Hauck took his handgun and the rifle and got ready to climb down to get over to him.
One of the Alpha men had sprinted in and made it as far as the combine in front of the barn. Hauck leaned out the window with the 9 mm and tried to get off a shot, but a sharp burst of automatic fire came back from behind the Jeep from the guy with the wounded leg. One round grazed Hauck on the arm, like a fiery poker. Another felt like the poker was thrust in his right shoulder. He shouted out, spinning backwards, the 9 mm falling to the ground. Hauck threw himself behind the window. “Shit.” All he had now was this stupid hunting rifle. A bolt of pain immobilized his right arm and shoulder. Blood seeped from his shirt. He felt for his back and saw blood there as well. It must’ve gone through.
“Wait out here,” he heard someone shout to the guy behind the Jeep who had shot at him. “If he jumps out that window, cut him to shreds.”
The next thing he heard was the sound of footsteps front around the front and the barn door thrown open. Someone stepped in. Hauck pushed his back against the wall, hidden by the wall of hay bales.
Whoever it was crouched behind the inside tractor. Hauck moved away from the ledge, his arm limp, as an extended spray of gunfire shredded the spot around the window where he’d just been.
“You wanted to meet, Mr. Hauck, well here I am …” the guy called out.
Robertson.
“Don’t be so shy … I’m easy to talk to. Your niece certainly seemed to find it that way.” He slithered his way around the tractor and the wall of hay bales, intermittently spraying gunfire up in Hauck’s direction. Hauck scrambled down onto the stack of bales, a trail of gunfire following him. He was safe for the time being, hidden behind the bales. But he was also trapped in here. And outmanned.
“You ought to just come out.” Robertson jammed in a fresh ammo clip. “It makes me mad as hell when I have to go dig someone out. Did a lot of that back in the day. Overseas.” Hauck heard him going along the wall of hay below, looking up, spraying sporadic gunfire whenever he thought he saw a shadow or something moving, sending Hauck to the floor, his arm on fire.
“Taking fathers away from their families … Not fun work. But trust me, that was only the start of things. But you already know all about that, right …”
Hauck crawled along the top of the stacks of bale. There were maybe fifty or sixty piled high in three-foot cubes. A metal hook that was probably used as a stacking device hung loosely from a pulley maybe ten feet away.
“Why am I telling you all this …? I guess, so you know this kind of shit is nothing to me. It’s what I do. Look at the Watkins boy. And your niece, right …? Only she was a wily one. I’ll get my chance again. But let me tell you what your best chance is …”
He unleashed a prolonged burst of gunfire up at Hauck, shredding hay bales a couple of feet away. Hauck crouched behind them in a ball, his shoulder throbbing, and tried to figure out how he was going to get out of here alive.
“To me, your best chance is to throw down whatever you still got up there and come on out while you can. And here’s why … You like a good steak, Mr. Hauck? You know, right off the fire, smelling like hickory chips. Mmmm, I sure do. Well, that’s exactly what’s about to happen to you. A burnt piece of meat, Mr. Hauck.”
Gunfire erupted from what seemed inside the main house, then Hauck heard a single shotgun blast. Watkins. Hauck hoped the farmer had hit home.
“So check out what I have here, Mr. Hauck. I know you can see me. From between one of those bales …” Hauck leaned through a crack in the stacks and saw Robertson, at least his arm, high in the air, holding up one of the Molotov cocktails the Mexicans had made.
“It certainly didn’t do a whole lot of damage outside. That’s for sure. But I bet in here, with all this hay, we’ll have a totally different result. Probably all go up in one big whoosh. Tons of smoke. Suck all the oxygen out. Not to mention the heat. One big ol’ barbecue. Take about three or four minutes, I suspect, for the whole place to go up. You willing to burn to a crisp in here, Mr. Hauck? For some ol’ farmer you only know a couple of days? Who’s probably dead now anyway. Or some kid on a river you never even met? So I was saying … short of jumping out the window from up there and having my guy outside shoot you up like a duck with one wing, your best chance, seems to me, is to just show your face and save us all the aggravation and the mess. I’m sure Mr. Watkins would appreciate saving his barn, too. If he’s still alive, that is …”
Hauck quietly loaded a round into the hunting rifle, his right arm barely cooperating. He knew the moment he jumped out from behind the bales he’d be a dead man. He slid on his belly over to the loading hook, its point resting in a bale just a few feet away. The thought came to him that maybe he could ride it down and surprise Robertson. Hauck knew he’d get just one shot. But blood was matting through his shirt and it was more likely he’d end up on the ground in pain than hit his mark. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could even hold on.
“So what do you say, Mr. Hauck? I’m the one doing all the talking.” Hauck heard the action on Robertson’s rifle pulled back. “You’re leaving me no choice.”
The Alpha man stepped back and took out a lighter and lit the fuse rag stuffed inside the bottle, which sprang up in flame. He held it above his head it while the rag burned down. “Last chance … I’m afraid, things are going to get a little thick under the collar now … Only thing I can say is, you shouldn’t have brought these to the fight if you didn’t want to see them used … So buckle up now. How about we all yell at once, ‘Fire …!’”
Robertson hurled it against the wood pallet supporting the bales of hay.