it. I assumed the box was probably full of hostages: women bound for whatever dismal future they had in store.

As evidenced by both doors of the box truck closing just after the truck arrived, I also assumed the driver had stepped out. That kind of person was known locally as a coyote, a disgusting human parasite who transports illegals north of the border for whatever money they can scrape together, and without a care for their safety or their present or future circumstances. In my book, that put him right up there with the rest of our targets.

As two quick pops came from my left, Deli said, “He’s down.”

Screams came from near the bunker—probably from the cargo in the box—as I sighted in on the left edge of the passenger side window of the box truck.

A little excited, Deli said, “The civilians are out, Jack! My god! Two, four, five.... Twelve! Twelve that I can see!”

But I was still focused on the cab. Unless the driver leaned forward after he got in, I wouldn’t be able to see him, but maybe I could—

As if on cue, the driver’s side door slammed.

I focused on the front sight blade.

In the space of a second, the sound came of the truck being jerked into gear, and I fired, paused, and fired again. Just in case the first bullet missed but caused the unseen driver to panic and shift in the seat.

The passenger side window shattered but the truck lurched forward and picked up speed.

Damn it! The bastard’s going to escape and—

But the truck cranked hard to the right and stopped, a stand of mesquites on a mound illuminated by the growing daylight and in its headlights.

No doors opened or closed.

“Jack, the women! They’re all over the place!

“Stay here!” I rose and leapt through a mesquite bush to my right front, racing toward the box truck and angling back toward the bunker.

Several of the men from the bunker were outside, all in jeans and various t-shirts, all mixing with and grabbing for the women, who were still screaming and scattering in every direction.

Behind me I heard the quiet pop of the Ruger, two shots together. A man in front of the bunker went down.

As I ran, I kept one eye on the box truck in case the driver got out.

At the bunker, a man gaped at the dead box-truck guy out front, then turned and ran for the bikes or the pickup.

I was maybe thirty yards into my run. I went to my right knee, brought the Kimber up in both hands, and fired.

The man pitched to his left, hit the bunker, and slid-rolled off to the ground.

Another man stopped, gaped at the first one.

I shifted the pistol slightly left, fired again.

That one folded.

Two more men looked toward me, pointed, brought up weapons.

I was up and running toward the box truck. There was no other cover.

An explosion, then another, but both bullets slapped into the ground somewhere behind me.

Faintly behind me, two more pops from the Ruger.

I plunged into the mesquite in front of the box truck, stopped, brought the Kimber up over the hood.

A motorcycle engine roared to life and drove away.

Probably on his way to town. Good. That leaves ten, minus the ones we’ve dropped.

I glanced through the windshield of the box truck. The driver was dead, slouched into the driver’s side corner, his head lolling on his chest. I moved around the engine compartment of the truck, following the Kimber to the west side.

A man lay face-down in front of the bunker.

Probably from the last shots from the Ruger

Two bikes and the pickup were still just north of the bunker. No one near them.

A man roughly tugged a woman through the door of the bunker. I had no shot at him.

Several other women were free and beyond the melee, racing south and west toward the road and the orange groves.

Another man had grabbed a young Mexican woman’s wrist and was pulling her toward the bunker, their arms stretched between them. She was yelling “No!” and straining away to the east.

I fired.

The man fell.

The woman fell away too, then sprang up and ran east toward where Deli was waiting in the desert.

Two more men went after her.

The Ruger pop-popped again.

One of the men went down.

The sound of the bike came into focus again. To my left.

I frowned. To the left?

Delilah! Is he after Deli?

I turned my back on the bunker and raced after the running woman and the man chasing her.

The woman raised her arms and yelled, “Ayúdame! Help me!” She had apparently spotted Deli. She was running directly toward the nest.

To my right front, the bike was just leaving the tarmac and angling across the desert toward our nest. It trailed a rooster tail of sand and dust.

Oh Jesus! I can’t get there in time!

The bike was still a good seventy or eighty yards away, but I went to one knee. I was sliding to a stop, the toe of my right boot digging into the dirt and rocks, as I brought the Kimber up with both hands. I fired, missed, shifted the pistol to the left to lead him, and fired again.

Missed again.

The bike kept coming.

In my left periphery, Deli stood up, shouldered the Ruger, and fired a double-tap in my direction.

The man behind the woman face-planted, slid, and lay still.

But the bike was 50 yards from the nest and closing.

I leveled the Kimber, fired again.

And missed again. The bike kept coming.

Damn it!

The woman to my left kept running.

I sprang to my feet, leaned hard into it and raced toward Deli. If only I can get between her and—

Deli turned to her left, the Ruger still at her shoulder, and faced the bike, then—

The woman was on her.

