Hawke’s Fury by Reavis Z. Wortham

Hawke's Fury

Hawke’s Fury by Reavis Z. Wortham (Sonny Hawke Thriller #4)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 3.1 MB

As a boy, award-winning writer, Reavis Z. Wortham hunted and fished the river bottoms near Chicota, Texas, the inspiration for Center Springs. He is the author of Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Café. Humor editor and frequent contributor for Texas Fish and Game Magazine, he writes on everything from fishing to deer hunting. In addition to several other magazines, his work has appeared in American Cowboy and Texas Sporting Journal. A retired educator of 35 years, he and wife Shana live in Frisco, Texas.

Border patrol agents are being ambushed along the Big Bend region of West Texas, a notorious drug corridor running east and west across the Lone Star State. They’re not the only targets. A film production depicting human trafficking in the area has been attacked by a brutal drug cartel. Into this lawless frontier steps Texas Ranger Sonny Hawke, ready and willing to dispense his own brand of justice. It’s an all-out war with the thinnest line separating the good from the bad. Sonny knows the only way out is to aim straight and stand your ground . . .

“Amateurs.” Ethan cut his eyes at me from under the brim of his hat. “I wish I had the SUV concession for all this. Somebody’s making money somewhere. Which one’s Gabe?” I pointed at one of the men facing in our general direction. All but Gabe wore white T-shirts under unbuttoned plaid shirts. “That’s him in the priest collar who just got out of the Expedition, beside Tortuga.” “What’s with that?” I shrugged. “He’s getting paid.” “Which one’s Tortuga?” “The only guy who doesn’t have a gun in his hand.” “He looks like somebody’s grandpa.” Hollywood’s version of a Mexican bad guy, the squatty man with thick rolled shoulders wore a gray mustache, a loose-fitting off-white frontera guayabera shirt, and baggy khakis. Beside him was Gabe Nakai, my dad’s ranch manager and a close friend. The hair rose on the back of my neck, watching an old buddy in the company of armed gangsters from Ojinaga, across the Rio Grande. Ethan must have sensed how I felt. “It ain’t right, seeing him down there, is it?” “That and the priest collar around his neck.” “I’m still working on that one, too.” He tilted his head like a dog, as if looking at the scene from a different angle would help evaluate the situation. “That’s something else that doesn’t make sense in all this.” “Ours is not to reason why.” Even I was surprised at my quote. “Tennyson.” “You did listen in Miss Adams’ English class.” “Naw, just memorized those lines for a test, and for some reason they stuck with me.” El Norte still had his back to us, but his voice came loud and clear, a trick of the acoustics from the horseshoe bowl of rocks surrounding our position. His hair was so black and slicked back that it looked to be oiled. The side of his whisker-stubbled face looked to be chiseled granite. “Tortuga! Did you bring my money?” The Mexican national standing beside Gabe spread his hands. “My coke?” El Norte flicked a command with his fingers. A gangster holding an AK-47 reached inside the open door of his SUV and withdrew a leather briefcase. He flipped the latches and dumped a pile of taped packets onto the hood. The cartel leader waved his hand toward the drugs. “As promised.” “Who uses brand-new English leather briefcases these days? It’s backpacks, mostly, from what I’ve seen.” Ethan sighed. “This is making my head hurt.” I pointed at the dust clouds roaring down the dirt track, directly toward the scenario unfolding at an achingly slow pace. “Who are those guys? I’ve been watching ’em coming for a good long while.” “Don’t know. I’ve been wondering the same thing, but they’re about to make somebody down there pretty mad.”

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