Firestorm, p.18
Firestorm, page 18
Garrett checked his watch. “I’m about forty-five minutes away. Just leave her alone and you’ll get what you want.”
“I’ll get what I want either way. And if you continue at ninety-one miles per hour, you’re only thirty-eight minutes from here. Show up a second later and I’m liable to get bored. Start cracking at your friend’s pretty shell.”
Before Garrett could plead with Holloway, the call ended. Apparently, they’d LoJacked his truck and were watching him close. With Bridger out of action and Sanchez out of pocket, his next call was to Trip. If his friend had agreed to one suicide mission, then why not another?
40
Asadi pulled the reins and slowed Skip to a trot, riding along the bottom of the steep caprock escarpment, scanning the barren plains ahead. He turned to Tony, whose khaki shirt was ripped at his abdomen where the bullet had torn through and embedded in his protective vest. A second round must’ve grazed his temple, as the left side of his head and face were covered in blood.
At the roar of distant engines, Asadi turned to find two white trucks about a hundred yards out and closing in fast. Not far ahead of him was the switchback trail to the top of the ridge, too narrow and rough for a pickup to climb.
Asadi turned back to Tony, whose eyes were unfocused, and he sat wobbly in the saddle. The deputy yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his wound. Blood was trickling down to his collar and soaking through his shirt. With a few inaudible words he tipped forward and nearly fell off.
Asadi watched helplessly as the deputy was losing consciousness. “You okay, Tony?”
Tony stiffened, forced his eyes open, and sat rigid. “Just a scratch, kid. I’ll be alright.” With those slurred words, he tilted sideways like a falling timber.
Asadi leapt from the saddle, dashed to the palomino, and caught the deputy before he hit the ground. Guiding him down, Asadi was careful to brace Tony’s head, protecting the wound. Looking back at the approaching trucks, Asadi was left with a difficult choice—leave Tony behind or stay and take their chances.
Savanah rode Moxy around beside them. “They’re almost here!” She kept her eyes trained on the pickups. “We have to go!”
Asadi couldn’t believe it was up to him to make the call. His every instinct told him to run, but his heart sank at the thought of it. He had just looked up to Savanah to tell her to go on without them when Tony struggled to rise.
Garrett had always said that jarheads were too stubborn to die and maybe he was right. Although Asadi never fully understood exactly what that meant or how it could be true, it turned out that Tony wasn’t done just yet. Unfortunately, they were too late to make it up the ridge. Their only hope now was to find a place to hide.
Smitty had had this nightmare his entire life. He’d be trapped in mud and his legs didn’t work, or he was in a gunfight for his life but he had no bullets. There was always something out of his control, preventing him from getting where he desperately needed to be. Every situation was different, but one factor remained the same. He screamed with a voice that carried no sound.
As his mammoth yellow dozer rumbled across the dusty plains, Smitty could see it all playing out before him. The trucks. The horses. And the riders that for some damn reason didn’t get up and run. He yelled at them to move, but it was no use. All he could do was pray like hell that he made it in time.
Of all the horrible thoughts running through his mind, the worst among them was telling Crystal that something had happened to their darlin’ girl. She’d never forgive him and he wouldn’t blame her. He’d made yet another bad choice in life and now Savanah was going to pay.
Maybe everyone was better off if he was back in jail, locked behind bars forever? Or maybe they’d be better off if he was just dead. Smitty hated to think this way, to sink so deep, but it was the God’s honest truth. There was a peace in the thought of moving on to the next world. But there’d be no rest until Savanah was safe.
Straining his eyes, Smitty watched the two on the ground rise to their feet. The bigger one, who must’ve been Sanchez, looked a bit wobbly as he stood. With the inevitable fight coming, Smitty reached behind his back and pulled out the other souvenir he’d brought back from Mexico—the one he told no one about. Emilio Garza’s Cabot Diablo pistol was locked, loaded, and ready to go.
