Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  “Told me not to worry. Said he knew the people involved by reputation and they were so far removed from our day-to-day operations he wasn’t concerned.”

  “You think he knows they’re into something illegal?”

  Bridger shook off the idea. “No way. Oil money aside, the Kaisers own one of the largest banks in the region. There’d be no point in risking it all for pennies in the bucket. It’d take down everything they’ve got.”

  There was no denying that, but Garrett thought back to his conversation with Lacey at the restaurant. Kaiser’s business decisions made little financial sense. “Why the hell are they still drilling when no one else can seem to make money at it?”

  “Look, Bucky, I’m not his geologist or his CFO. Their drilling operations and portfolio are not my concern. Maybe it’s just to keep things running for when things turn around. I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “But it’s not just the drilling, Bridger, he’s buying up minerals like crazy? Some of the formations they’re purchasing won’t pay out for decades. Maybe longer.”

  “These farmers and ranchers are hurting right now with ag commodity prices down. Selling cheap. This energy slump won’t last forever, and you know as well as I do that that’s when millionaires become billionaires in the oil business. Prices spike and Mescalero and its investors are sitting on a gigantic gold mine. They’ll be filthy rich for generations to come.”

  Garrett leaned back and processed what he was hearing. There was nothing illegal about what they were doing. The question was where in the hell the money was coming from. “Bridger, if you thought this money was coming from somewhere bad, you should’ve gotten out. It sounds like you could be helping someone launder money.”

  “Dammit! I tried to get out!” Bridger worked to collect himself but looked like he was about to lose it. “That’s when Renegade sent the ones who showed up at my office and that whole business with Scooter went down.” Bridger reclined in his chair and shook his head. “Now I don’t know what to do.”

  Garrett was about to tell Bridger not to worry, when the busty waitress flounced over with their shots. No salt—no lime—just two full jiggers of yellowish tequila. “Ike says they’re on the house.” She sat them down but didn’t linger.

  Before they could take their shots, Ike ambled up to the table and dragged out a chair. “You boys living life to its fullest?”

  Garrett laughed. “From anyone else, I’d take that as idle conversation, but from you I expect it’s a business proposition of some sort.”

  Plopping down beside them, Ike cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not one to stand in the way of another man’s pursuits. Wherever they might take him.” He tilted his head in the direction of three good-looking cowgirls wearing blue jeans so tight they looked painted-on, who were not so subtly staring back.

  Although it happened quite often, their smoldering stares made Garrett a little uncomfortable. “Employees of yours?”

  Ike shook his head. “Nah, just some students from over at Frank Phillips College in Borger.” He gave Garrett a nod. “Looking for a real cowboy and a good story to tell, I expect.”

  Garrett concluded they were probably looking for a place they could drink without being carded, but that was beside the point. Only thing on his mind was getting Bridger out of trouble.

  “They’ll have to make memories with somebody else. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.” Garrett gave the customary look around to make sure no one was listening. “You got any intel, I’m all ears.”

  Ike stared at the oil field crew as he spoke. “Seems Mexicans with the silk suits and pointy-toed boots I told you about are connected to a bandito family south of the border named Garza. Sound familiar?”

  In fact, it did. According to DEA assessments, the Garzas were known for weapons smuggling, human trafficking, and the sex trade. But they were pushing hard into drugs as well. Of course, edging out the competition wasn’t easy. But what the Garzas lacked in numbers, they made up for in brutality. They’d executed an entire family for allowing a rival drug-trafficking organization to use their apartment for a one-time exchange.

  Garrett played dumb. “Means nothing to me.” He looked to Bridger who gave a shrug. “Mind if I ask how you came upon this information?”

  “A crew of Renegade hotshots were in here earlier whooping, hollering, and raising all sorts of Cane. One of ’em got left behind when he went to take a leak. He bellied up to the bar stumblebum drunk, pissed off, and ready to vent. So, I poured heavy and he spoke freely.” Ike leaned forward and spoke a little lower. “Took some coaxing, but the guy told me there’s a trigger crew up here helping to run the Garzas’ operations. Folks with special operations background. Supposedly, they belonged to some elite unit. Same ones hunted down El Chapo.

