Hawke's Target Read online

  Praise for REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

  and his SONNY HAWKE thrillers

  “If you look for the voice of authenticity in your

  books like I do, you’ll swoon over Reavis Wortham.

  He’s Texas true, and that’s a fine thing to be.”

  —C. J. Box

  “There’s a term we use in the west, the genuine

  article, and those words fit Reavis Wortham

  to a Texas T.”

  —Craig Johnson

  “Think: Elmore Leonard meets James Lee Burke.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “The most riveting thriller all year!”

  —John Gilstrap

  “Wortham writes well in describing the forbidding

  landscape and the difficulties of those trying to

  survive in it, not easy even when people aren’t

  trying to kill you. Readers who like action-packed

  thrillers that leave a lot of bodies should find

  Hawke’s War to their liking.”

  —PCA Mystery & Detective Fiction Reading List

  on Hawke’s War

  “This elegant thriller that reads like a modern-day

  Western conjures memories of gunfighters of lore, a

  tradition Hawke proudly holds up while riding the

  ranges of Texas’s Big Bend National Park . . .

  Wortham hits the bull’s-eye dead center in this

  tale worthy of Louis L’Amour and James Lee

  Burke. Once of the best thrillers I’ve read this

  year, featuring emotional landscapes as sprawling

  as the physical ones.”

  —The Providence Sunday Journal on Hawke’s War

  “This is one of those books, settings, and characters

  that make you want to cheer for the U.S. of A. In

  addition, this is also a brand-new character to star

  in his own brand-new series, so there’s a lot more

  of Hawke to go around. Add in humor, a great

  cast of characters, both good and bad, along with

  a terrific ending, and Hawke’s Prey becomes

  a must-read for everybody.”

  —Suspense Magazine on Hawke’s Prey

  “An intuitive, creative synthesis of contemporary

  politics and policy into an original plot . . . Wortham

  writes excellent action sequences and knows how to

  ratchet tension. With pitch-perfect West-Texas flavor,

  Wortham paints a complex picture of Ballard, providing

  good backstories for his large cast of characters.”

  —Lone Star Literary Life on Hawke’s Prey

  Also by REAVIS ZANE WORTHAM

  Hawke’s War

  Hawke’s Prey

  The Rock Hole

  Burrows

  The Right Side of Wrong

  Vengeance Is Mine

  Dark Places

  Unraveled

  Gold Dust

  Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Cafe

  HAWKE’S TARGET

  A SONNY HAWKE THRILLER

  REAVIS Z. WORTHAM

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 Wortham and Wortham, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4180-0

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4181-7 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4181-1 (e-book)

  This one is for my cousins,

  DERRYL FRANK JOHNS and GARY MAXFIELD.

  Thanks to you guys from that tiny community of Chicota for your military service in Vietnam. Derryl, I still owe you for the time you once pulled me out of a ditch when a car ran me off the road—and Gary, I didn’t take that lighter when I was ten, I found it on the road in front of your mama’s house. Just wanted you to know.

  Chapter 1

  Dressed head to toe in Mossy Oak Brush camouflage, Alonzo Wadler settled onto the ground in the Coconino National Forest outside of Flagstaff, Arizona. Virtually invisible, he sat perfectly still with his back against a tall ponderosa pine, a position allowing a 180-degree view of the open forest.

  As had become his recent habit whe
n he was alone, Alonzo’s mind went to his wife, Betty. They’d met in high school back in Gunn, Texas. There wasn’t much to do in the tiny community tucked into the Southeast Texas piney woods back in the 1970s, only spitting distance of Louisiana, but their interests were virtually the same and they were inseparable. Once he graduated, they reluctantly moved into the family business for a steady income.

  He smiled at the memory of her sweet smile and auburn hair.

  The crack of a limb an hour later caused his heart to pound so loud he expected it to be heard by anything with ears. He tensed and willed his nerves to calm. Index finger along the outside of the rifle’s trigger guard, only his eyes moved to scan the landscape.

