Secession: The Storm Page 11

  “Let me do some research before I turn my credit card into a slag heap,” Abe teased. “But I have to say, I’m impressed. Who knows, I might even become one of your best customers.”

  As he left the weapon emporium, Abe remembered seeing a variety of magazines at the local bookstore, entire shelves plastered with pictures of battle rifles and tactical gear. He would pick up some more information and educate himself on the AR.

  “I haven’t felt anything like that in my hands before,” he whispered, pulling into the book peddler’s lot. “It was so… so… so liberating.”

  His elation continued, even as he plodded along through afternoon gridlock. Gone was the belittling he’d received from the reporter, the frustration of his plight pushed back into the far recesses of his mind.

  Pulling into the driveway, he made a decision. There was no way to explain this newfound sensation to his wife – no way she would understand. “I’ll just keep this private,” he convinced himself. “It’s not like I’m having an affair.”

  Stuffing his stack of research material in his briefcase, he informed Kara that he had a ton of work-related analysis to finish. “Sorry, babe. I’m going to be stuck in my office slaving over this stuff for a while. Would you mind ordering a pizza tonight?”

  Abe felt only a small pang of guilt over the deceit. Kara hated guns, and any interest in military grade weapons would only send her spiraling into an orbit of worry.

  Chapter 5 - Awakening

  Eleven Years After Katrina…

  Zach inserted the key and entered his apartment. He could tell by the faint whiff of perfume that Cheyenne was already there.

  Moving to the small breakfast bar, he sighed with relief as he unholstered his weapon and spare magazines, depositing the tools of his trade on the counter. The gentle rustle of footsteps announced her approach from behind. Wrapping her arms around his chest in a welcoming embrace, she balanced on her tiptoes and whispered in a sultry voice, “Welcome home, Ranger.”

  “How long have you been here?” he asked, pivoting to return the hug.

  “I got off an hour early and decided to surprise you,” she responded with a suggestive wink.

  In a glance, Zach understood her meaning, the tall girl clad in nothing but one of his dress shirts. “I know that officers of the law don’t like surprises, but I have a sneaky suspicion that today will be an exception,” she flirted.

  Zach needed no more prompting, pulling the girl tight against him, his passions escalating. Much to the ranger’s surprise, Cheyenne gently pushed him away with both of her palms against his chest, saying, “Before you get your horse into a full gallop, cowboy, there is something I want to ask you about.”

  Puzzled, Zach tilted his head and asked, “What’s up?” And then with a slight grin and an adjustment to the front of his jeans he added, “Besides the obvious, I mean.”

  Sliding her hands to his cheeks, she clasped his chin on either side, enabling her to peer directly into the lawman’s eyes. “Zach, I am worried about you. When I borrowed this shirt from your drawer, an envelope fell to the floor, and I opened it. When did you plan to tell me that you intend to resign from your position?”

  Anger flashed behind Zach’s eyes, his posture stiffening as he pulled away from the girl. “Since when is it okay for you to open my private correspondence?”

  Cheyenne, placing her hands on her hips, responded, “Zachariah Bass, I have been sharing your bed since Texas Tech, and your thoughts since we were kids. Any other red-blooded cowboy would have wanted me in his corral a long time ago. You can’t blame a girl for seeking information where she can find it. Now ‘fess up. Just what is going on with you?”

  His explosive outburst was out of character. “Work is work,” he snarled. “Play is play. You are not welcome to pry into my affairs.”

  At 6’4” and well over 220 pounds, most folks would withdraw from an angry Zachariah Bass… not so with Cheyenne. “You can snort like a mean, old bull all you want, Mr. Lawman, but I care about you, and you and I need to clear the air.”

  “You’re damned right; we need to settle a few things,” he snapped back. “A man needs a woman he can trust not to go nosing around in his work.”

  “Bullshit!” Cheyenne responded. “A hundred years ago, my granddaddy might have gotten away with talking to my grandmother using that caveman mentality, but that is not the way a modern relationship works.”

  Zach turned away, removing his jacket and tie without another word.

  Cheyenne’s tone softened, “Zach… seriously… you’ve wanted to be a ranger since you were a boy. I know it’s not always been what you’ve expected, but no job is. I hate the thought of your throwing it all away.”

  He relaxed, staring into space for a moment before responding. “Do you remember when we were kids, and I used to make you play the damsel in distress so I could be the Texas Ranger coming to rescue you?”

  Nodding, Cheyenne smiled. “Yes, I also remember when you tied me up and then couldn’t get the ropes loose. I had a heck of a time explaining those wrist burns to my daddy.”

  Zach grunted, the episode making him smile. “You were so bony back then - all lanky elbows and knees. Every time I tried to tie you up, you would wiggle out of my knots. I was bound and determined to make you stay put.”

  Striking a model’s pose, Cheyenne pulled the shirt tight across her significant breasts, the white cotton in contrast to her darkly tanned, slender legs. “We’ve both come a long way,” she teased. “I remember when you were so skinny that you had to run around in the shower to get wet.”

