Hearing Maddy talk about the governor’s impassioned words reminded me of a comment my grandmother made once when I’d stumbled into the minefield of asking an old person about history when they’d lived it.
“Great Depression?” Grannie Annie declared with a snort of derision. “We’s farmers, boy. We’re always one bad harvest from a Great Depression, but as long as we have the land, then the family will eat. And if we can eat, then so can our neighbors that’ve fallen on hard times.”
No matter where we were or what we did, we Hardins hailed from farmer stock, and that was our default. As long as we have the land, we’ll have something to eat. If the governor knew his people, he’d call for the surviving farmers to help their neighbors after they’d taken care of themselves. Not to say some farmers weren’t assholes, since they were just folks, but plenty would respond to that simple call, and hopefully peer pressure would suffice for those who wanted to gouge and overcharge their neighbors. Living in a community had certain benefits, but with those rewards came expectations. Deal fair or develop the reputation as someone who doesn’t deserve being included in the good that comes from being a part of the group. Nobody would burn your barn, but conversely, nobody would show up to help fight the fire if the farmer was a jackass to his neighbors.
When Maddy went on to explain how she and her friend Cece had been selected to visit New Albany, I set my musings aside and refocused on her words. The Ag Commissioner, part of the Texas A&M mafia who ran the department, also acted like a protective parent to the young workers who came to work for his outfit. He’d had a hand in which investigators went to which county, and Maddy bluntly volunteered that Uncle Sid, the Ag Commissioner, tried to match up ‘safe’ counties for his youngest hires. That description fit Maddy and Cece, who she admitted were barely a year out of receiving their bachelor’s degrees from Texas A&M.
Ironically, this effort ended up sending the two youngsters straight to New Albany with orders directing the pair of them to work with the local Ag agent and the county commissioner to complete their survey. Maddy had no instructions requiring her to work in conjunction with the local sheriff, but her instructions had been more along the lines of, ‘smooth the waters and show the flag’ than do any actual survey work. This emphasis reinforced my thoughts that the governor might actually be trying to help.
No, the strongarm approach had been all Sheriff Landshire’s idea. From the time Deputy Haines tumbled to their presence in New Albany, the two-person team found themselves placed in protective custody, which sounded a lot like being under arrest to me. They’d been handcuffed, processed into the jail and subjected to a strip search before being parked in a holding cell for an overnight stay. No charges though, and no lawyer.
The next morning, the two Ag agents had been allowed to change back into their civilian clothes but deprived of any electronic devices as a three man contingent transported the two ladies from New Albany to the sheriff’s residence. When I started to ask about where the sheriff lived, I saw a headshake from Pat and let the question fade. Either he could read me like Mike could or he was afraid to interrupt the young lady’s description of the trip far into the countryside from the relatively built-up area around New Albany.
She had previously described how the two surveyors arrived equipped with a list of the largest agricultural producers in the county, both a print copy and an Excel Spreadsheet on her laptop. With everything confiscated, the sheriff, while happy to make a copy of that list, had his own agenda. He gave her his own list, and this farm was the first place he wanted her to visit with his deputies.
“Who was with him when you first met with the sheriff?” Pat asked, finally reaching a point where he needed clarification. I was curious about what Pat wanted, but he had that poker face going full force so I decided to listen and learn.
“Well, Haines escorted me into the house, and he took me into what I guess was the sheriff’s home office. He was there with an older deputy and a younger one. I didn’t catch the older one’s name, but he was really pale, like a Viking…”
“That’s Ansel Steward, I’m thinking,” I said, then turned to Pat. “He’s Landshire’s second in command.”
Maddy continued without comment.
“The younger deputy was Sergeant Bailey.”
“Where were the other two deputies who were part of your escort?”
“That was Krueger and Baines. They stayed outside, on the porch I guess.”
“Can you remember what was said when you were presented to the sheriff?” Pat asked, and this time his voice held a hint of sympathy, as if he knew this next part was going to be hard.
Maddy scrunched up her face, wrinkling her nose and reminding me of my niece Rachel when she did it. She was barely ten years older than Rachel, after all. Right out of college and in her first job. I wondered about her family, and if they knew where she was, or if they were still alive.
“He wasn’t surprised to see us,” Maddy started, then stopped. “No, that’s not right. He was surprised by the fact we were a ‘pair of little girls’, but not why we were there. He knew about the survey project, though. Haines had our laptop, and Cece gave the password when Sheriff Landshire asked for it. It didn’t matter, really. They already had all our notes and the print copy. He tried to check our e-mail, but he didn’t have service there and gave up.”
When she paused again, Pat gave her time to gather herself.
“The sheriff said he wanted to find out who was hoarding resources in his county. Said it was criminal given the current circumstances, and he had the authority to find out who was holding back from the community. He wanted us to carry on with our mission, but go to the places he would send us.”
“And he gave you a new list?” Pat asked softly, prompting her a bit.
“The older deputy, the one Bryan thinks might be named Steward. He had it in his hand. The sheriff, while he was explaining what he wanted, seemed distracted after he explained what he wanted. He acted like, well, he was acting very agitated. Crazy. Walking around his desk, then sitting down, but standing up the next second.”
