Born out of survival, two cultures merged to form one community, achieving a human connection unbound by any walls or boundaries.
Hatch continued to scan for a threat as the water raced them to the crossing near San Antonio del Bravo. Against the backdrop of a slowly setting sun, Hatch peered ahead at the river as it disappeared behind a large silhouette of a boulder. The water grew angry as The Devil's Hand grew larger.
Thirty-Nine
The speed at which the raft moved down the river had increased exponentially over the last several minutes. Ayala was conscious, but weak. His wrist was adorned in his father's gaudy wristwatch which dangled loosely, its jingle heard over the sound of the water.
The naming convention for the boulder they were fast approaching was spot on. The Devil's Hand looked like a massive black fist of stone. The river caught the setting sun, bathing it in a reddish orange glow. To Hatch the devil's fist looked encased in hell's fire.
"Ready." Hatch lay flat across the right side of the raft. Her thighs pinched wet rubber. Her Glock contained eleven rounds of ammunition and sat at the small of her back. Angela had adjusted and tightened the bandage around Hatch's left hand. The fire poker had done some damage, and would require medical attention, but all five fingers still responded to her subconscious commands, although their response came slowly and with an incredible amount of pain. Hatch didn't like losing her gun hand, temporarily or otherwise, to Moreno's sadistic activity but was grateful she had another. She found the simplest plans to be the best. The one concocted by Hatch and Sanchez during the final stretch of water before reaching the boulder was as simple as they got. Sanchez was going to drop Hatch off before getting to the rock. Sanchez, knowing the area the way he did, assessed his memory of its layout and selected the best possible location for an ambush. When asked why, he said it’s where he would take the shot.
Sanchez said The Devil's Hand was not one giant rock, but two. The largest boulder, the fist, rises thirty feet above the water it rests beside. Its misshapen body stretched along the bank for a hundred feet or so. The smaller boulder, the thumb knuckle where the rock formation's namesake originated, nestled itself ten feet down river from its bigger companion. The gap between the two rocks was where their shooter would most likely be. And that's where Hatch was heading.
The timing had to be perfect. Sanchez calculated an approximate window of time Hatch would have once released on the shore based the river's current. He factored it all in a matter of seconds and determined Hatch would have approximately one minute to get from the designated release point to the objective. Hatch suggested Sanchez park the boat while she swept the shooter's nest. His logic came from the sight of the black hat he'd seen, the same one that now bore the well-aimed result of Hatch's sixth shot.
Sanchez had a hushed reverence when he spoke of its wearer. And when he spoke the name aloud, Ayala, who was barely maintaining consciousness, widened his eyes and stared at the river guide. They called him El Vibora. The Viper.
Hatch listened to the tale of El Vibora told by Sanchez. The cartel hitman's story read more like that of a villain in a children's book. Hatch thought he would have fit perfectly in Ayala's story about the seed and boulder.
In Sanchez' retelling, one thing was abundantly clear, whether or not the tale of the killer bore embellishment. The Viper was not a threat to be taken lightly. And in honoring that wisdom, they decided pulling the raft ashore left them more vulnerable and less mobile should they encounter El Vibora or another of the cartel's hunter kill teams.
Hatch had one minute to get out of the water, cross the rocky terrain of the devil's fist, find the shooter and a vantage point to neutralize him, and all before the raft entered the crosshairs of The Viper's scoped rifle.
Sanchez promised to slow the raft as best he could. The bullet hole in the floorboard had been effectively patched but without the inflated bladder of the thwart to provide rigidity. The ability to stabilize the rubber vessel became harder the closer they got to The Devil's Hand.
Angela said it was as if the boulder was pulling them with an invisible lasso.
Sanchez offered the less fantastic and more scientifically acceptable reason for the tractor beam-like pull of the water. Currents strengthen on sharp turns, like the ninety-degree bend around the boulder. The churn is created in the dynamic shift in direction as water level changes. The Devil's Hand was a Class III Rapid, which meant they faced four-and five-foot waves crashing against the rocks lining the river beyond the turn.
Hatch was thrown overboard, and her one minute began.
Forty
An unseen rock slapped the bottom and, with the stabilizing tube deflated, Sanchez had been unable to counter its effects before Hatch went over the side deeper than intended.
Hatch swam hard, taking the river current at an angle and bringing herself to shore one hundred feet further upriver than their plan dictated. A football field of mud and rock had been added to the timed obstacle course.
The cold water responsible for rinsing much of the blood caked to her skin and clothes was now responsible for the slipping and sliding she experienced while sprinting along her route. Her lungs burned. She barely kept ahead of the red rubber rocket in her left periphery. She could hear the tick of the countdown clock in each wet step she took.