Despite Garrett’s guarantee that everything would be fine, Smitty knew better. And he knew that because things were too good. Too good was an alarm bell for guys like him. It was a surefire sign that his whole damn world was about to burn to the ground.
41
Trip had taken his pontoon boat out to Lake Meredith and, true to his word, he’d gone by himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Garrett’s company. His brother in arms from the wild and wooly days in Afghanistan was always a pleasure to have around, even if he did drink all his beer. But at a certain age you know what you need to unwind, and for Trip it was solidtude. As an only child, he valued his me time, needing a day to just chill and be left alone.
His love of isolation was yet another thing he and Garrett had in common, in addition to their love of good horses. But unlike his DEA buddy who lived to fish, Trip’s draw to the lake had nothing to do with angling and everything to do with the calm of the water. In fact, he’d been tempted to cast out an empty hook if it wouldn’t have made him look crazy. And he got enough curious looks as one of only a handful of Stetson-clad, spur-jangling Black cowboys in the Texas Panhandle.
Trip cared little what anybody thought regarding who he was or who they thought he should be. Never had. His father, an avid hunter, was the exact same way. He’d grown up helping to cull deer on the Briscoe Ranch near Uvalde and had fostered Trip’s love of the great outdoors. Rodeo, however, had not been welcomed into the Davis home by either his mom or dad.
Trip’s passion for bull riding was born on his first ever visit to the Top O’ Texas Rodeo. From team roping to saddle bronc, he loved it all. But the men who climbed atop beasts hell-bent on stomping them into the ground was what intrigued him the most. And it all began with the Professional Bull Riders emblem—the image of a cowboy, arm raised high, just hanging on for dear life atop the meanest-looking animal you ever saw.
Latching onto these beasts was like harnessing a tornado or riding a hurricane—the perfect metaphor for life. Grab on tight, hang on with all you got, and pray to the good Lord you don’t get killed. There was no equivalent to the rush of eight seconds on the back of a bull. And he’d tried like hell to find it. Not his combat experience with Special Forces. Not border ops with Ranger Recon. Nothing could touch being inside the arena.
With the guilt of his early-morning beer consumption fading with the crack and sip of a fourth Carta Blanca, Trip leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the lap of the waves carry him off to a place between the real world and limbo land relaxation. With the ringtone blasting from his front pocket he remembered that he needed to put his phone on silent.
Trip pried a heavy eyelid open to discover it was Garrett, and was smacked with a shockwave of guilt. He’d planned to have him out later, after a little solo decompression, which had always been his process after a deployment, or more recently, nearly getting gunned down by a team of Guatemalan assassins. Knowing that Garrett was probably just securing his reservation for dinner at the Davis house, he let it go to voicemail.
At Garrett’s immediate second attempt, Trip was about to just turn it off. But when the guilt intensified, he pulled it out, praying he’d come up with a good lie in that split second between accepting the call and saying hello. But his wits weren’t quick enough to save him, as Garrett launched in first.
“Where you at, Trip?”
“Uh . . . fishing out at Meredith.” Trip braced for the inevitable ass chewing. “Spur of the moment kind of thing, you know.”
“Really need your help, man. How quick can you get out of there?”
Trip first assumed that some of Butch’s cows must’ve gotten out on the highway, but it was clear by the urgency in Garrett’s voice that this was no small favor. Something was wrong. “What’s happening? Everybody okay?”
“No, not really. Kim’s in trouble unless we do something fast.”
Trip’s first thought was that the Garza Cartel was seeking reprisal. The wheels in his mind immediately started to turn as he formulated a plan to get down to Mexico ASAP. “Say the word, buddy. When do we leave?”
“She’s in Borger,” Garrett stated flatly. “Old Carbon Black plant.”
Borger made no sense whatsoever but the Carbon Black plant made even less. Trip had a million questions, but all of them could wait. A lifetime working in the military and in law enforcement had taught him there’s only one question that mattered when seconds count. And judging by Garrett’s tone, this was one of those situations. “Where do you need me?”
“You know my friend Ike Hodges?”
