And in that moment, Rachel Hatch did what she did best.
Hatch had been in a knock-down, drag-out fight with the devil and his henchmen. A fight that began over twenty years ago on a cold morning near the lowland brook behind her family’s house in the small town of Hawk's Landing, where she found her father dead. But death had not ended the conversation between father and daughter that day. Nor any other to follow. Her father's words continued to find meaning in her life long after their first utterance. And the words fueled the stoked the fire inside her.
Finish the fight.
The age-old war between good and evil chose its battlefield to be the bank of a river, dividing two communities who used the rope between them to overcome their differences, outweighing those of politics and geography.
Then the devil's hound did as he was commanded. He stood with his back to the sun which, as any shooter will advise, is the best way to use the light to blind a target. And he did as training and experience taught him to do, as it had taught Hatch to do. But in the devil's haste, the killer he sent lacked the benefit of her father's wisdom.
If you happen to strike first, do not hesitate. With hesitation comes opportunity. And if it presents, you better take it.
The Viper’s right eye leaked water like a broken spigot. The cartel gunman rapidly blinked his eyes, only strengthening the tear-made river rolling down his face. Hatch seized the opportunity of El Vibora’s distraction.
The Glock within reach, Hatch grabbed it and got off one single shot before the man's eye had a chance to clear.
The blood flowing from the small hole in the center of The Viper's forehead at the T-intersection, where the bridge of the nose met his brow made its way down the right side of the legendary killer's face, joining the river of tears.
The rifle dropped from his hand. The Viper stood motionless, as if his body were in argument with death and not yet willing to concede his hold on life. The blood mixed with the saline of his tears and spread out like the twisted thorns of Hatch's scar. The blood running down made his face look as though the old scars of the rattlesnake's bite were opened and bleeding once again.
Just before The Viper fell, Hatch saw confidence in the man's eyes as he faced death, and she hoped to have the same when her time came. The fearlessness with which the killer walked away from the world was not all he demonstrated at his end.
In the last blink of his right eye, Hatch saw peace in its final closing. A peace that could be only achieved in death, but only truly appreciated by those who spent the better part of their lives walking hand in hand with death.
The darkness of his eyes fell with the gust of wind that knocked off his hat, a feat even her sixth shot had not been able to achieve.
Hatch watched the dead man's wide-brimmed black hat float down the river until it was swallowed by the raging whitewater.
Forty-Two
The raft served as a makeshift bed for Ayala. Sanchez rummaged the Lincoln for any medical supplies, and before finding a combat medic's first aid kit, the former FES operator came across a brown leather ventilated case with a large rattlesnake coiled inside. Hatch watched Sanchez release the snake away from the group into a cluster of rocks. The snake tasted the air with its tongue before disappearing down a dark hole. The noise of its rattle rang out one last time and then faded away.
Sanchez returned with the kit and he, with the assistance of Angela, went about tending to the wounded Ayala. The hole punched through the floorboard of the raft had torn wide open when they'd struck a rock. If Hatch hadn't fallen when she did, they would've been sitting ducks.
Ayala had the weak smile of a dying man on his face and limited words to accompany it. Time was of the essence and he needed to get to the hospital, the same one Sanchez had walked the pregnant mother and her young daughter to. The pale horse of the devil's servant would be used to ferry them the rest of the way. The white Lincoln Town Car had been parked behind the shade provided by a cluster of trees.
Before sending the dead man downriver, Hatch searched him to find in his pockets only one thing of interest. It was folded into fourths and nestled above El Vibora’s no longer beating heart.
The rattle on his wrist jingled one last time as she lifted his arm to retrieve a folded piece of paper found in his pocket. Finding the paper's content curious, she gave it to somebody who might be capable of translating it.
Hatch handed the folded paper to Ayala, ready to be shifted to the awaiting chariot. Tears mixed with river water on his face as he looked down at the image.
Ayala's face screwed up into a question he sought the words to ask.
"I don't know what it means. But it was in his breast pocket. Above his heart."
Ayala's eyes traced the contours of the lines in front of him before giving his opinion. "She's alive."
The piece of paper blew life into the fading light in Ayala's eyes. It was as if he was never shot, as if the bullet had never passed from the back end of his shoulder to his chest. It was as if the holes, both in his shoulder and in his heart, were miraculously healed by the picture and the image held in his hand.
The folded piece of paper held a colorful image of a lily blooming in springtime with the last droplet of morning's dew dangling at the edge of its light purple petals.
Ayala took a picture from his own pocket. He held it in his other hand. Ayala brought the photograph to his lips. He kissed it and then cast it into the water, before it was swallowed, just as the dead man and his hat had been.
He took and re-folded the girl's drawing and put it in his pocket, replacing the photograph that had just occupied that space. Before Hatch could ask, Ayala offered, "I'm trading an old memory for a new one. I'm trading dark for light."