by Taylor Moore
After leaving his boyhood home, Ike went on to travel the world with the army, and retired as a chief warrant officer IV, having spent most of his career as a Night Stalker. After retirement he took a high-paying job with Bell Helicopter in Amarillo and worked as a test pilot. He married and had a couple of kids, but after a few years started missing the bullets and bombs kind of lifestyle.
He signed on with military contractor Blackwater during the Iraq War and pretty much made a new life for himself. By the time he came back home to Amarillo, his wife had moved on. It was a story all too familiar in Garrett’s world. Deployments and undercover assignments were hell on relationships. In his experience, few survived.
Despite a wrecked marriage, Ike stuck around the Panhandle to help raise the kids. But instead of returning to Bell, he took what money he’d made from contracting overseas and threw it into building “the world’s trashiest bar.” He also bought a Hughes 500, similar to the birds he’d flown in the army. Ike kept his pilot’s license active to do freelance work on the side. Helicopter hog hunts were big business and made up for much of the income he’d lost after the oil bust.
Ike opened another Coors and pushed it to Garrett using the back of his hand. “Well, now you’ve heard my sorry tale of a life story. What brings you into my bar at nine-thirty in the morning.” Before Garrett could answer, he added, “And don’t tell me it’s to get drunk because I can see you’re still nursing that first beer.”
Garrett took down the last three-quarters of the Coors and tossed it in the fifty-gallon drum that acted as a trash can. He grabbed the fresh one. “You know my brother, Bridger, by chance?”
“Not personally, but I know of him.”
The way in which he said it led Garrett to believe it wasn’t in a positive light. But lawyer was a four-letter word to some, and Ike seemed the type to fall into that category.
“He told me he’s been having some issues with a couple of Renegade hands.”
Ike narrowed his eyes. “Patrons of mine?”
“Maybe.” Garrett decided to be as up front as he could without giving away any secrets. Ike seemed like a guy he could trust, and a man who could get information. “My brother’s the type of guy who gets in over his head before he even has a clue. So, I’m just hoping to find any trouble before it finds him.”
“Bridger seems the capable enough sort. How’s this your job?”
“Well, it’s not. But I guess I kind of feel like I owe it to him.” Bridger’s guilt trip over breaking off a relationship with his nieces and Cassidy weighed heavy on Garrett. And now that he knew they could be in danger, he had to make up for it. Of course, he wasn’t going to get into all that with Ike. “I guess sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong is just one of my bad habits.”
Ike took a long drag off his unfiltered Camel. “I wouldn’t know anything about bad habits.” His smirk faded as it looked like he was solving a puzzle in his mind. “If I’m reading between the lines, I guess you’re trying to figure out what Bridger might be up against.”
After a beat, Garrett nodded. “When I went into battle, I wanted good intel. Didn’t you?”
“Good intel,” Ike repeated with a smile. “That’s hard to come by. In a war zone or on the street. But if you’ll settle for good as it gets, you came to the right place.”
“I’m not too picky.”
Ike took a sip. “What I’m guessing is you already know something that you’re not telling me here. Something that’s got you rattled. And what you really want to know is if you’re walking into a fight with a Ka-bar, when you should’ve brought your Howitzer.”
“Well, you know your ordnance, Ike, what do you think?”
It was clear Ike was thinking hard on the question. “Something about myself you’ll come to find out. When it comes to intel, I don’t mess around. Been screwed over too many times for that. So, I’ll tell you what I know, not what I think.”
Garrett couldn’t help but think Ike was referring to the Black Hawk Down incident in Somalia. But anyone who’d spent a career in covert ops had been burned more than once by bad intel. “Fair enough.”
The barman took a hefty swig. “We get all types in here. And I believe there’s various shades of gray when it comes to illegal activity.”
As a law enforcement officer, Garrett had seen criminals use that same logic to justify their actions, from inner-city street hustlers slinging crack to cartel sicarios committing murder. Hell, Kim Manning and the CIA were prime examples. He didn’t a hundred percent agree with Ike’s statement, but he got the point. “Go on.”
