Action always beats reaction. Hatch survived un-survivable encounters by the grace of that principle instilled by her father and refined in the fifteen years of battle she tested it against. In those trials, in the world of combat, no truer fact existed. Action beat reaction and the hand of the devil literally held Hatch.
Forty-One
Hatch lay flat on her back. Her stone mattress wet with the angry water's spray reminded her, painfully so, of the journey it had taken her to get from the ridge thirty feet above to where she now lay, looking up into the end of the killer's rifle. The legendary El Vibora. The Viper, serving his dark master's command, had turned his aim from the raft to her. One slip had shifted favor to the hand of the devil.
On the wet, rocky shore of the Rio Grande River, Hatch heard the words whispered to her on the wind brought to her from the churn of whitewater. As with all words of wisdom, they are only considered wise at the point in time where wisdom is needed. Hatch had used her father's wisdom to find strength in dark times and resolve when her measure was tested.
Many times, her father's lessons, living long beyond the twelve years they had shared together, had enabled Hatch to cheat death. This did not appear to be one of those times.
Laying on the rocky riverbank with the setting sun slowing descent and setting the sky ablaze, Hatch found that for the first time in her life, she had no way to capitalize on the words her father said in the woods behind their mountain home.
The first punch often ends the fight.
He'd been going on that day about action versus reaction and the importance of always striving to be on the offensive. It didn't make much sense to the young Hatch, at least not then and not as it did now. But on this day, it seemed the message he'd sent had been received by the man in the wide-brimmed black hat, standing above her.
His ghostly, nearly translucent skin peeked out from under his hat. Two distinctively lighter marks paired underneath his right eye. Dark storm clouds brewed in the eyes sighting down the long barrel of the rifle now pointed in the direction of her forehead.
The first punch often ends the fight.
El Vibora won the draw. The advantage was clearly in his favor, and the first punch was about to hit Hatch’s forehead in the form of a bullet-shaped fist, traveling two-thousand-seven-hundred and ten feet-per-second from the end of the rifle.
Hatch met the eyes of her killer. In the brief unspoken exchange, two killers, regardless of their cause, locked eyes. Like rams locking horns, their souls were momentarily locked in the age-old battle of good and evil. Hatch stood face to face with The Viper in the open door separating life from death. It appeared to Hatch that Murphy's law had reared its head once again, this time tipping his hat in favor of the devil.
She tried to retrieve the image of Dalton Savage's face to replace the ghostly one hovering above. His face flickered but wouldn't hold. Her mind, in battle with itself, refused to drift.
El Vibora stood silhouetted by the warm oranges and deep reds of the setting sun. But that's not what caught her attention. It was the hole she’d placed with her sixth shot during their first encounter.
The sun sent its final goodbye to the day in the form of a cord of gold beaming like Zeus's lightning bolt through the small opening she'd created with her Glock. The goldenrod sailed a short journey until it found its end in the reflective surface of Ayala's father's watch from the raft. The reflection of light was intensified by the frothy mist created by the whitewater.
The beam bounced back toward the hole it had come from but at an angle, putting it in line with the devil's hitman's right eye. Then Murphy's Law changed hands with the devil and passed favor to the supine Hatch. And in the light reflecting off the Peacock Man's watch, El Vibora, The Viper, blinked.
A flood of tears marched down the killer's face, stretching a river across his cheek.
The first punch often ends the fight.
In the frozen speck of time Hatch realized something. It was the nagging part that wouldn't let her give way to her end. It was why she couldn't hold the image of Savage's face in her mind’s eye. She couldn't do those things, because there was a second part to the message her father sent, a message the devil's right hand never got.
If you happen to take the first punch, you better make sure you damn well finish the fight.
And in that moment, Rachel Hatch did what she did best.
Hatch had been in a knock-down, drag-out fight with the devil and his henchmen. A fight that began over twenty years ago on a cold morning near the lowland brook behind her family’s house in the small town of Hawk's Landing, where she found her father dead. But death had not ended the conversation between father and daughter that day. Nor any other to follow. Her father's words continued to find meaning in her life long after their first utterance. And the words fueled the stoked the fire inside her.
Finish the fight.
The age-old war between good and evil chose its battlefield to be the bank of a river, dividing two communities who used the rope between them to overcome their differences, outweighing those of politics and geography.
Then the devil's hound did as he was commanded. He stood with his back to the sun which, as any shooter will advise, is the best way to use the light to blind a target. And he did as training and experience taught him to do, as it had taught Hatch to do. But in the devil's haste, the killer he sent lacked the benefit of her father's wisdom.
If you happen to strike first, do not hesitate. With hesitation comes opportunity. And if it presents, you better take it.
The Viper’s right eye leaked water like a broken spigot. The cartel gunman rapidly blinked his eyes, only strengthening the tear-made river rolling down his face. Hatch seized the opportunity of El Vibora’s distraction.
The Glock within reach, Hatch grabbed it and got off one single shot before the man's eye had a chance to clear.
The blood flowing from the small hole in the center of The Viper's forehead at the T-intersection, where the bridge of the nose met his brow made its way down the right side of the legendary killer's face, joining the river of tears.
The rifle dropped from his hand. The Viper stood motionless, as if his body were in argument with death and not yet willing to concede his hold on life. The blood mixed with the saline of his tears and spread out like the twisted thorns of Hatch's scar. The blood running down made his face look as though the old scars of the rattlesnake's bite were opened and bleeding once again.
Just before The Viper fell, Hatch saw confidence in the man's eyes as he faced death, and she hoped to have the same when her time came. The fearlessness with which the killer walked away from the world was not all he demonstrated at his end.
In the last blink of his right eye, Hatch saw peace in its final closing. A peace that could be only achieved in death, but only truly appreciated by those who spent the better part of their lives walking hand in hand with death.
The darkness of his eyes fell with the gust of wind that knocked off his hat, a feat even her sixth shot had not been able to achieve.
Hatch watched the dead man's wide-brimmed black hat float down the river until it was swallowed by the raging whitewater.
Forty-Two
The raft served as a makeshift bed for Ayala. Sanchez rummaged the Lincoln for any medical supplies, and before finding a combat medic's first aid kit, the former FES operator came across a brown leather ventilated case with a large rattlesnake coiled inside. Hatch watched Sanchez release the snake away from the group into a cluster of rocks. The snake tasted the air with its tongue before disappearing down a dark hole. The noise of its rattle rang out one last time and then faded away.