Secession: The Storm Read online

  The prisoner mistook his reaction. “The hombre won’t be disappointed in my skills,” she said in a sultry string of broken English. “I understand what is expected for taking me past the green men (Border Patrol). I know how to express my gratitude… especially for such a strong, handsome gringo.”

  “Save it, cupcake, not interested,” Zach responded. “You want to express your gratitude? Then tell the truth about what happened back at the trailer.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout and then covered herself with the bed linen.

  Twenty minutes later, the ranger picked up his smart phone and confirmed he had signal.

  He dialed the Brewster County Sheriff’s office, advised them of his estimated arrival, and asked the dispatcher to give the local hospital warning that he was inbound with a gunshot victim. “She’s not critical,” he informed the woman on the other end. “As a matter of fact, I thought that skinny gal was going to kick my ass for a minute back there. We had a failure to communicate.”

  “So you think I should let Barb know to expect a walking freebie?”

  Zach understood the inquiry and its implication. The local clinics and hospitals along the border were inundated with undocumented patients, most without insurance or money. Yet, the law said they couldn’t turn anyone away. For a small town operation, like the one in Alpine, it was a crushing rock pushing them against an unmoving, hard place. And the rock kept getting bigger.

  “The state might pick this one up; I’m not sure. She’s a material witness and a victim as well. Hell, the feds might even want to talk to her given the company she was keeping.”

  As soon as he disconnected that call, his next priority was to update his superior, Major Alcorn. “Sir, the suspect was somewhat less than cooperative with the investigation,” the ranger began. A response buzzed in his ear, his boss demanding clarification. “Well, sir, as it turns out, Tusk is dead. He’s nearly decapitated, lying in a house trailer just off Highway 170, two miles east of Study Butte. I have the GPS coordinates.”

  “He committed suicide, Zach?”

  Ranger Bass knew what his boss was implying, and it had nothing to do with Tusk ending his own life. Within Company E, headquartered in El Paso, pointing a firearm at a ranger was considered “suicidal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Yes, sir, an unknown Latino female who was also wounded in the exchange - not critically though. I was unable to communicate my intent because of the language barrier, so she is handcuffed in my backseat. I’m driving her into Alpine for medical treatment. And sir, there is something else I think you should know. I found a gym bag stuffed full of cash… and your picture was inside with the money.”

  “Really? That’s odd. I’m not sure what to make of that,” Alcorn replied, his tone carrying more puzzlement than concern.

  “My read is that the cartel may have put a price on your head, sir. I think Tusk received his down payment, and then probably visited our area, planning to look you up as soon as he had satisfied his needs.”

  “Interesting theory,” the lawman’s supervisor answered, seemingly dismissing Zach’s hypothesis. “So, how far out are you, Bass?”

  “Less than 30 minutes, sir,” Zach replied, wondering why his location and estimated time of arrival took precedence over an apparent contract killer.

  “I see,” Alcorn responded flatly. There was a long pause, the major apparently considering his options. Finally, “I’ve had another assignment come up, and I’m going to give it to you. I’m afraid it can’t wait until you’ve completed your paperwork on this cartel enforcer,” the supervisor explained, hesitating to switch gears and gather his thoughts. “I’m sure you have been watching this storm in the Gulf and probably know that this hurricane is kicking our Louisiana neighbors’ butts. Now that the levees in New Orleans have been breached and most of the city is under water, they’ve been bussing thousands of survivors into Houston. Bottom line… Company A is overwhelmed and undermanned. It seems our friends over in the Crescent City are gifting us their prisoners… cleaning out their jails and shipping their felons over here. The governor has ordered all of our units to send supplemental manpower to shore up our efforts. I’m sending you to visit H-Town.”

  Damn it, Zach promptly thought, but he said nothing. “Yes, sir. When and where do I report?”

  As his boss detailed the contact information, Zach barely managed to keep his disappointment in check. He was pulling into the Alpine hospital by the time the call ended.

  Jane Doe-Garcia walked into the emergency area, her bloody shoulder and sheet-blanket advancing her position forward as a triage priority. After watching her being shown to an examination room, Zach turned to find a Department of Public Safety uniformed officer standing behind him.

  “Hey, Hinton, what’s up?” Zach greeted.

  “You suck, Ranger Bass,” the officer grinned. “That’s what’s up. I just got a call to show up here and take over this case for your sorry, privileged ass.”

  “Ahhh,” the ranger replied sarcastically, “I’m so sorry you have to do a little work for a change, Trooper Hinton.”

  The two lawman strolled outside, Hinton more curious than angry. “So what gives, Zach? I know you ranger-types are all-important, all-busy keepers of the peace, but this is the first time I’ve ever been asked to clean up behind one of your cases.”

  “Sorry, Hinton. Not my doing, I swear. There’s some emergency down in Houston, and Austin has issued orders. Believe me; the last place in the world I want to be is back east.”

