Pecos

The pair of INS agents had unwittingly walked into a den of torture. Working on an anonymous tip on an eighteen wheeler going toward the abandoned airport, they went to check it out.
When they attempted to radio in to HQ to report their location, there was an unexplainable amount of static interference, not allowing them to recieve or transmit.
Policy dictates they should take no actions without first reporting their whereabouts. But they figured, what the hell, we're here now, might as well take a look around, call it in later.
Dead quiet anyway. Probably not a soul here. If somebody came in here with a truckload of illegals, they would have heard something.
The truck somebody called in is probably halfway to Nogales by now.

Inspecting the large entry door to the hanger, agent #1 commented on the lock and chain.
"Hey, if there is a truck in here, it's been here since the Carter administration. This padlock is totally rusty. Never even get a key in this hole."
"Yeah, I see that." said agent #2. "We should walk around and check the door on the other end, to be on the safe side. I don't see an office entrance. Must only be accessible from the inside."
Agent #1 never saw the baseball bat until the microsecond before it struck him in the temple. His world went black as he went down.
Agent #2 saw his partner fall forward as he rounded the corner and immediately drew his sidearm.
Within a second, batman appeared and approached 2 with an awkward step, seemingly oblivious to the 9mm semi auto in the agent's hand.
"Detener o disparo se" shouted 2. Well, that was your warning as***le, I hope you speak Spanish, he thought as he pulled the trigger.
At a distance of three feet, he put a round center body mass. Textbook shot. Expecting the assailant to go down, he was too shocked at what happened next to fire a second shot, not that it would have mattered.
The thing not so much screamed, as it squealed. An ear piercing squeal. The sound a rat makes when it's spine has been broken in a trap, and it won't die.
2 saw the blood spurting from the entry wound, and the hateful look when the thing bared it's two long front teeth.
It's nostrils quivered as if it detected a vile odor. 2 was horrified beyond belief, unable to move.
The bat came down across his wrist sending his pistol clattering to the tarmac. The agent was still frozen with horror when the ratlike man swiped the side of his neck with fingers that ended in razor sharp talons.
2 dropped to his knees within seconds, losing blood rapidly from his carotid artery.
The rat man stood by patiently watching the agent bleed out and die. His face was incapable of human expression, but he seemed to be satisfied with his work.
Two more rat men appeared and the loaded the two agents into the Explorer and drove it around to the opposite end of the hanger, to the functioning door.
They parked the government Explorer next to Habit's Kenworth. Leaving the dead agent in the back seat, they drug #1 to the office and tied him upright to a straight backed wooden chair, hands behind his back.
Maria was pleased.

 

"Mister Immigration man, would you like to see my work visa?" she asked the terrified man.
"I actually have one. Now these little fellas, that's a different story. I promise you don't want to know where they are from. It's not a pleasant place, and they have no plans of returning."
One of the little rat men(they averaged about five feet tall) yanked the agent's head back by the hair.
With his other hand/claw he began sawing off the agent's right ear. Sawing, because the kitchen knife was very old and very dull.
Half of the blade was serrated, enabling him to find some purchase in the resilient gristle.
2 hang tough for a bit, but by 45 seconds in, he was begging for mercy. 30 seconds later he was screaming. A minute later he mercifully passed out. Not even a fourth of the way through the ear yet.
Maria ordered the rat man to stop. No way he is getting off this easy, she thought.
Opening a breifcase on the table, she withdrew a syringe containing a cloudy white liquid.
It was simply a mixture of water and powdered cocaine. She unceremoniously stabbed the agent in the thigh and pushed the plunger halfway down, saving the remaider for later, not wanting to cause an overdose.
She chose the thigh for two reasons. The large muscle with allow for a slower transference of the drug into the bloodsteam She wanted to keep him awake, not show him a good time.
The second reason was she didn't want to risk sending an air bubble into his bloodstream into his system by going into a vein.
Within minutes, 2 was wide awake and fully cognizant of his surroundings. Feeling his own warm blood trickling down the side of his neck and under his collar, he remembered with a start what was happening.
His heart was racing from fear and the unwanted half gram of cocaine coursing through his blood stream.
The drug may be keeping him awake, but it had no anesthetic properties. Quite the opposite, for the experience was now intensified.

Habit heard the screams from the hangar where he was tied to the back of his trailer. He too, was awake throughout his own amputation.
Oh how he hated the little rat men. He spent every moment fantasizing of the hundred ways he would like to slowly, painfully end their hateful, miserable existence.