“Folks come in here work for a living. And in my opinion, you bust your ass, you deserve some fun. So, I get roustabouts smoking weed, cattle haulers on crank, and dairymen who just want to touch a tit that ain’t swinging under a Holstein, if you catch my meaning?”
“Got it.” Garrett gave a nod as he looked around. “A few working girls in the crowd.”
“But the ones you don’t see in here often are the Mexicans.”
Garrett thought about it a minute. There was a time when it might have been true, but Panhandle demographics had changed significantly, particularly with the need for labor. “With all the packing plants over in Cactus and Booker, feedlots around Gruver, large-scale dairies at Dalhart, I figured you’d get plenty of customers from south of the border.”
“Mexicans, Hondurans, Guatemalans, Salvadorians, you name it, we got ’em. But them there are immigrants straight off the boat. What I’m talking about are Mexican nationals, ones here to do business.”
Now, Garrett’s interest was piqued. “What kind of business?”
“The kind of business where they wear slick suits, expensive jewelry, and them pointy-toed roach stomper boots. The kind with guys who throw round some cash.” Ike’s eyebrows rose. “Lots of cash.”
Garrett eyed Ike before speaking. Having spent enough time doing undercover work in Mexico with the cartels, he knew exactly the kind of guy the barman was talking about but wanted to make sure this wasn’t speculation. “Some of the guys working in these plants have more money than you might think. Maybe they get a few drinks and start acting like big shots.”
Ike narrowed his gaze. “You think I haven’t seen that before?”
“No, but I want to be sure you’re suggesting what I think you are.”
Ike’s face softened, as though he was hoping Garrett would probe for an answer. “The reason I know something’s fishy is because everybody has a place around here.” He raised his beer bottle and used it to point out at the tables. “We can talk about this country being a melting pot, but it’s really more of a stew. We’re all thrown together, but people keep to their own.”
“And it’s not the case with the Mexicans you saw?”
“Nope.” Ike shook his head. “The times I’ve seen them, which are few, they come in here whooping it up with Renegade oil field trash.” He cocked an eye. “No offense to your profession.”
Garrett was so fixed on the story and what was shaping up to be a possible legitimate connection to Mexican drug traffickers and Renegade he almost forgot oil field trash was his cover. “None taken,” he replied, a little off guard. He looked to the fridge behind Ike and waggled his empty beer bottle. “You got another one of these?”
The barman smiled and nodded. “Like I said, don’t be caught with a Ka-bar when you needed a Howitzer.”
Garrett took the beer and held it a few seconds. The pieces were coming together but he couldn’t believe it could go all the way to Preston Kaiser. If there was coordination between the cartels and Renegade, it had to be low level. That was the only way it would make sense. There’d be too much for him to lose if it went all the way to the top.
He stared at Ike, who was wiping down the bar with a rag that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the day the place opened. “Just so I can get this straight in my head, you honestly think these guys might be with a Mexican cartel and are potentially working with Renegade?”
Ike scowled as he tossed the nasty rag over his shoulder. “You know the acronym UFO?”
Garrett laughed, feeling the effects of the third beer. “Who doesn’t?”
“I’m not talking about the way civilians use it. I’m talking about pilots. Do you know what it stands for?”
Garrett shrugged. “Same as it is for civilians, I guess. Unidentified Flying Object.”
“Exactly.” Ike pointed at Garrett. “And do you know what that is?”
“I don’t know.” Garrett chuckled, “A flying saucer?”
“Wrong. It’s an unidentified . . . flying . . . object. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He took a sip of his beer. “I’ll tell you what I know, not what I think. And what I know is exactly what I saw. Nothing more. Nothing less.” With a wry smile, Ike added, “But if you do decide to go poking around with these Renegade boys . . . I’d be damned sure to pack your Howitzer.”
