Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald Page B
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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is terrible." She slipped her other arm through my arm, lowering her head and watching our feet. Her black hair cascaded in a veil that covered her face from my view. "Last night, I finished The Land of Dread and Fear , Héctor."
My most recent book ... written in a fever dream of guilt and liquor and whoring along La Frontera in the weeks following my family's death. I got too cute with it: tried to "subtly" use a love affair between my border agent and an unwed Mexican mother to mask a meditation on U.S. and Mexican relations. Not sure I pulled it off. And the guard ends up alone and old and dying.
Alicia said, "The girl, the young mother in your book? Marita Sánchez? She seemed quite real to me."
I stopped, turned, brushed the glistening black hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. God, the sweet young scent and promise of her. "If I sell the movie option of that book," I said, "I'll make it a contract stipulation that you play Marita. Deal?"
She gave this the smile it deserved --- the book was far too dark. It could never be a movie. "I'll hold you to it," she said with mock gravity. She got my act ... and that made me want her more.
Then the gunfire started.
There was this flare of light from the pier --- sixty, maybe seventy yards away. That distance and the dark were all that saved us from being cut to ribbons by the first volley. I pivoted, getting myself between the shooter and Alicia. Then we ran.
14
The sand kicked up around our feet as the slugs dug in at the tideline. All that moonlight on silvered water made us silhouettes --- too-easy targets. Running inland though, well, that would take us closer to the shooter --- and off the hardpacked wet sand that was easier to run on.
I checked that distinctive flash flare from the muzzle. It was a Thompson submachine gun. I was sure of it.
I wrapped my right arm around Alicia's shoulders. With my left, I somehow drew my Colt and fired at the machine gun's muzzle flash. The flash jittered --- the shots started going wide of us. I must have actually hit the bastard. But how badly? I shot again at the flare, but it was a long way away and a guess. And my Colt's muzzle flash let the bastard get a better bead on us. A skiff lay abandoned at the tide line. I dragged Alicia with me behind it, then rolled half atop her. I switched gun hands and chanced a look over the boat's hull. Strange ... the machine gunner was firing straight up and over his head. I almost pitied the bastard when all those slugs come raining back down.
Sudden silence --- no more gunfire.
A familiar voice called, "Hector, you okay out there?"
Bud Fiske . Bless him! "Shooter's down Hector --- the coast is clear."
I smiled and stood, waving. I brushed off sand and extended my right hand. Alicia took it and I pulled her up to me. I helped her brush sand from her dress ... felt muscled thighs and hips through the thin fabric. Her eyes searched mine. Reluctantly, I said, "We best get up there ... make sure my friend really has it all in hand." I slipped my arm around her waist as we slogged through sand. She wrapped her arm around my waist.
We climbed the steps up to the pier. Bud was standing there, looking like the world's most rickety Texas Ranger in his white hat. He had one wingtip pressed to our attacker's throat and Wade's .45 leveled at the bastard's right eye. "I gotta get you some lizard-skin boots to go with that hat, Bud," I said.
The Tommy gun was laying several yards away. I picked it up to add to our arsenal of liberated weaponry. As I rose with it, my ribs cracked again. I walked back and squatted down next to the shooter, Mex-style --- hams on heels. The shooter had taken a slug in the shoulder. I guessed that that slug was one I had fired. There was blood pooling under him, much lower down. Probably hit in the back. That would have been Bud's shot. Backshooting --- now, that ain't cricket. Not ever . But then Bud was not a professional. And he was outgunned. And hell,
My most recent book ... written in a fever dream of guilt and liquor and whoring along La Frontera in the weeks following my family's death. I got too cute with it: tried to "subtly" use a love affair between my border agent and an unwed Mexican mother to mask a meditation on U.S. and Mexican relations. Not sure I pulled it off. And the guard ends up alone and old and dying.
Alicia said, "The girl, the young mother in your book? Marita Sánchez? She seemed quite real to me."
I stopped, turned, brushed the glistening black hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. God, the sweet young scent and promise of her. "If I sell the movie option of that book," I said, "I'll make it a contract stipulation that you play Marita. Deal?"
She gave this the smile it deserved --- the book was far too dark. It could never be a movie. "I'll hold you to it," she said with mock gravity. She got my act ... and that made me want her more.
Then the gunfire started.
There was this flare of light from the pier --- sixty, maybe seventy yards away. That distance and the dark were all that saved us from being cut to ribbons by the first volley. I pivoted, getting myself between the shooter and Alicia. Then we ran.
14
The sand kicked up around our feet as the slugs dug in at the tideline. All that moonlight on silvered water made us silhouettes --- too-easy targets. Running inland though, well, that would take us closer to the shooter --- and off the hardpacked wet sand that was easier to run on.
I checked that distinctive flash flare from the muzzle. It was a Thompson submachine gun. I was sure of it.
I wrapped my right arm around Alicia's shoulders. With my left, I somehow drew my Colt and fired at the machine gun's muzzle flash. The flash jittered --- the shots started going wide of us. I must have actually hit the bastard. But how badly? I shot again at the flare, but it was a long way away and a guess. And my Colt's muzzle flash let the bastard get a better bead on us. A skiff lay abandoned at the tide line. I dragged Alicia with me behind it, then rolled half atop her. I switched gun hands and chanced a look over the boat's hull. Strange ... the machine gunner was firing straight up and over his head. I almost pitied the bastard when all those slugs come raining back down.
Sudden silence --- no more gunfire.
A familiar voice called, "Hector, you okay out there?"
Bud Fiske . Bless him! "Shooter's down Hector --- the coast is clear."
I smiled and stood, waving. I brushed off sand and extended my right hand. Alicia took it and I pulled her up to me. I helped her brush sand from her dress ... felt muscled thighs and hips through the thin fabric. Her eyes searched mine. Reluctantly, I said, "We best get up there ... make sure my friend really has it all in hand." I slipped my arm around her waist as we slogged through sand. She wrapped her arm around my waist.
We climbed the steps up to the pier. Bud was standing there, looking like the world's most rickety Texas Ranger in his white hat. He had one wingtip pressed to our attacker's throat and Wade's .45 leveled at the bastard's right eye. "I gotta get you some lizard-skin boots to go with that hat, Bud," I said.
The Tommy gun was laying several yards away. I picked it up to add to our arsenal of liberated weaponry. As I rose with it, my ribs cracked again. I walked back and squatted down next to the shooter, Mex-style --- hams on heels. The shooter had taken a slug in the shoulder. I guessed that that slug was one I had fired. There was blood pooling under him, much lower down. Probably hit in the back. That would have been Bud's shot. Backshooting --- now, that ain't cricket. Not ever . But then Bud was not a professional. And he was outgunned. And hell,
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