“Know of Ike. Never met him.”
Trip hadn’t ever been to Crippled Crows. His mother was a staunch Southern Baptist and a card-carrying teetotaler. Her only vice was wrath, a sin she’d honed to ruthless perfection. She doled out discipline with an Old Testament style and flare. To her, Ike Hodges was the Texas High Plains version of King Herod. His den of iniquities was strictly off-limits.
“I’ll shoot him your number to give you a call. He’s got a Hughes 500, like the Little Bird choppers we used in Iraq. You got your gear?”
“Gear?” The sudden switch temporarily threw Trip for a loop. “Got my pistol and AR in the truck. Threw in a little extra ammo for some hog hunting later on.” Fortunately, he’d packed his Lone Star Armory TX10 rifle chambered in 6.5 Creedmoor.
Garrett’s voice seemed to lose its edge. “Alright, that’s good. I’ve got something these folks want. And in return, they say they’ll turn Kim loose.”
“And you believe them?”
“Nope. If I did, I wouldn’t need you there watching my back. My plan is to make sure the exchange happens out in the open. Somewhere you got a clean shot.”
Trip took a deep breath. “I’m there for you.”
“I’ve gotta get off and call Ike. Is it clear what we’re doing?”
Nothing had ever been less clear. But Garrett needed him and that’s all that mattered. On the battlefield, as soon as the first shot is fired the plan goes out the window anyhow. But this wasn’t even a plan. It was a “just be there in case something happens.” And to hear Garrett tell it, something was going to happen.
Trip had been on missions with worse intel than that. And with people he trusted a whole hell of a lot less. “Tell Ike I’ll be at the west side of the lake in fifteen minutes. Silver Dodge dually.”
Trip tossed the pole, jumped into the driver’s seat, and cranked the motor. Within seconds, the boat pointed toward the shore, he was racing toward the dock, and wondering what in the hell Garrett had roped him into this time.
42
Kim sat erect, back against the wall as she stared down at her bound hands and feet. The memory of being pistol-whipped, beaten, and dragged up the stairs flashed through her mind. Her heightened senses caught the stale stench of dust and the sharp chemical punch of rat poison. It was the kind of place where screams are born in defiance but die in whimpering defeat.
In a shadowy corner to the left, a man spoke to her in a booming voice, his words reverberating through her concrete cell. “You don’t look surprised to be here, Ms. Manning.”
Kim had been trained to keep her identity hidden at all costs. And she expected this man was aware of that too. His use of it was a calculated move—said to make her wonder what else he knew.
Interrogation works best when the inquisitor has good information on the detainee. It allows them to ask questions they already know the answers to and get a baseline of the subject’s level of cooperation. The fact he used her name immediately told her that time was a factor. Had it not been, he’d have started with that first. This man was getting to the point for a reason.
Kim mustered the most defiant voice she could summon. “Who the hell are you?”
He stepped over to her casually and leaned in close. “You can call me Holloway.”
His answer told Kim what she already suspected. Even if it was an alias, he’d told her because it no longer mattered. She’d never utter the name Holloway to another living soul.
“Well, if you know who I am,” Kim answered, “then I expect you understand the seriousness of what you’re doing.”
Holloway wasn’t phased in the least. “Killing an American intelligence officer is, in fact, a serious offense, as is killing a DEA agent.” He paused, seeming to want her to grasp the fact that Garrett was also in danger. “Challenge is not drawing suspicion. But there are ways around that.”
With Holloway’s cards on the table, Kim decided to lay down her own. “You’ve done a great job of hiding your hand, so far, but this isn’t Malawi. Federal officers don’t just fall off the radar here. People are going to want answers. And they won’t stop until they find them.”
Holloway smiled and slicked back his silver hair. “That’s the good news, I suppose.” He raised a finger. “For us. The ones who will be asking those questions are on our side.”
“This isn’t one of your backwaters,” Kim scoffed. “You don’t have enough money to buy your way out of murder.”