  Zach had to agree, “Yes, we’ve both come a long way, but I’m not sure this path is the right one for me. My annual review is in a few weeks, and I typed up that letter because I think there’s a chance the boss might ask for my resignation. I wanted to have it ready.”

  “What happened, Zach? You were so thrilled when you got your badge. You were strutting around like a cocky rooster with a bevy of hens. And then it seemed like everything changed… and now… now it’s like you’re just going through the motions.”

  “That’s not fair,” he started to protest. “You don’t know what it’s like. You shouldn’t judge me without walking a mile in my shoes.”

  “It’s not just your job. It’s our relationship, too. Do you really want to know why I opened that envelope? I pried because I thought you might be trying to cull a different filly from the herd. The way you’ve been acting, I was worried there might be someone else.”

  “No, there’s no one else.”

  Cheyenne’s exasperation was evident, but she was undeterred. After waiting for the lawman to continue, she resolved to milk it out of him, bit by bit. “Why are you worried your boss is going to ask you to resign?”

  That was a difficult question for the Texan, one he’d tried to answer himself for years. The words just wouldn’t form sentences, his thoughts too scrambled to manufacture paragraphs of cohesive thought. He was sure Cheyenne just wouldn’t understand.

  Where had it all started going wrong? What was it that kept him from accepting promotions, from following up on opportunities that could lead to advancement? Cheyenne was right; he was only going through the motions - not a bad enough actor to get fired outright, just treading water and watching the time pass by.

  How could he explain the episode with Tusk or the guilt he’d felt over the New Orleans incident? What words could he use to describe the dozen other small episodes that soured his soul? And perhaps more importantly, would such disclosures change the way his life-long love looked at him?

  “Nothing went wrong,” he finally answered. “I’m coming to the conclusion that I’m not cut out to be an authority figure. I’ve developed a strong cynicism toward my fellow man. Somewhere along the line, I’ve lost all respect for the legal system, and worst of all, I suffer bouts of incredible guilt over being a part of the whole damn mess. Now, are you happy? Satisfied with my confession?”

  Shaking her head,
Cheyenne responded, “I think I understand. I really am trying to. If it’s that bad, why haven’t you resigned already and moved onto something else?”

  Because I’m scared, he wanted to shout. Because of fear. Because I know what it’s like being on the other side, and I’m frightened to exist in that place. “Because the only thing I have going for me… the only thing that keeps my head from exploding… is the community of my fellow rangers. I’m now a member of a fellowship… a due paying affiliate of an exclusive club. If I resign, then I’m carrying around all of the garbage I’ve collected without any of that support. Living that way scares the hell out of me.”

  Again, Cheyenne’s hands landed on her hips. “The only thing that keeps your head from exploding? What about us, Zach? What about our relationship? I’m feeling a little like chopped liver here. I’ve been putting up with a moody, sometimes sullen man for years, hoping and praying you’d come out of it. I’ve excused so much shit from you, telling myself that you needed me… that you wanted me… that if I played it the right way, you would open up, let me in, and I could help. Now I’m wondering if it all hasn’t been a waste of time.”

  He didn’t reply. She watched him saunter casually to the refrigerator and pull out a beer. He popped the top, meandered to the couch, flopped down, and fumbled for the television remote.

  She waited, hoping for eye contact, a smile, wink… something. The only thing she sensed was a clear signal that the conversation was over.

  Cheyenne disappeared into the bedroom, emerging a few minutes later fully dressed and carrying a small gym bag. “Zach, I’m leaving. I’m not getting any younger. I’m going to head back to San Marcos and visit my folks for a bit. Good luck.”

  He didn’t react, his eyes remaining focused on the television as if he didn’t hear her words.

  She strolled over, bent at the waist, kissed his forehead, and then she was gone.

  Abe resisted the urge to put a boot through the television. His hand, trembling with anger, managed to set the remote gently on the coffee table. It wouldn’t do any good to damage the electronics – wouldn’t change a thing.

  Exhaling in a subconscious attempt to slow his racing heart, he sat quietly watching the now dark screen. Rage boiled to his core; frustration pounded in his head. It was going to happen – she was going to be elected the next president of the United States of America.

  This evening’s nationally televised debate had been the last hope. Glued to the boob tube for over three hours, he’d watched with more anticipation and angst than any Super Bowl in memory. But in the end, the underdog had fallen, and the analysts had been unanimous – she was going to win.

  With a supreme effort, he suppressed the fury. It was time for clear thinking and cold analysis, not irrational, ire-inspired ramblings of emotional thought.

  It was still a few weeks before the election, but there was little hope of either candidate changing the math. The computer models, polls, and state-by-state prediction of the Electoral College left little suspense regarding the ultimate outcome. She was going to be the Commander in Chief.

  Abe held no personal grudge against Heidi Clifton. He’d never met the woman. Nor was it the Democratic Party that motivated his disdain. Conservatives and liberals had been duking it out for decades. At his age, he’d observed the ebb and flow of power in Washington change directions many times. But this was different. This election signaled a fundamental injustice, and it repulsed him.