  “So, we got thugs with skills?”

  Ike gave a nod. “Real bad asses to hear this guy tell it. Got all these boys real scared.”

  To Garrett, the news wasn’t all that surprising. Cartels had been recruiting out of military and law enforcement for years. The infamous Los Zetas drug-trafficking organization was founded by former Mexican commandos. He glanced at the Renegade boys, then to Ike.

  “Anything else?”

  “That pretty much squeezed him dry. And who knows how much is true? What I’ve learned over the years is that it usually falls somewhere in the middle with drunks.”

  Garrett took a swig. Embellished or not, that was good intel. This wasn’t just some low-level drug-trafficking operation. A cartel was involved, which raised the stakes when it came to Bridger and his family’s safety.

  “Well, you came through for us, Ike.” Garrett turned to Bridger who’d been noticeably silent during the exchange. “Now we at least know what we’re up against.”

  Ike looked over at the bar where it appeared to be getting backed up. “Well, I better get back to work. The community’s not going to better itself.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “But I’ll keep an ear tuned in to anything worth hearing.”

  Bridger finally spoke. “Much appreciated, Ike.”

  Ike sauntered back behind the bar.

  Garrett turned to his brother. “You sure got quiet all of a sudden. What happened to good-time Charlie?”

  Bridger finally got around to downing his shot and gently placed his glass back on the table. “News like that’ll make you shut up and think.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Think about how I’m going to get out of this mess. I don’t want any trouble with these Garzas, whoever the hell they are.”

  It dawned on Garrett that his brother wasn’t used to being this close to real danger. And Ike’s story was pretty unnerving, even for him. “Well, Bridger, it sounds like you’re involved with them whether you want to be or not.”

  “What’s your take, then?”

  “My take is you’ve gotten yourself in the middle of some kind of money-laundering scheme. And if I was you, I’d be sitting in the Texas Rangers’ office in Lubbock first thing Monday morning. You still got the card they left you?”

  Bridger gave a nod. “Back in my desk at the office.”

  “If they were poking around asking questions about Renegade, then it sounds like they’ve got an active investigation. That’s who you want to talk to.” Garrett tapped Bridger’s phone on the table. “And I’d call Kaiser and let him know what’s going on. In fact, you’ll probably want to take him down with you. Only way to get out ahead of this thing for you both is to come clean.”

  “I’ll tell Kaiser if I can find him.” Bridger shook his head. “The great white hunter doesn’t spend much time around here these days. If he’s not chasing trophy game in Alaska, he’s deep-sea fishing out in the Gulf. He’s been a bit of an absentee owner these days.”

  “Absentee or not, you better track him down. Rangers are going to grill him hard over who these people are and what he knows about them.”

  Bridger shook his head. “Losing him as a clien
t is gonna hurt like hell.”

  Garrett was working hard to sound like a civilian, which was hard to do given the dire circumstances. But he needed his brother to understand how deep the crap was about to get. There was a good chance he could lose his law license, maybe even do a little jail time. Still though, it was better than running afoul of the Garzas, who were as vicious as they came.

  “Bridger, losing Mescalero business should be the least of your concerns. You need to be thinking like a defense attorney. Start building a case to protect your client, who is you.”

  Staring down at the Lone Star bottle, Bridger peeled at the edge of the label, ripping off a little piece at a time. “I didn’t do anything more than draw up the contracts.”

  Garrett could feel his blood boil. His brother wasn’t going to woe is me out of this one. “Contracts you knew were garbage, on top of defending the Renegade hotshots doing the trafficking. It sounds a whole hell of a lot like you were fronting for a drug cartel.”

  DEA would nail a guy like Bridger to the wall and the Rangers would too.