  Several deep breaths later, a mature doe wandered into view, just off the wooded ridge stretching across his field of vision. The hunter wasn’t happy with the mule deer’s appearance, especially when she stopped and tested the air with her black nose. Not liking what she smelled, she gazed across a downed tree laying between them and seemed to meet his eyes.

  Hearing a slight noise, her head swiveled toward the opposite direction. Alonzo took that moment to rest his left elbow on a bent knee and snug the .270’s stock against his shoulder. He placed the Simmons’ Aetec crosshairs an inch above her back.

  She turned back and stomped her delicate hoof, hoping to startle whatever it was that worried her.

  She stomped again and watched.

  Go on, mama.

  An experienced hunter since boyhood, he knew better than to move. Motion gives predators away. They know this and use it to their advantage when they’re hunting. The now-familiar pain in his stomach broke his concentration. It was increasing in frequency and duration, but this time seemed to be nothing more than common acid indigestion. He wanted one of the pills in his pocket, but his reason for being there was too important, and he toughed it out.

  The deer’s soft brown eyes fixed on his pine tree, knowing something was there, watching. She stomped once again, and finally decided to trust her instincts. Stepping quickly off the trail, she disappeared into the forest with a flick of her tail. A second, younger doe trotted into view and was gone.

  The man sighed. He’d been so focused on the first muley that he hadn’t seen the second. His dad, Marshall, spoke from the past, his deep East Texas accent strong in Alonzo’s memory.

  “You weren’t aware. Even if you’re not looking directly at something, you’ll catch it out of the corners of your eyes. It could be a bird flitting through the trees, or a rabbit hopping through the underbrush.

  “When you see it, stay still. Don’t turn your head. Everything that lives in the woods is watching, and you’ll give yourself away. The rabbit looks for movement, and when it sees something, it freezes, because it knows whatever is out there is likely looking for dinner.”

  * * *

  They hunted together in the East Texas pines when Alonzo was a sprout, and he recalled the terrible day that made him who he was. As everything else in his life, it was driven by his grandfather, Daddy Frank Wadler. That old man ruled the entire clan from the time they were born.

  It happened on a squirrel hunt one frosty morning with his dad and Daddy Frank. They arrived in the Sabine River bottoms less than a mile from their farmhouse as the sun announced the day. Ten-year-old Alonzo never liked being around his granddad, even under the protection of Marshall.

  Slipping quietly through woods thick with pine, pecan, and oak, Daddy Frank led the way with Marshall and Alonzo following closely. The drainage area that suited him overlooked a wide, leaf-covered slope leading down to the creek.

  “Sit there, boy.” Daddy Frank pointed at a red oak tree. His voice was low, authoritative. “A tree behind you breaks up your outline.”

  The boy met his dad’s gaze. Marshall nodded, and they settled to the ground.

  Without fail, Daddy Frank pulled out a plug of Days O Work chewing tobacco, end cut of course, and carved off a chunk with his razor-sharp knife. Tucking the chew into his cheek, gray with stubble even back then, he closed the blade, returned it to his pocket, and became still as the trunk itself.

  Daddy Frank didn’t even lean over to spit. He swallowed the tobacco juice when necessary, something even the most hardcore chewers couldn’t do. He expected Alonzo to be just that still.

  Dawn revealed the thick bottomlands. A squirrel scampered into view, jumping from limb. When the time was right, Marshall raised his little .22 semiautomatic rifle to aim with glacial speed, and one shot through the head brought the squirrel to the ground.

  Daddy Frank always made it clear that the hunter was allowed only one round per squirrel.

  “Shoot ’em through the head, son.” Marshall leaned toward the boy’s ear and spoke softly. “They’ll fall dead and won’t scare the others. You don’t want it flopping around down there in the leaves.”

  Alonzo’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t the shot scare the others none?”

  “Nope. I reckon rifle shots might sound like thunder, but it’s usually movement that scares animals. The woods ain’t quiet like books tell you. They’re alive. Limbs rub together, or break and fall. Deer step on sticks. Bodark fruit falls hard, and pecans and walnuts hit with a lighter sound. Trees fall sometimes, too, and make a racket when they tear the limbs off other trees on the way down. Things with four feet rustle through the leaves covering the ground. When you open your ears, you’ll hear more than most folks realize.”