Before Garrett could ask any more questions, his cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket. It was an 806 area code number he didn’t recognize. He held his finger up to Ike. “Just a second.” He pulled the phone out and nearly dropped it when he read the message.
Can you meet for lunch? -Lacey
Before he could think it through, he’d already typed when . . . where?
She wrote back, Chihua’s at 11:00.
He glanced at his watch. Perryton was a good twenty minutes from Crippled Crows and most of the roads in Ochiltree County were still iced over. He figured he could make lunch, but he’d have to push the hell out of his truck to do it.
Ike grinned. “Looks important.”
Garrett realized the smile on his face must have given him away. Damned if that wasn’t embarrassing. Nearly two decades out of high school and he was experiencing the same high he’d felt the time she’d waved at him at Dairy Queen. Turned out she was only signaling for her order, but for a couple of seconds he was on top of the world.
“I’ve taken enough of your time, Ike. What do I owe you for the beers?”
The barman waved him off. “Told you before, I value good intel. You find out something about these guys coming into my bar, let me know. I like to be on top of what’s happening around here.” He smiled. “And tell Deputy Dawg Sanchez it’s time to pay his tab.”
“You’ve got a deal, Ike.” Garrett zipped his coat and turned to leave. “On both requests.”
16
Ray Smitty turned his pickup off the highway and meandered down a bumpy oil field road covered in snow. Squinting from the glare of the morning sun, he groped for the four-wheel drive switch on the dash, clicked the nob, and his wheels caught traction. Nearer the Mescalero drill site, he took his foot off the gas and craned his neck forward. Although he was miles from anyone, his heart still raced at the thought of getting caught. Eyes were on him. Even at the edge of nowhere.
Smitty saw the bobbing forty-eight-foot pump jack over the edge of the mesquite brush and stared at it warily. It always creeped him out how the giant iron contraptions came to life on a whim, sucked their fill of oil, then went back to sleep just as suddenly as they’d awakened.
He rounded the corner of the thorny hedgerow to his right and came upon a caliche pad surrounded by barbed wire. Parked behind a white oil reservoir was a metallic blue Chevy Silverado and a sheriff’s department Tahoe belonging to God only knows who. Fortunately, the SUV was leaving just as Smitty was pulling up. That was the last thing he needed.
As the Tahoe exited the site and tore off down the road, Smitty eased beside the Chevy and rolled down his window. By accident, he gave a gesture that looked more like a heil Hitler salute than a friendly hello. But if Cade Malek thought anything of it, he didn’t let on. Of course, it was always hard to tell what was going on behind those mirrored sunglasses.
In both looks and mannerisms, Malek reminded Smitty of the old Marlboro man. Same style hat. Same etched face. And same no-nonsense attitude. His mouth was a straight line unless he was making a joke, usually at Smitty’s expense.
Before he could get out a word, Malek began, “You know, Ray, I’m a little surprised to see your face.”
Smitty laughed, hoping Malek was only kidding. “Didn’t think I’d show or what?”
Malek’s mouth was flat as a board. “Didn’t think you were still alive.”
It was a strange retort, but one that paved the way for a conversation Smitty needed to have anyhow. “Well, I am for now.”
Malek hung his ropey arm out the window and pointed at Smitty accusingly. “What the hell kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?”
“Didn’t do nothing.” Smitty shook off the accusation. “Bo just suspects I’m up to no good for some reason. Accused me right to my face.”
“And why would he suspect that?”
“Hell if I know.” Smitty looked over his shoulder. He always did it when speaking Bo’s name aloud. Just in case. “The crazy sumbitch nearly took my head off last night. If some vigilante hadn’t showed up, he’d have chunked me off the bridge right into the Canadian.”
Malek gave a hearty laugh. “Bo might cripple you a little, but he’ll keep you around.” He added as an afterthought, “Least for now. The Garzas, on the other hand, will kill your ass and smile while they do it.”
Smitty wondered if Malek knew the cartel was up to something that he didn’t. He was staring at the bobbing pump jack when its mechanical groans faded and gave way to the wind.