Holloway chuckled as he turned and paced the room. “This is already the land of prosperity, particularly for the ones in charge. We don’t win them over with money. We win them over with a place at the table. The opportunity to feel important.” He added as almost an afterthought, “And they’ll lap it up like thirsty dogs.”
With this cryptic confession, Kim knew that an insider was involved. It was someone with detailed knowledge of the highly compartmented Special Access Program (SAP) involving Garrett and the Agency’s use of him as an off-the-books operator. And the only one who came to mind was her boss, Bill Watson. The big question was why.
The rage that burned inside at the thought of being sold out by one of her own superseded her fear. “Must’ve snuck past us on the inside.” She forced a smile, hoping to keep it light, keep him talking and buy some time. “Anyone I know?”
Holloway marched over to her and smiled. “For someone who has been in this business as long as you have, I’m surprised I have to tell you how this works.” He bent over and leaned in close. “I will be asking the questions. And you will be providing the answers.”
43
Asadi looked to the south and eyed the massive crag in the earth about thirty yards ahead. It was the place he called Lion’s Canyon because of the cougar he’d battled there when he first arrived in Texas. The two-mile-long stretch of ravine looked like a giant had cut a three-story-high trench in the middle of the plains and then filled it with mesquite brush, tiny boulders, and felled trees.
At the far end of the gorge was a natural spring that kept the grass lush and green, the cottonwoods full, and gave every critter on the ranch, from deer and antelope to cattle and horses a fresh drink of the coolest crispest water around. Especially during the drought, when everywhere else was the color of dust, the oasis was Asadi’s favorite spot on the ranch.
Both Butch and Garrett assured him that mountain lions like the one that had stalked them last winter were few and far between and very rarely did they want anything to do with humans. But the event had made an impression, and very rarely did he venture into the canyon alone.
With escape over the caprock too far away, the canyon was the only option. Once inside, they’d be trapped inside its sheer walls. But the Talon guards would be unable to follow in their trucks and there were plenty of places to hide.
Asadi looked up to Savanah. “You help me get Tony?”
Savanah didn’t respond, just spun in Moxy’s saddle, dropped to the ground, and dashed over. With the two revving Talon pickups racing up from behind, Asadi and Savanah each grabbed one of Tony’s arms and pulled with all their might. His muscles tensed with his strain to stand, but he rose no more than a few inches.
Asadi yanked again, groaning in fear and frustration. “Please! We have go! They coming!”
Asadi had just begun a desperate prayer when Tony put his palms flat on the ground and pushed himself upright. He rocked forward a couple of times for momentum and got to his haunches. With Asadi and Savanah on each side shoving, he labored to his feet.
“Over there!” Asadi pointed to the canyon. “Over there we hide!”
Tony nodded and took several clumsy steps toward the crag, faltered, and stumbled to a knee. But before Asadi could reach him to help, he was already back up and lumbering toward the canyon. First to arrive, the deputy plopped down on his rear, threw his legs over the lip of the ridge and pushed, sliding down to the bottom, with a dust trail wafting up from behind.
Next in line was Savanah, who eased to the side of the escarpment, dangled her legs over and took the plunge. Asadi had just turned back to see the two pickups busting around clumps of mesquite brush when a bullet snapped overhead. Not a second to spare, he dropped to his rear and pushed himself from the edge. There was a moment of freefall until the slope evened out and his heels caught the crumbling dirt, slowing his descent until he reached the others.
Turning back and looking up, Asadi saw the first of their armed pursuers at the ledge, just as the deafening crack of Tony’s pistol came from behind. As the guard crumpled and tumbled headfirst into the ravine, the deputy fired at the next one in a tit-for-tat exchange.
Asadi grabbed Savanah’s arm and pulled her behind a jagged tree stump. They had just ducked for cover when multiple reverberating gunshots rang out—the source of them were two men with pistols, who had eased into the crag and were maneuvering in their direction. Asadi spun around to find that Tony had killed the second shooter but taken another bullet in his protective vest.