  Hinton nodded, understanding his co-worker’s position thoroughly. “Back east” meant population density, oversized, bureaucratic police departments, and morally-challenged defense attorneys. It was an entirely different world to an officer of the law.

  Zach handed the money over to the state trooper and then made sure the wounded woman hadn’t left anything in the back seat of his truck.

  Peering inside the gym bag, Hinton let out a whistle, “Damn, that’s a lot of cash, even for one of the cartel guys. You would have thought he could have afforded a little higher class female companionship with this much moola.”

  Zach shrugged, “No kidding. Did you notice that little ‘Kodak moment’ inside? I talked to the old man. Told him about the cash and the picture. I hope he watches his backside. He’s pissed somebody off – real good.”

  “That tough, old bird? Alcorn?” the trooper replied, shaking his head. “They better send somebody a little more skilled if they want to take down that decrepit bastard.”

  “I wish I could hang around and see the fireworks, but I’ve got to head east. Make sure the boss takes care of himself, would you, Hinton?”

  “Will do. Sorry you’ve got to take a bite of the shit sandwich, Zach… especially after a nice takedown like this one. Give the boys back in Houston my regrets.”

  Zach knew exactly what was meant. The ranger’s role in Texas law enforcement had transitioned over the years. The small group of men sworn into the organization now numbered fewer than 200 individuals. Long gone were the days when the agency was the forefront of peacekeeping, at times more closely resembling a paramilitary organization than a group of policemen.

  In modern times, the rangers were called upon to supplement local, rural law enforcement, and they utilized their scientific skills more than their firearms. Forensics, cyber investigations, audit, and financial examinations dominated the caseload.

  Only in West Texas was there still a high demand for rugged, sturdy men who used their weapons more than their keyboards. And that legacy was being eroded over time. The gentlemen back in Houston were little more than forensic Boy Fridays, at the beck and call of the city’s cops or working unwanted cases from the surrounding counties.

  When Zach had been accepted into the ranks a few years prior, he’d been thrilled with his assignment to Company E out of El Paso. Even as a newcomer, he understood the nuances. Back east, different rules, compl
ex roles, tainted scrutiny, and unclear boundaries overrode what he believed was real, authentic, community service.

  The rangers were still on the frontline of justice in West Texas, and that suited Zachariah Bass just fine.

  “Dad’s in trouble, and we have to go,” Charlie declared.

  Abe didn’t meet his brother’s gaze, instead choosing to keep his eyes on the unfathonable news video streaming from New Orleans. “You’re right, of course. We have to pull the old man out. I wish he’d listened to us and evacuated before the storm hit.”

  Charlie waved him off, “You know that stubborn old goat won’t leave his house. Hell, it’s like pulling wisdom teeth just to get him to come to holiday celebrations and graduations. No way is a little, old hurricane going to make him retreat.”

  The television flashed to images of a submerged stop sign, only the top few inches of the white letters visible above the muddy waters. “Yeah, a hurricane might not do it, but I bet a flood will. That doesn’t look good, brother.”

  “I’ll hook my bass boat up to the 4-wheel drive. We can be down there in six hours… maybe seven if the cops have the main roads blocked,” Charlie replied.

  The older brother didn’t respond for a minute, the parade of rain-swollen landscapes governing the TV coverage now usurped by the first reports of gunfire, looting, and vandalism coming out of the Crescent City.

  Abe ruminated over his brother’s estimated travel schedule. The hurricane had weakened by the time it had reached their northeastern Louisiana homes, the electricity only out for a few hours after the worst of the storm had passed. For once, he was glad to be living away from the coast.

  “We’ll have to deal with that,” Abe said, nodding toward a still image of a young man exiting a jewelry store, heavy-duty shotgun in one hand, a fistful of gold chains dangling from the other.

  Charlie’s words projected bravado, but his tone carried doubt. “Dad’s got his duck guns. He can take care of himself.”

  “Maybe. And he can go upstairs to escape the rising flood. But he’s not going to last long up there without food and water. We better get packing.”

  Charlie was on his feet and moving for the back door. “We’re going to need extra gas, flashlights, some emergency food, and water. I can do all that if you can pack the guns and bring along some cash.”

  “Cash?”

  “We might need to bribe our way in, or buy something along the way. Hell, I don’t know…. Isn’t cash always king?”

  Abe nodded, shooing his brother out the door. “I guess. I’ll pull together some supplies while you get the truck ready. Then I’ll come over in a bit and help you hook up the boat.”

  Abe flipped off the television, his own personal hurricane of thought whirling through his brain. In his mind-storm, the logistics of the rescue was like the wind, changing direction and speed at a moment’s notice. The risk associated with entering an area already experiencing violence was as steady as the rain. He snickered when he realized that the storm surge, always the most dangerous part, was going to be explaining the plan to his wife.

  He found Kara in the living room, calculator, bank statements, and the checkbook scattered across her lap and the coffee table. “Any word on your father?” she asked, peering up with concerned eyes.