  On that morning so long ago, a fox squirrel scampered into range, and the headstrong boy ignored Daddy Frank and Marshall’s lessons. He decided to try a shoulder shot with his .22, like when they hunted deer. At the time, the youngster was full of what the old men up at the Gunn store called “piss and vinegar.” He figured he’d show both of them a thing or two about what he’d learned from Outdoor Life and Field & Stream.

  Indecision at the last moment, and nerves, caused the boy’s aim to waver. Alonzo missed badly with the open sights. The little body tumbled through a web of limbs on the way down, creating more disturbance than he thought possible. The dying squirrel finally caught itself by a hind foot in a thick tangle of vines, hanging upside down long enough for Alonzo to sneak a peek at Daddy Frank’s angry face. The horrifying rattle reached their ears, and the boy worked the rifle bolt to finish it off.

  “Nope.” Daddy Frank’s voice was low, but clear. “You had your chaince, Alonzo. One shot.”

  Alonzo’s face flushed hot and tears filled the boy’s eyes at the horrible damage he’d caused. “But it’s suffering.”

  “That’s right.” The old man sitting twenty feet away shifted to glare at the boy. “It’s your own damn fault, because you didn’t listen to your daddy.”

  The dying squirrel dangled by the claw on one toe, blood dripping from its nose. The pattering sound on the dry leaves below was clear as a bell in the still autumn air.

  “Just this time? I won’t do it again.” He turned toward Marshall. “Please, Dad.”

  Marshall paused and threw a glance at his dad, who glared back. “No. Don’t you let him do it, Marshall. Sit there and watch, and listen. You’ll learn to mind after this.”

  Right then, Alonzo hated his grandfather. For five minutes that seemed an eternity the boy stifled great, shuddering sobs that would only get him into more trouble.

  Men don’t cry. Daddy Frank, the elder, made sure that no one in his family cried, or he’d give ’em something to cry about.

  It was obvious they were teaching Alonzo a lesson, but one that hurt. The boy got mad and raised the rifle again to finish the squirrel’s suffering and end the terrible ordeal.

  “I said no, boy.” Daddy Frank looked as if he were going to stand. It should have been Marshall’s place to correct his son, but the old man held every family member in a vise grip. “You quit that cryin’ or I’m gonna give you something to cry about.”

  Marshall raised a hand. “Dad, let me . . .”

  “No! You ain’t much tougher’n that little crybab
y of yours. It’s about time somebody got ahold of him to toughen that boy up.” The harsh leader of the Wadler family had whipped every man who challenged his authority, and no child was going to disobey.

  Alonzo looked at his dad for support, but Marshall wouldn’t meet his eye.

  The squirrel died moments later and released its hold, falling with a soft thump on the moist humus covering the ground. The woods quieted, until another fox squirrel scampered through the treetops and stopped only yards away to crack a pecan.

  “Shoot.” Marshall’s soft voice barely carried. “Show him.”

  Alonzo’s voice broke. “I can’t.” The tears trickling down his cheeks were frustrating, and the boy desperately wanted to wipe them away, but he knew the movement would give them away, once again bringing a reprimand. “I might miss again.”

  “Shoot, he said, and this time through the head.” Daddy Frank spoke from right behind the boy, startling him. He’d moved without a sound. “Do it, or I’ll slap your jaws into next week.”

  The boar squirrel stopped to test the air, offering a perfect profile target. A blue jay’s call echoed through the woods.

  Blinking his eyes clear, Alonzo took careful aim with the .22 rifle. When the squirrel’s head disappeared behind the front sight, he squeezed the trigger, slowly, the way he’d been taught.

  The little rifle cracked and the squirrel fell from the limb, dead long before it hit the ground. Only then did Alonzo wipe his eyes.

  “Better’n the last shot.” Daddy Frank grunted and shifted his chew. “Marshall, you get ahold of this prissy kid and teach him not to backtalk me, or I will, and then it’ll be me and you.”