  “Bridger, you want out of this, you better go to the feds loaded for bear. Put together all you can on Renegade and these investors. Every contract, tax ID number, phone number, and address. Show the Rangers what you found on these phony companies and how they’re tied together. Just tell them what happened, and that you’ll do everything you can to help their investigation. It’ll show a good faith effort and that you’re trying to do what’s right. And if you can prove this thing all ties back to Mexico, that’ll be the cherry on top.”

  “Ah hell, Garrett.” Bridger looked up and shook his head. “You really think I’m involved with some damn drug cartel?”

  “I don’t know, but the Rangers will. All you need to worry about is getting them everything you have. Anything that’ll make the case you’re one of the good guys.”

  In truth, Garrett didn’t know exactly what to think just yet. But it didn’t sound good. He pulled out two twenties, set them on the table, and put his beer bottle on top of the bills. “Let’s get out of here. You’ve got a lot of work to do between now and Monday.”

  Before Garrett could rise, one of the muscled-up Renegade boys sauntered over all casual and smiled. He stood there a moment rocking a longneck Budweiser bottle between his index and middle fingers.

  “Kohl brothers, right?”

  Before Garrett could get out, we’re leaving, Bridger filled the gap with who’s asking.

  The guy was no-necked and square-jawed, with a tuft of black hair like a wide Mohawk plastered to his scalp. His tight undershirt revealed a set of heavy arms covered in a hodgepodge of tribal tattoos and Chinese symbols. Given his cauliflower ears, it was clear he’d done a bit of mixed martial arts, possibly cage fighting at the competitive level.

  “I’m Hoyt Anderson. But everybody round here calls me Rocky.” He balled his hands into fists as his lips curled into a cocky smile. “Care to guess why?”

  Bridger squinted his eyes, looking pensive. “Is it . . . because you . . . look like a squirrel?” He scratched his head, pretending to think on it harder. “No wait. I bet it’s because you’re best friends with a moose. Is that it?”

  The Rocky and Bullwinkle jokes clearly didn’t register because he moved right on. “Actually, I’m a friend of Bo Clevenger.” Rocky gripped his Budweiser harder than needed to flex his bulging bicep. “Said you had an arrangement, and you backed out on the deal.”

  Bridger took a swig of his Lone Star, set the bottle on the table, and stared down Rocky. “Well, you can deliver a message to your friend, that my decision to cut ties with Renegade is final. End of discussion.”

  Rocky leaned over, planted his palms flat on the table, and turned his massive triceps outward in a show of intimidation. He leaned in close to Bridger. “You don’t have any more dogs out at your place, do ya’?”

  Garrett knew what was coming but wasn’t quick enough to stop it. Bridger had already swiped Rocky’s arms from under him, grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face into the table. The blood had just started spewing from his nose when Bridger shattered a beer bottle over his head.

  Garrett pushed Bridger before his brother could get in a whack with his left fist that was already cocked and ready. “Whoa, Bridge! He’s had enough!”

  The guy slumped to the floor in a heap and Bo and his crew cleared the table, sending nearly every chair flying backward and slamming to the concrete floor. They were on their way over when the music died, the crowd of patrons went silent, and the unmistakable sheck-shick of a pump shotgun came from behind the bar.

  “Hold it right there, fellas!” Ike walked past the college girls who were no longer having fun and got in between the Kohls and the Renegade boys. “Garrett, you’ve got two minutes to get your brother out of here. After that, they’re right behind you. Understand?”

  “On it, boss.” Garrett pointed to the door and looked at Bridger. “Git!”

  Bridger smiled at the Renegade crew, who were held at bay by Ike’s Mossberg pump, then walked the length of the bar and kicked open the door. He disappeared into the darkness of the parking lot laughing like some cowboy version of the Joker.

  Garrett didn’t say a word, just stepped quickly through the crowd of gawking patrons and made his way outside. He stood in the glow of the fluorescent lights above the Crippled Crows sign until he finally spotted Bridger standing on the hood of Bo’s silver F-350.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Bridger’s eyebrows rose. “You know when I drink, I like to dance.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” Garrett moved to Bridger like he was easing up on a wild animal. “Get your ass down from there. Right now.”