Deli dropped the rifle and shoved the woman away.

As the woman fell, Deli crouched, swept the Glock up in both hands, pivoted, and leveled the pistol at the bike, but—

It’s almost on her! I’m too far away!

My heart pounded, ached. Helpless, I yelled, “No!” and raced toward my love.

5: The End

As I tried to get there, the Glock bucked in Delilah’s hand, and—

Time slowed to a crawl.

The man jerked hard and fell off the bike to his right.

The bike leaned and fell with him, raising an immense dust cloud, then scudded across the desert, slashing wheels-first toward Deli.

The man’s body—the man’s slight body—twisted and tumbled through and over a clutch of mesquite brush. He rolled a few more feet, his arms lifeless and flopping, and stopped just behind our nest, face up.

The bike stopped no more than a foot short of Deli. And—

Finally I was there. In the dust cloud, I grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her to me. “Baby! Are you okay?”

As she nodded, her head against my chest, I gaped at the man.

It was Holly.

The young Mexican woman, still yelling and screaming, had regained her feet. She was receding rapidly to the southeast.

Deli stepped back a little and holstered the Glock. As she looked up and said, “I think I’m okay,” she glanced past me toward the bunker. Her eyes went wide. “Jack!” She leapt for the .308, whipped it up to her shoulder and fired.

I spun around to look.

A man lay against the sloped east end of the bunker, face-up, his arms splayed.

The man from inside the bunker. I’d forgotten about him when Holly had started for Deli on his bike.

A second later, a woman peered tentatively out of the bunker. She spotted the man’s body, then stepped out, turned south, and ran for all she was worth.

*

It was over.

6: The Egress

Deli and I crouched and gathered our spent casings, but only from in the nest—so only the brass from the Ruger, Glock, and Colt—and then I snatched up the towels. We each shouldered our weapons, and we set off jogging toward where we’d left the Jeep.

When we got there, the adrenaline finally began to drain. We wrapped the long guns in the towels as best we could, then laid them in the back floorboard. Then we got in and headed for Fortuna Foothills.

My mind raced with thoughts of what might have happened if Deli had missed with her final shot—her only shot from the Glock—at Holly on his damn bike—as I had missed him.

Three damn times. I’m so relieved she didn’t miss.

Neither of us spoke along the way to town.

*

When we arrived back at the room, it was only 7:22. We didn’t talk then either. We went about the initial stage of egress: the cleanup.

We put the long guns back into their cases, zipped them shut, and shoved them under the bed. We wrapped the straps around the still-holstered pistols and put them into the little duffel. I dumped in the spent casings from the Colt and the Ruger and the Glock, then slipped that under the bed too. Finally, we stripped down, washed our hands and arms, changed clothes, and started packing our bags.

I looked at Deli. “Baby, are you sure you’re all right?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I’m good.” She paused, and one corner of her mouth turned up. “Got a little hectic out there though, didn’t it? Does it get like that very often?”

“No. I’ve never seen anything quite like that. And you did great.” I paused. “Do you realize that out of the eleven targets, you took out seven of them? I really don’t think there’s anything else I can teach you. And I’ll tell TJ that whenever you want me to.”

She approached me, stroked my upper arm, and smiled. “Actually, I kind’a like working with you. So let’s keep it to ourselves for now, all right?”

I gathered her in my arms and kissed her. Quietly, my voice breaking, I said, “I’m just so glad you’re all right. When that biker came at you—”

“Shh. It’s all right. I’m here and you’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

I only looked at her for a moment. “You’re right. But let’s get out of here. I’ll call Jim, and then we can take the Jeep back to Jake.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I went to the phone and dialed Jim Markham’s number.

When he answered, I said, “Listen, Jim, before I forget, the plan changed. I wasn’t able to collect the brass from the Kimber. It’s all over the place out there. So you might want to take that pistol out of circulation for a few months.”

“Understood. So I take it you were successful?”

“Very. Listen, it was great meeting you and working with you. You should be able to pick up your items anytime after about 9.”

“I’ll do that. You folks have a safe trip home.”

I hung up.

I drove the Jeep back to Jake’s, and Deli followed me in the rental.

Jake wasn’t around yet, so I left the Jeep in the lot, got into the rental, and we headed for the airport.

We encountered no problems, and the plane went wheels-up at 10:12.

Homeward bound.

*******

Author Note:

“The Anatomy of a Hit” is based on the characters Jack Temple and Delilah Schiff and is derived, in part, from the novel Blackwell Ops 37: Temple's Justice.

About the Author

Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.

Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly. He has written and published over 100 novels, 10 novellas, and over 270 short stories. He has also written 18 nonfiction books on writing, 8 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 27 collections of short fiction and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.

These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.

Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack.”