Maddy’s narrative ground to a halt at this point, and she started crying again. Not the great wracking wail from before, when she’d been shocked and frozen by the shooting. No, this time it was quiet, and tears seemed to stream down her cheeks without her noticing.
“I was so scared. I didn’t say anything, but Cece…she told the sheriff that we couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be a part of whatever he had planned. She said the Commissioner expected us to check in every day, and he would be upset that we hadn’t called the night before.”
Maddy flinched then, avoiding a blow only she could see in her mind.
“Deputy Haines, he was standing beside us when Cece started talking. He didn’t say anything. He just he hit her. With some kind of a short stick, like you see jockeys use sometimes. He just flicked it out and it cut through Cece’s blouse, and she was down on the ground. And she was bleeding…”
Maddy stopped then, unable to continue. Nikki, barely restrained up until this point, jumped from her seat and gathered the frozen woman in her arms like one of her kids. Just like she does with Hunter or Rachel, I thought. Mama Bear to the rescue. After a few moments of shuddering sobs, Maddy melted into her grasp and my sister led the grieving young woman out of the room. I could hear the sound of socked feet on the stairs and then I directed my attention back to the table.
“Well, shit,” Ethan muttered under his breath, and a wry chuckle escaped my lips before I could help it.
“I really wish we could’ve gotten a description of the sheriff’s place,” I added, and I felt curious eyes turned my direction.
“What? Like any of you weren’t thinking about it,” I nearly snarled, and that elicited small chuckles from the ones who knew me best. Not surprisingly, that included Wade.
“You planning on charging in there and rescuing that poor damsel?” Mike chided, finally getting a chance to turn the hero shit
around on me for once. Instead of responding, I turned to Pat.
“I got the keys to the Suburban. Can you jigger with the onboard GPS?”
“To what end? Can I destroy what’s in the vehicle? Yes. Can I cause it to dump whatever is being stored offsite? Nope.”
I nodded. “That’s what I figured. So, Bailey and company came out, stirred up some shit, and we backed them off with a show of force. Bailey leaves, tail tucked between his legs, and scurries back to see the sheriff. We think he already violated Landshire’s orders when he killed Byron and Wally,” I paused, swallowing hard. “So we can expect he would receive a hard response when he goes to see the boss. We can work with that, if we set the stage properly.”
“What are you planning, Bryan? This sounds complicated,” Wil asked, and I turned my gaze to his.
“You ever killed a man, Wil?”
“I spent four years in the Marines. Two tours Helmand Province,” he replied tightly.
I shook my head, sensing Mike and Pat watching me intently but not trying to interfere.
“No offense, but I don’t mean shooting at insurgents, or calling in an artillery strike on an enemy village. I mean shoot him in the fucking face, step over the body, and finish his buddies.”
“What are you talking about?” Wil Huckabee asked, his eyes burning into me.
“Mike was giving me crap earlier about rushing off to save the damsel in distress. That’s usually his gig, being the hero. I’m the other brother. To paraphrase Bob Marley, I’m gonna shoot the sheriff, and then I’m going to kill the deputy, too. Probably more than one, and I’ve already got three to my tally.
“If you think you can do that, go home and kiss your wife afterward, and then lie when the cops come to grill you about it, then you’re in. If not, no harm, no foul, but you need to go back to Wade’s and watch over the women and kids. That’s no knock on you, by the way.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious, slick,” Pat said, speaking up to join the conversation. He nodded at Wade, then Ethan. “I know these old boys, and if they say they can hack it, fine. Bryan has the right of it. The sheriff has us in his sights, and this was the first salvo. We can do the honorable thing, the white knight thing, and call the Highway Patrol and hope they can straighten this mess out before Landshire or one of his goons gets to us. Or, we can do the hard thing.”
“But, he’s,” Wil sputtered. “Why is he making the plans? No, offense, but you’re a lawyer. Shouldn’t you be the one trying to call the cops, or preserving evidence or something?”
“If we were living under the rule of law, then I’d agree with you, Wil. Sadly, we’re not.” I sighed for effect before continuing. “We’re officially under Martial Law, military rule, but I don’t see any soldiers or Marines around to call on. No active duty, anyway. And for your information, I’m not the one making plans. That would be Master Sergeant Patrick Parker here, late of 3rd Special Forces, Fort Bragg.”
“And lucky for you boys, I’ve already scouted the sheriff’s ranch,” Pat explained.
“I’m not even going to ask,” Wade muttered under his breath. “What do we need to do?”
“First, we need to go in sterile.”
“He’s sterile,” Mike quipped, using that annoying Beavis voice that caused an involuntary laugh, as well as breaking the ice.
“Before you go on, maybe you want to check the party favors we picked up,” I added, pointing to the loot I’d piled on the table. “But mind the prints and DNA. That’s why I wore the gloves.”
Not waiting for the others to act, I reached out and drew Sergeant Bailey’s pistol, then fished around in one of the larger attachment bags on the duty belt. Holding the two items out like a proud first grader at show-and-tell at school.