 

Her head movement indicated she must be talking to somebody, but he couldn't see who.
He had an unbelievably clear shot with the Winchester. Send her brains across the room.
But way too early to think about that yet. Sniper school at Fort Benning, Georgia should have been named patience school.
Most of the candidates were expert riflemen when they accepted. The bulk of sniper school was not about teaching anybody how to shoot.
It was a lot of walking for miles through the heat, cold and rain for miles carrying heavy objects.
It was waiting for hours, or days in one spot for a target that may or may not ever appear.
The washout rate was among the highest in the military. All the time and training invested and some guys served for years and never got to take that shot.
Rick layed in the same spot in the jungle in Panama for sixty-eight hours, sipping warm water from a canteen while insects feasted on his flesh.
He used the bathroom in place. The mission was called off with no explanation. Going through that makes a fella want to shoot somebody, anybody at that point.
So he could do a few hours standing on his head.
Ah, she moves enough to reveal a man sitting in a chair. No, make that tied to a chair. Definitely not Habit. This guy is in uniform for one thing. Green, but not quite military. Some sort of law enforcement. United States flag on his shoulder, maybe border patrol. That would make sense.
What in the hell is wrong with his head? Oh, my Lord. Is his ear missing?
Recently missing by the looks of the dark stains running down his neck and onto his uniform. Poor guy.
He could see her face now. She was indeed beautiful, but the first thought he had was 'evil wench'. Of course he may have been influenced by her cavalier attitude toward the tortured man in the chair.
Yes, he would love to take that shot, but not without gathering more intelligence. How many enemy, besides Maria were in there? What kind of firepower did they have?

The building was constructed primarily of wood in the WWII era, with only the office wing, which was added later, being made of metal, and would go up like a tinderbox. But there was at least one friendly in there, the man tied to the chair and hopefully Habit was still alive in there somewhere.
His primary mission was to pull them out. After that, it was on.

Somebody else has entered the room. A little guy, for sure. And he's walking funny.
Something else weird about him too. Where are his eybrows? Look at those beady, black eyes, and that little nose. My God, is it twitching?
Why the hell am I so surprised? Rick thought, and supressed a laugh. I just spent the morning drinking magic beer with a guy who got killed in the civil war and I'm surprised by a little rat faced man.
Almost dark. Time to reconoiter soon.

 

Rick had no more than a rudimentary knowledge of rodents, but it seem logical that they relied more on a sense of smell than their eyesight.
He based this on their tiny eyes, and the almost constantly twitching nose, accompanied by the fact that they mostly dwelled in dark, confined places.
His military camoflauge training was focused on sight, not smell, so it was time to improvise.
Leaving the rifle and milk crate behind, he crouched down and headed back down the path he just travelled.
As he reached the section where the creek bed began to get deeper, he slowed down and scanned from side to side, seeking his quarry.
He had no way of knowing if the rattlesnake would still be here. If not, hopefully there would be another.
Hey, big fella. I hate to do this, but I promise it's for the greater good of mankind. Maybe the Gods of war will bless you in the afterlife.
Using his left hand, he swung a stick(with the diameter of the small end of a pool que) within inches of the snake's face, agitating it. It drew back and hissed menacingly.
Rick then slapped the tip of the stick on the ground, as far to his left as he could reach.
The stick was ripe with human scent, for he had urinated on the end of it just minutes ago.
The big rattler struck. So did Rick. He dropped to his knees as the snake hit his target.
Keeping the stick in his left hand, he used his right to control the razor sharp hunting knife, bringing it down in a smooth arc, severing the vipers head.
He quickly drove the stick through the open mouth, and drove it into the ground.
This held the head securely in place while Rick sliced open one of the pheramone rich poison glands.
He allowed the clear liquid to pool on the flat blade surface. He then transfered it to the sleeves of his jump suit. Slicing the other gland, he did the same thing to his pant legs.
Just to be sure, he drove the blade into the still twitching, main body of the snake, collecting more bodily fluids on the blade, which he rubbed on his boots and areas of his clothing.
He could only hope this olfactary disguise would be effective, for he had no other ideas.
His rationale was that the vipers came out in the cooler night air to hunt, often coming fight out on the tarmac.
The rat men would surely be accustomed to this scent. But if it was powerful enough to over ride his dominant human scent would remain to be seen.
But did he even have a scent in his ghost form? No idea, but he thought he might.

