Stephen Cannell - On The Grind

"Okay, let's see how quickly we can get out of here," I said.

"Hey, Scully. The blankets hanging on those racks-you know what I think they are?" I shrugged. "Horse blankets."

I was mystified. "So what?"

"There's gotta be horses around here," Rocky explained. "There are places that horses can go that cars or Jeeps can't. I remember this area from before. There's a chain of mountains between Mexicali and Ejido Tabasco. It can't be too far. If we could get there — "

"On horses? You out of your mind?"

"What's your problem? Didn't you ride as a kid?"

"Hell, no. I was raised in a damn orphanage. I rode stolen bicycles."

"If we can get to the rocks near here on horseback, they can't follow in vehicles. I'm pretty sure the Hills of Tabasco are close."

He was probably right. If we tried to get away on foot, we wouldn't get far. If we stole a truck, they would hunt us down in Jeeps. "Let's deal with it once we check this place out," I said.

We exited the laundry and climbed a flight of stairs up to the ground floor of the building. We came out in a large tack room that was loaded with bridles and fancy, silver-studded saddles and martingales hanging from pegs on the walls. When we opened the back door of the tack room, we stepped into an impressive new barn with at least ten stalls, each holding a beautifully brushed Arabian Thoroughbred. Aside from the animals, the barn appeared to be empty. I could hear a radio playing nearby, tuned to a Mexican music station.

"Hang on," Rocky whispered, and moved toward the stalls.

"Where you going?"

"Gonna go select the two best horses," he whispered.

I groaned and held his back, aiming my newly acquired Kim-ber out the open door of the barn. It took several minutes for Rocky to pick our mounts. He chose a huge bay and a dappled gray, putting on their bridles and leading them out of the stalls into the center section of the barn. As I held the reins, he began to saddle up, getting equipment out of the tack room and first placing a blanket, then a huge silver-adorned Mexican saddle on each animal. When he had cinched up both, he pointed to the big dappled gray.

"The gelding is yours," he said. "His name is Humo Blanco. It was painted on the gate of his stall."

"White Smoke?" I said. "Must be a dope dealer's horse."

Rocky nodded and mounted the bay.

"Wait a minute," I told him. "Don't want to leave the other horses here so those assholes can follow us."

Rocky held my reins as I moved back toward the stalls and opened all the doors, shooing the rest of the horses out. I slapped the last horse on the withers and shouted loudly. The entire herd took off, heading out the front of the barn. I mounted White Smoke and followed Rocky as we cantered out of the building. It was all I could do to stay in the saddle.

I had actually been on a few swayback park-ride-type horses in the past, but I was still pretty busted up and my scrotum felt like it had been attacked by wolves. White Smoke and I got off to a bad start. I was dude-ranch material at best. Rocky, on the other hand, rode like it was in his DNA.

Once we got out into the open, I could see that the barn was part of a huge complex that sat right next to the border. Farther away on the horizon, I could see the twin towns of Mexicali and Calexico.

The expensive ranch we were escaping from was located on a grassy patch of land right at the edge of the Baja desert. There were beautiful corrals and low, tile-roofed buildings surrounding a large Spanish-style hacienda and courtyard. The main house was three stories with a red-tile roof and arched doorways.

I didn't use up much time admiring the spread because almost immediately half a dozen men in windbreakers carrying long guns began running out of the houses into the yard. I knew from the way they cradled their weapons at port arms that they were trained bodyguards. Some of them jumped into Jeeps. Others tried to stop the eight fleeing horses with no luck. As the last of the unsaddled Arabians cleared the courtyard, Rocky and I followed. We streaked under a large arch emblazoned with the words CIELO RANCHERO — Heavenly Ranch.

We rode out into the desert, close behind the eight escaping horses. In less than a minute, four Jeeps full of armed men were racing under the arch, pursuing us, less than two hundred yards behind.

As we rode away from Cielo Ranchero, I was pumping so much adrenaline I didn't even feel the beating Horace had given me. I struggled to stay behind Rocky's bay, eating a lot of dust in the process.

The other fleeing stallions were fanning out, each heading in a separate direction. As Rocky had predicted, there was a low chain of mountains about half a mile to the southeast. If we could get our horses up into the rocks, we would be able to leave the pursuing Jeeps behind.

As I was calculating those odds, the first shots rang out. They made a flat popping noise, like a distant backfire. I pulled my Kimber and shot back. The instant I fired, White Smoke shied to the left, almost throwing me off. It looked way easier when John Wayne did it. My balls were engaged in round two, taking a brutal pounding on the silver pommel. I tried to ease this by getting into the horse's rhythm, but no matter what I tried, I was in agony. Every time I glanced back the Jeeps were closer.

"We aren't gonna make it," I shouted. "We need to find a place and make a stand."

"Over there " Rocky shouted and pointed to the right, where, about two hundred yards away, there was a tin-roofed line shack surrounded by a low adobe wall. It looked like some kind of storage shed for field equipment. Rocky wheeled and rode in that direction. I followed, bouncing like a rag doll in the saddle.

We made it to a spot behind the building. We didn't want our horses to get hit when the shooting started, so we turned them loose, slapping their flanks. They bolted, running away into the desert.

When I looked up, the Jeeps were now about five hundred yards away, slowing down and spreading out, attempting to surround us on three sides. Without warning, Rocky aimed his automatic at the closest Jeep and started firing.

"They're too far away. Save your ammo. We only have one clip each. Let 'em get in closer, then make every round count."

We hunkered down behind the low adobe wall and waited. In the distance, I saw the Jeeps coming to a stop. They were still about three hundred yards away, not out of range for a nine-millimeter handgun, but unless we got damn lucky, an impossible shot.

Several of the bodyguards were already out of the Jeeps and taking cover behind the fenders of their vehicles, aiming their long guns across the hoods at us. Then a voice blasted from an electronic bullhorn.

"Throw down your guns. Put your hands in the air! You won't be killed if you give up."

"Is that Manny Avila?" I asked.

Rocky said, "Whoever he is, he's got a great sense of humor."

"This must be his place. That rancho is probably the Avilas' Mexican gun-and drug-running base. They smuggle their contraband through that tunnel, then truck it up in produce vans and distribute it in L. A." Rocky didn't respond. His eyes were locked on our assailants. "Look, if Manny Avila is in that Jeep and we can get our hands on him, we could really change the dynamic here."

"How the hell we gonna do that?" Rocky said, cocking a worried eyebrow at me. "They're just gonna lay back and pick us off with those carbines."

"Hold them back, but don't waste too many rounds. I'm gonna try and get inside this shed."

"Why the hell are — "

I didn't wait around to explain. I headed for the front door of the line shack. Gunshots rang out almost immediately and little pieces of adobe dust flew off the edge of the building as I rounded the corner. I got to the front door, shot the lock off and, as bullets peppered the wall and wood above my head, I dove inside.