“Is that a…silencer?” Ethan asked, eyeing the long, black metal tube with trepidation.
“Suppressor,” I corrected, then lifted the Glock so the silver protrusion on the barrel was more evident.
“Bailey was just about done screwing the suppressor onto the threaded barrel when I caught sight of what he was doing. He was distracted, and I took advantage. Fucking Baines still got off a burst.”
“Yeah, I heard that. FA?” Patrick asked, gesturing at one of the rifles. I laid the Glock on the table and returned the suppressor to the appropriate pouch before picking up one of the M4s I’d collected. I checked one, then the other, and finally the third before looking up at Pat and bobbing my head.
“The rifles are Colt M4s, marked with Property of U.S. Government plates on the sides,” I confirmed. Checking selector switch, I saw Safe, Semi, and Auto etched into the metal. Turning the carbine up, I rotated it to the side for Pat and Mike to see.
“Okay, then. We really need to glove up. Mike, can you check the Suburban and see what else these boys have to play with?”
“On it,” Mike replied, setting a box of blue nitrile gloves on the table. After sliding the gloves on, bitching about one size not fitting all, he scooped up the keys and headed outside.
“While we wait for Mike, let’s see a show of hands,” Pat intoned, his voice serious. “I need to warn you, I’ve scouted the place, and this is no cakewalk. We do this, and some of us may not be coming home.”
I didn’t even look around before raising my hand. Sheriff Bernard Landshire might have been a grasping, corrupt politician, occupied with bringing the county into his control by hook or by crook. We were prepared to weather that threat, and still maintain what was left of our low profile.
But by sending his shooters in, whether they exceeded their orders or not, the sheriff managed to endanger the only family I had left. That, I would not, could not tolerate. Added to this, we now had GPS data that linked his dead goons to our farm, so not only did the sheriff need to die, it needed to happen on a deadline.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Under a crackle of thunder in the stinging rain, Mike drove cautiously, slowing on a bit at the turnoff as Pat, Wade, and Ethan bailed out from the middle row of seats in the Surburban. The big SUV was designed in a way that had all of us aggravated, with the cage set up around the back row, as the Sheriff’s Department vehicle was set up for transporting evidence, not prisoners. That meant Mike, Wil and I were cramped in the front bench seat, with the smaller Wil forced to ride in the middle.
Adding to our misery, we were outfitted with the bulky Level III body armor previously worn by Bailey and his cronies, and the large size for Bailey and Krueger barely fit Mike and I, while Wil seemed to be swimming in Baines’ medium. Over that, Mike and I strapped on our plate carriers and the chest rigs we’d already become accustomed to wearing. Wil hadn’t balked at borrowing Nikki’s Level IV body armor, knowing from his past experience that the SAPI plates would stop a 7.62 Russian round, much less the 5.56mm we were expecting.
Mike parked the SUV in front of the bunkhouse, a hay barn the sheriff had converted into a rough barracks. The home place was arranged with this barn at a right angle to the sprawling Landshire residence, with about a hundred feet separating the house from the barn. Mike used the long bulk of the Suburban to cover the door of the tall, sloped roofed building. Pat had taken the opportunity to explore the barn when he’d scouted the grounds, and we had a map of the interior taped to our left forearms for easy access. As we were piling out of the front seat, I imagined we looked like a group of Pillsbury Doughboys dismounting. Heavily-armed Pillsbury Doughboys, though. I was just grateful for the body armor.
In addition to the seized M4s, we carried the original magazines claimed from the carbines and three magazines each of ammo seized from the SUV. As a reserve, we also carried three additional magazines marked with a strip of red tape. These thirty round magazines had been meticulously loaded by Mike and Patrick using factory loads and wearing gloves, and each of the magazines had been sealed in the manufacturer’s plastic and never handled by any of us before this day. Paranoid, but then we fully expected this night’s actions to unleash a hornet’s nest o
f law enforcement activity if we succeeded. Best not to think about the repercussions if we failed.
Based on Patrick’s scouting of two weeks ago, we expected to find the bunkhouse occupied with more of Landshire’s rented muscle. After checking the dead men’s wallets, we discovered all three had licenses and other identification linked to addresses in or around Houston. Several business cards found in those wallets gave us the impression that all three men had until recently been police officers with the Houston Police Department.
After studying Bailey’s driver’s license and the tiny picture, I had a sudden flash of where I’d remembered his face. We’d never met, but about six years ago, then-officer Bailey of the Houston Police Department had become well-known to the citizens of that city as the story of his trial gained news coverage. He’d been charged with murder, after shooting an unarmed man while working an off-duty security job. Bailey was found not guilty, but the investigation into the circumstances, and the employer, resulted in several more indictments in the following months. The employer, a nightclub owner, turned out to have drug cartel connections as well as interest in several brothels suspected in human trafficking.
As we approached the doorway into the bunkhouse, I adjusted the altered holster for the suppressed Glock riding at my hip and wondered if we would be facing more of those displaced HPD officers inside, in addition to the sheriff’s usual group of uniformed thugs. I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to kill Lieutenant Bastrop, but if he was sleeping in that building, he was a dead man.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 28