  No, he reiterated for the hundredth time; it wasn’t just the Democrats, or their politics, or the left-leaning policies embraced by Mrs. Clifton that disturbed him. What was so troubling was his fellow countrymen’s ignorance concerning the erosion of their liberties. To make matters worse, most of the talking heads on television believed that the Republicans would hold both the House and the Senate. They acted as if this should be some grand salvation for those on the right of the political spectrum. Abe knew it wasn’t true – he had firsthand experience that both sides cared little for individual rights. If anything, the division of power meant more gridlock, bickering, division, and inaction.

  It all served to feed the carved-out, hollow feeling in his soul.

  But what really tore him apart was the injustice. Heidi Clifton’s victory was a reward - a prize given to those who didn’t deserve it.

  Abe rose from the couch, ambling toward the study. Since Kara had left him six months ago, the house seemed more than just empty. Despite the same furniture adorning the rooms, the same pictures hanging from the walls, there was a difference. During the divorce, his wife of 13 years hadn’t shown any interest in obtaining her share of their physical possessions. She hadn’t wanted any of it. Nor had she tried to clean him out financially. Her attorney had offered a reasonable, fair settlement of their assets, and then she had simply disappeared from his life.

  But in reality, she had taken so much from him. The place was now devoid of her sounds and smells, missing her spirit and ambiance. His heart was just as empty.

  As he wandered down the hall, he stopped at the usual place. A montage of pictures greeted him, memories from happier times. There was Charlie, grinning with a huge catfish he’d pulled from the bayou. Right beside the image of his brother was his favorite photograph of his dad. Mr. Hendricks was dressed to the hilt, enjoying the festivities at his retirement party.

  For the thousandth time since the incident after Katrina, guilt racked his being. Not only had he failed to prevent the deaths of his father and brother, but had eventually sold out, sacrificing their memory and the family’s honor.

  He abandoned the wall of memories, sauntering on to enter what had been his favorite room. The dark wood panels covering the walls advertised the space as a serious abode of male dominance – a place where business was conducted. The substantial, heavy desk accented the same theme. Bookshelves lined one wall, hundreds of bound volumes facing outward, signaling a belief that knowledge was a tool. A modern laptop rested nearby, the dark screen and keyboard seemingly unoffended by the more oft-used books.

  This had been a retreat and preserve, an office, library, and his only personal space in their sizable dwelling. Kara had avoided the room, even the smallest hint of a woman’s touch invoking a notice of trespass from her husband. “Hang what you will, wherever you want,” he had informed with a smile. “The rest of the house is yours. You can color, paint, decorate and adorn anything and anywhere except for my study. I need a bastion of testosterone, a small cave of primitive, bad taste and dull hue.”

  Now the entire home was his, a somber overcast prevalent throughout. The study had been stripped of its unique personality. While Kara’s love of colors and texture still lingered on the physical surfaces of his home, the décor was flat, singly dimensional, and lifeless without her.

  The rifle was right where he’d left it, leaning against the wall in stoic solitude. He hefted the weighty piece, respecting what he considered a masterpiece of engineering, craftsmanship, and technology. His latest acquisition… it was called a Trackerpoint.

  There were many more firearms in the nearby closet. Expensive weapons acquired over the years for whatever hobby or desire filled his fancy at the time. A catalog of calibers, styles, and capabilities resided in the specially constructed gunroom, a collection any respectable dealer would sincerely appreciate.

  There had been periods when sport was at the forefront of his attentions. Mountain hunting, waterfowl, competitive skeet, and even a few trips to exotic lands had constituted recreation for the man seeking to experience joy again. Through his adventures, he amassed quite a collection of specialized weapons for all manner of hunting and shooting.

  The rifle he held now was different from all the rest. It was extraordinary, and served only one purpose – the taking of life at extreme distances.

  It was a new breed of firearm, a marriage of technology and ultra-precise machining made possible only by digital equipment. Rather than highly polished wood, a stock of black plastic extended f
rom one end. Anodized aluminum and layers of ceramic coatings surrounded the inner workings. The traditional tube of a high-powered scope had been replaced with a boxy-looking apparatus, complete with buttons, wire-jacks, and a battery compartment.

  Even the trigger had a different shape, feel, and most importantly - purpose. This weapon no longer directly engaged the firing pin, that task now controlled by one of the many computer chips built into the unit.

  This gun was exceptional on so many different levels.

  For over 400 years, a rifleman did his best to estimate how far his bullet was going to drop and spin. He would center on a point of aim and then pull the trigger. The better marksmen were capable of judging distance, wind, humidity and other factors that affected the bullet’s ballistics. World-class shooters could hold the aim true until the lead had exited the muzzle.

  Now, with the technology he held in his hand, none of that was necessary. Laser range finders, GPS sensors, target acquisition software, and computer chips executing several million instructions per second had all but eliminated the human from the loop. The trigger no longer engaged the firing pin because the digital system was better at the task. A man wasn’t necessary to judge distance – the laser being far more accurate.