  “No, not specifically. But things have deteriorated badly. The levees have breached, and the city is flooding. Charlie and I are going to drive down and pull dad out.”

  “You’re what? No, you’re not…,” Kara stopped mid-sentence, desperately not wanting to come across like the stereotypical nagging, demanding mate. Perhaps a more tempered response would be met with less resistance. “What I mean is… Abe, that sounds like a dangerous idea,” she continued, more carefully choosing her words. “Besides, aren’t the authorities already responding? Won’t the police and fire departments be better equipped to rescue people?”

  My beautiful, sweet Kara, Abe thought. Your vision of the world is so naïve… so orderly and proper. I dread the day when reality strikes close to home.

  “The squall has caused more damage than was expected, and it looks like the emergency responders are completely overwhelmed. The streets are choked with rushing floodwaters; one report claiming it was over 10 feet deep in spots. Electrical power is out all over the city, no fresh drinking water and no working phone system either.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Edward? Is his cell working at all? How do you know that you can get to him anyway?” Kara fired the questions in rapid succession as her mind grasped the apparent seriousness of the situation, the escalating apprehension apparent in her voice.

  “We haven’t been able to get dad on the phone all day. Charlie and I are just going to drive as far as the road will take us safely, then launch his little boat and go get dad. We’ll be back in a day or two, three at the outside.”

  Kara stood, concern etched across her face. “You know how the media is. Maybe the news crews are making more of this storm than it really is. And even if the reports are accurate, surely the federal government is sending in massive amounts of assistance,” she stated. “Those TV crews are always out for the ratings instead of the truth. And if the situation truly is catastrophic, I doubt Uncle Sam needs your help. What makes you think this risk is necessary?” his mate queried, hoping more than believing that the situation had been blown out of proportion.

  “You have had your nose in those bank statements for way too long, sweetie. Why don’t you put your work aside and watch cable news for a few minutes while I gather my things? Just five minutes ago, the screen was inundated with footage of families scampering onto their rooftops to evade the storm waters. It was surreal… as if the ocean were reclaiming the city. Check it out, honey. If you still feel like Charlie and I are misreading the situation, then we can talk about it some more, but from what I saw, he and I need to get to New Orleans right away.”

  Kara nodded, rising from the couch and padding toward the den.

  Abe watched her go, shaking his head after she’d rounded the corner. They’d had this conversation so many times; he should have anticipated her reaction.

  The first time had been just over a year after they had been married. Their household income had finally reached a level that enabled the purchase of a modest first home.

  Unshackled by the space constraints associated with their initial tiny apartment, Abe had arrived at the new hacienda with a pickup bed full of personal effects he’d kept stored in his parents’ basement. A stuffed and mounted shark, three hunting rifles, and a .45 caliber pistol were among the treasures retrieved.

  “I didn’t realize you owned a handgun,” Kara had commented. “I knew you liked to hunt now and then, but why do you need a pistol?”

  “Home protection,” came the response. “Dad always had one in the nightstand drawer, just in case. I kind of like being able to defend my castle.”

  The young Mrs. Hendricks reacted with crossed arms and a tilted head. “Doesn’t our tax money pay for police protection? We don’t exactly live on the brink of civilization here in suburbia, ya know?” she continued, barely pausing to take a breath in the middle of her outburst. “I am sure we have 9-1-1 services in our neighborhood. I do not see the need for a gun.”

  And her position had never shifted.

  Their marriage endured because of love, mutual respect, and great sex. They preferred the same food, wine, vacations, and music – but political bliss was never a resident in the Hendricks’s household. Kara was on the left; Abe on the right, and it was never going to change. Both realized the subject was best left unmentioned and almost always kept their opinions private. Almost.

  Both of them soon realized that domestic happiness far outweighed political perspective. Love conquered all as the Hendricks’s marriage matured.

  Abe unlocked his gun safe, choosing his lightest Remington 700 hunting rifle as well as a Mossberg 12-gauge pump. He grabbed a few boxes of shells for each and stuffed the weapons and ammo into
a couple of cases.

  He then selected two handguns from the safe’s upper compartment, choosing a bullnose .357 Magnum revolver and a 1911 model .45 ACP. Two boxes of shells for each weapon were stashed into the small range bag lying nearby.

  He located the flashlights in the kitchen drawer, quickly replacing the batteries in each – just to be safe.

  Ten minutes later, he’d pulled $1,000 in cash from his underwear drawer, tossed three days’ worth of clothes into a gym bag, and laced up his best hunting boots.

  Kara met him at their bedroom door, a look of dread on her face, the manifestation of fear apparent in her voice. She pulled him close in a tight embrace, an attempt to refocus his attention and consider her verbal appeal. “I know it’s not my father over there… but I really, really don’t want you to go. I don’t mean to sound cruel… I just think this is a crazy idea. It looks like a warzone from what I saw on the news.”