  “Too late, Garrett. You know I gotta do it.”

  Garrett turned back to the entrance, knowing their two minutes was half over. And once it was, a half a dozen pissed-off sons of bitches would be flooding out the door.

  “Come on, Bridger! We’ve gotta go! Now!”

  Bridger wagged his index finger. “Not before the Texas two-step.”

  “Ah . . . hell.” Garrett turned to the door and back. “Well, go on ahead then if you’re gonna do it.”

  Not really waiting for permission, Bridger broke into a drunken jig atop the truck hood that erupted into a clatter of thunks, clanks, and clunks of cowboy boots on aluminum. It wasn’t much of a two-step, rather something akin to the Charleston that morphed into Riverdance.

  Garrett looked back at the entrance knowing they were out of time. “Finish up, moron!”

  Bridger bowed to Garrett in a way that was surprisingly graceful, then gave a one-legged donkey kick to the windshield, spiderwebbing the safety glass from top to bottom. He then leapt from the crumpled hood looking satisfied.

  No sooner had he landed than the Renegade boys were out the door and running over with Bo leading the pack. Garrett grabbed Bridger by the collar and yanked. “Come with me! You damn sure ain’t driving!”

  Garrett dragged him to his truck, flung the door open, and shoved Bridger inside. His brother was laughing like an idiot, which pissed him off further. “You’re gonna get us killed!”

  Bridger laughed harder. “Oh, quit being such a little bitch.”

  Garrett cranked the GMC, threw it in drive, and mashed the accelerator right as the first of the Renegade crew arrived and was pounding his fist on the window. He didn’t even try to turn the truck around—just rolled through the culvert and laid on the gas until he could no longer hear the shouting voices.

  Bridger was leaning against the passenger door, out of breath, trying to stifle his laughter. “See what you’ve been missing all these years! Now, that’s what I call fun!”

  “Fun,” Garrett huffed. “We’ll see how fun it is after they figure out which truck is yours.”

  Bridger’s cackling slowly died off over the next few seconds and he didn’t say a whole lot on the way back home. By the time they got there, he was snoring and snorting as loud as Butch
in his recliner. The party man had partied himself out and it wasn’t even seven o’clock.

  20

  After dumping Bridger at his office to sleep it off, Garrett made a swing through Canadian to see Lacey. If Renegade was using hotshots to transport drugs on legitimate runs across state lines, there would be a paper trail documenting which drivers made the haul, where they were headed, and who received the shipment in the end.

  In the world of criminal investigations, this was about as close to a “silver platter” as it got. Bridger coming to the Texas Rangers with information that could take dope off the streets and put traffickers behind bars would go a long way to getting him out of a major sling.

  First though, they needed hard evidence, which meant access to Renegade logbooks and manifests connecting it to the rest of the distribution chain. For that, Garrett would need someone like Lacey. Could he ask her? Getting her on board would take some finessing.

  Of course, there was also the chance she was involved in Renegade’s schemes. But his gut told him she was clean. And more important, he was desperate. He’d taken chances on wilder cards than Lacey Capshaw.

  He pulled his truck up to her bungalow home and parked out front. Thankfully, when Lacey opened the door, she greeted him with a smile. “Well, look what the cat dragged in! To what do I owe this surprise?”

  Opting not to reveal he was there to make her part of a federal law enforcement case involving a violent drug cartel, Garrett played it a little more casual. “I was just driving through town and thought I’d pay you a neighborly visit.”

  Lacey chuckled, but the furrow in her brow told him she didn’t buy his story. “Well, we’re not exactly neighbors, but that’s all right. Come on in.” Taking him in from tail to withers, she fanned her nose. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Garrett looked down at his blood-spattered blue jeans from the earlier fight, feigned shock. “Oh yeah. Sorry about that. Met Bridger out at Crippled Crows.”

  “Crippled Crows, huh?” Lacey gave him another onceover. “Well, I’d ask what happened to you, but the mere fact you made it out of that place alive is all I need to know.”