Low crawling across the tarmac to inspect the door on his left, or the north end of the building.
Twenty feet from the door he came upon the remnants of a dark puddle. Although mostly dried by the afternoon sun, the human blood was still tacky, like red paint on a freshly painted barn.
The spray pattern indicated he was slashed, rather than shot. Too much here for the victim to have walked away, but there ws no trail, nor were there any drag marks.
So he was hauled off, which shows they are at least trying to maintain some level of secrecy.
The door was of an old design. Actually two doors, each thirty feet in width and twenty feet in heigth. They swung outward on large metal wheels, allowing for the entry of small airplanesor large trucks.
The chain was looped through opposing handles and the padlock was extremely old, pre stainless steel and appeared to have not been used in many years.
Peering underneath, he saw tiny feet moving around. They wore no shoes, and the feet were covered with short, dense fur and sharp talons extruded from the vaguely human toes.
At the distance of a dozen feet, there seemed to be no indication that they had been alerted to his presence.
It seems the snake oil solution was indeed effective. Not bothering ton crawl. he eased around the corner and walked the length of the east side of the hangar.
No windows, but he found the ladder leading up to the roof interesting. It was made of wood however, and no telling if the rungs would support his weight, as old as it must be.
Peeking around the corner of the south end, he found an identical set of doors, although these were not completely closed.
He could see the nose of the purple Kenworth, indicating it had been backed in, as if he were expecting to load cargo.
Perhaps cargo had been loaded, and his services as a driver were no longer needed.
Didn't matter now. The truck would burn in hell, along with the rat men and their evil leader.

 

The doors were open enough to allow a gap of five feet, most likely to allow some air circulation.
A green, Ford Explorer with U.S.Border Patrol was pulled in next to the KW.
Would make a good getaway vehicle He had been wondering how he would assist the one footed habit across the tarmac to safety, while keeping his hands free to shoot.
Hopefully the keys were in it. Will have to check. Leave nothing to chance.
Ricked risked sticking his head further between the gap. Dark at this end. The other end of the building was lit and there were four rat men playing cards at a folding table, sitting on old metal lunchroom chairs.
No sign of Maria. Must be in the air conditioned office with the INS agent.
Where was his partner? Those guys never work solo.

 

Rick entered the doorway in a crouch, staying below tailgate level of the Exporer. He walked down the passenger side , in between it and the KW. The passenger window was down and he saw keys dangling from the ignition switch.
He also felt a pair of eyes staring at him from the back seat.
Make that one eye. The other had been savagely removed.
Four deep, nearly symetrical furrows began at his hairline, above his left eye.
The gruesome trail went through the eye socket and across the cheek, flaying it open in the process.
It continued fatally into the side of his neck and ending at the collar bone.
Other than the mans blood soaked uniform, there was no other gore in the vehicle, indicating the attack occured elsewhere, which would explain the sticky puddle on the tarmac.

Then he turned his attention to Habit. Twenty feet away, he was sitting on the concrete floor, his back against the landing gear assembly.
His arms were bound to it with nylon rope and the legs were lowered to the floor, preventing him from slipping the rope underneath.

 

Habit gave him a look of utter amazement. He thought Rick died in Iraq years ago. He couldn't make the funeral, but he visited the family. Saw the blue Pete in the barn.
No way they were faking. He knew grief when he saw it. Maybe the family didn't know and he was deep undercover. That's too farfetched, he thought. Too much like Bourne Identity.

Rick saw the look he got from Habit. Geez, he thinks I'm dead. At least he's keeping his cool. Looking straight ahead again.
Maybe he thinks it's an illusion.
There were no phone calls. Rick realizes it now. Just like there was no Wild Turkey. They were only vivid dreams he had during the transition phase at the motel.to give him a plausible explanation for being there.
Probably better than waking up cold turkey after being dead for five years.
He was releived to see Habit had both feet intact.
That was part of the facade. Added to the urgency.
They most likely were keeping him around to drive the truck. Not sure if the rat men learned how yet.

Rick followed Habit's gaze to the west wall. There were shipping crates stacked four high.
They were constructed of rough finish plywood, framed out with 2x4s. Four inch diameter holes, presumably for ventilation were cut at regular intervals in the sides of the crates.
Rick had seen identical crates in Central America. They were used for shipping live cargo.
He could sense movement in the boxes. Shadows behind the holes, but nothing peeking out.

It would be a piece of cake to duck under the trailer and cut Habit's binding. They could be in the Explorer backing out in seconds.
He could drop the four rat men before they could rise from their chairs.
But how many more were there? Did they have weapons somewhere in here?
Was the Explorer disabled? Or booby trapped?
Too many variables. Too many unknowns. Habit could freeze up.
No, too early, he thought as he eased back out into the darkness.

 

Three steps out the door, a thought hit him. He should give Habit an out, should he be unable to return.
Creeping back in, fully aware he was pushing his luck by returning, he crept around the driver's side of the KW.
It was parked close to the wall, but enough was there to operate the landing gear.
Walking by the nose of the trailer, he observed the digital display on the reefer unit control panel. It was set at 74 degrees.
He carefully raised the legs two inches, hoping it go unnoticed. A little more than necessary, but was allowing for further settling of the tractor air bags.
Rick took another risk by duck walking under the trailer.
He whispered at the back of Habit's head.
"If the stuff hits the fan before I can make it back, slip the rope under and vamoose. Go to your left. It's the only way out. Just run. If we lose each other, go west until you reach a road. Then follow it north. Gotta go buddy. Semper Fi."