“Well, what am I supposed to do, Malek? You’re the brains behind this damn thing.”
Malek tossed a frayed toothpick in his mouth and clenched it in his teeth. “Sounds like you’d better convince Bo you’re loyal.”
“And just how am I supposed to do that?”
“That’s your problem, Ray.”
“Yours too if you think about it.”
With a consenting nod, Malek asked, “You got a wife and kid to look after, don’t you?”
Smitty hated it when Malek mentioned his family. Of course, he’d been the one to bring it up when they’d made the deal, so he’d only himself to blame. “What about ’em?”
“You wanna leave your kin in good standing?”
It was Smitty’s turn to nod.
“Then you’d better do your best not to get caught or killed. Either way, it’ll come back on them. Just something to keep in mind.”
“If it comes back on them, it’s because you’re the one pushing this thing too hard.” Smitty fought to control his temper but it was too late. “It’ll be blood on your hands.”
Malek gave an easy smile and said what they were both thinking. “You’re the one came to me for help. Remember?”
Smitty turned forward and let his eyes fall on the resting pump jack. Fighting to get his emotions under control, he gave a snort. “You don’t have to remind me.”
“Well, seems that I do.” Malek yanked out the toothpick and flicked it at Smitty. “And since you got a debt to pay, I’d suggest you get busy paying it.” Smiling wide, he gave the gimme here motion with his hand. “And speaking of paying, you got the money?”
Smitty grabbed the crumpled paper bag he’d gotten from Bo and handed it over. Malek tossed it in the backseat without even looking inside. He never looked inside.
Malek grabbed a fresh toothpick from his console and clamped it in his teeth. “Gonna be out of touch for a couple days. Got business down on the border. Think you can stay out of trouble until then?”
“Grace a God, I suppose.”
If Smitty’s self-doubt bothered Malek it didn’t show. “Shipment still flying in tomorrow?”
Smitty glanced over his shoulder again. Talking about the Garzas made him even more nervous than talking about Bo. “Last I heard. Me and Boggs is supposed to pick it up.”
“Good.” Malek perked up a little. “Big payday for us both.”
His eyes still frozen on the pump jack ahead, Smitty startled when it woke and went back to feeding. “My luck’s running thin. I know it.” He t
urned back, this time pleading for an answer. “How much further I gotta dig to get out of this mess?”
Malek’s smile went flat. “Digging out from under a dead man ain’t easy to do.” He eased his head out the window, pulled off his sunglasses and locked eyes. “You really want to put the past in the rearview, then I’d suggest getting a bigger shovel.”
17
Garrett gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as his pickup hit a patch of black ice and slid toward the bar ditch. He gave it a little gas to get some weight under the wheels and prayed to God it’d do the trick. The truck still drifted and rumbled off the pavement, but just as the gravel peppered the wheel well, he got it under control and steered back onto the highway.
He exhaled a dear sweet Jesus thank you for the miracle, but it wasn’t until safely passing by the four-foot concrete culvert in the middle of the gully that he realized how close he’d come to meeting a sorry end. With a dab of sweat on his forehead, Garrett slowly guided his three-quarter-ton GMC back to the center of the road and tapped the brakes.
Fortunately, he’d been able to regain control, but he couldn’t help but worry. What would happen to Asadi if something happened to him?
With his stomach already in knots, he was further needled by guilt. His only job was to look after the boy and he’d barely seen him since they got to the ranch. Obviously, there’d been no part of the arrangement with Kim involving “quality time” with Asadi, but that didn’t matter. If the kid needed anything right now it was consistency and he sure wasn’t getting it from Garrett.
Pulling into Chihua’s sparse parking lot, Garrett breathed a sigh of relief. He’d hoped to find an out-of-the-way spot where he and Lacey could converse a little without interruption. Eating in small towns was notoriously difficult. He’d sat through more than a few cold meals after making small talk with a ceaseless trail of passersby. They’d chat for minutes at a time, and usually without a thing in the world to say.
