Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  “So! What the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

  “He told me to gather them all up and tote ’em out to the ranch for Nagual to deal with.”

  “Deal with?”

  Smitty could feel the bile rising in his throat. Instead of digging out from under a dead body, he was adding more to the pile. If Malek didn’t get back to him soon, there’d be nothing he could do to stop it.

  Boggs lumbered over to the AK-47 against the tire and snatched it up. “You got a problem with how the Garzas do business?”

  “Well, it’s not a problem necessarily. Just ain’t my job.”

  “Your job is to do what you’re told.” Boggs racked a bullet into the chamber and pointed the gun at Smitty. He pulled the trigger twice and there was a ticktick of metal on metal since the gun’s selector was on safety. “And if that old man screws with me again, it’ll be the last time.”

  27

  With his adrenaline pumping ninety to nothing, Garrett stomped on the accelerator and the Duramax turbodiesel engine snarled. With his GMC pegged at over seventy miles per hour, he focused on the far edge of the hydrogen beams that cut into the darkness. His stomach knotted as the pickup thundered over a steel cattle guard and hydroplaned into the pasture.

  He tapped the brakes, finessed his wheels back in line, and jammed his boot on the gas where he rolled up to a three-way junction and cut a hard right. Fishtailing onto the county road to Bridger’s house, one resounding thought dominated Garrett’s mind.

  How the hell could he have let this happen?

  It wasn’t as much a question as it was self-flagellation. Mixing work and family was one of Joe Bob Dawson’s cardinal sins—right up there with screwing your female informants and trusting headquarters.

  Garrett jerked the Glock from his holster, tossed it on the passenger seat, and pulled his own Nighthawk 1911 pistol from the center console. Taking his service weapon wouldn’t be right. Of course, none of what he was doing was on the level—not even close. But the switch from white hat to black didn’t mean he had to drag the DEA down with him. Consequences for his actions would be entirely on him.

  A quick check of his watch and he turned off the county road onto the winding gravel trail up to Bridger’s place. The twenty-minute trip had taken less than ten. Pacing on the front porch of his two-story log home, his brother looked up and sprinted over.

  While Garrett was coasting to a stop in the circle driveway, Bridger yanked the passenger door open and grabbed the box of heroin from the seat. “What took you so long?” He slammed the door without waiting for an answer and darted back in the house.

  Garrett put the truck in park, shut off the engine, and jumped out. He sprinted inside the house and took a quick look around. At a glance, he noticed some significant upgrades. Like everything else in Bridger’s life, the home was a testament to his financial success. Floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. Elk antler chandeliers. Top-grain leather sectional. And an eighty-six-inch flat screen.

  But what grabbed Garrett more than anything else was the portrait above the fireplace of the twins in their cowgirl regalia. They were leaning against a fence post out at the ranch with a smiling black Labrador at their feet. It couldn’t have been taken more than a couple of years ago. About the time he and Bridger had had their big falling-out.

  Breaking himself away, Garrett walked up to the dining room table where his brother was yanking plastic baggies of heroin from the box and tossing them in a pile.

  “What are you doing, Bridger?”

  His brother didn’t look up, just kept unpacking. “Making sure it’s all here.”

  His answer made Garrett wonder if Bridger was further into this thing than he’d admitted. “How do you know what’s supposed to be in there?”

  Paying no mind to the accusation, Bridger kept counting. “Guy told me when he called. Said there better not be a single one missing.” When the last bag was tallied, he breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s all here.”

  Garrett snorted. “Well, who do you think might’ve taken something? Me? Daddy?”

  Bridger looked shell-shocked. “I don’t know, Garrett.” He shrugged and shook his head. “They just said if they didn’t get ’em all back, they’d—” Choking up before he could get the rest out, he held up his cell phone and opened a text message.

  Garrett took in the photo. The girls were sitting side by side, knees to chest, their hands and feet bound. They were blindfolded and gagged.

  Garrett swallowed hard. “Don’t pay any attention to that, Bridger. They’re just trying to mess with your head. Make sure you don’t call the law. We do what they ask, the girls will be fine. I promise.”

  The fact that the twins were sitting on the floor of a room and not in a vehicle on their way to the meeting location was a bad sign. But Garrett wasn’t about to mention that to his brother. At least not yet. He looked around. “Where’s Cassidy?”

  Bridger tilted his head toward the bedroom. “Told her about my not-so-legal dealings with the investors in Mescalero and her reaction wasn’t good. Said I got greedy.” He turned and looked Garrett in the eye. “I can’t believe I let it get this far. I ought to have known better.”

  Garrett shook it off. “None of that matters right now. All we need to focus on is getting the girls back. So, I need you to pull it together. Can you do that?”

  Bridger took a breath and nodded. He picked up his phone from the table and texted while he spoke. “The guy said to let ’em know as soon as I get the package. He’ll text me the location where we meet and make the exchange.”

  Garrett had seen this scenario play out more times than he could count. Bad guys were vague on meeting times and locations until the very last minute, which made it impossible for law enforcement or rivals to plan ahead or put anyone in place.

  A few seconds later, Bridger’s phone dinged, and he read the text aloud. “Says get on the county road outside your house and start driving south. Come alone or the girls are dead.”

  Garrett had planned to go along and make the exchange, but their instructions were clear. Bridger would go alone. He followed his brother to the front door and yanked it open, but before he’d even taken a step outside, machine-gun fire erupted and splintered the door frame.

  So much for the plan.

  Garrett shoved Bridger back inside and slammed the door as a second barrage of lead shattered a side window and sent them diving for cover. As bullets raked the wall behind them, a burst of glass shards and wood slivers rained down and littered the floor.

  Lying prostrate, with his hands over his head, Garrett glanced up to see headlights in the dining room mirror. A vehicle was pulling around back.

  Grabbing his brother by the sleeve, Garrett leaned in and yelled over the noise, “Go get Cassidy and stay low!”

  Garrett flinched as automatic gunfire ripped through the back of the house, shattering the dining room window and blasting doors off the kitchen cabinets. Another salvo from a side window ripped a lazy trail of bullet holes along the wall until it got the twins’ portrait and peppered it to kindling.

  Cassidy screamed from the master bedroom and Bridger sprinted to her. He ducked low as a salvo from the front of the house blasted the eighty-six-inch flat screen. It sparked and smoked, then crashed to the floor in a heap of smoldering debris.

  Leaping to his feet, Garrett darted across the living room and sprinted upstairs. He turned right into Sophie’s bedroom, shoved the heroin under her bed, and turned back at the sound from downstairs of screeching hinges.

  Easing to the door, he peeked around the corner, down the stairwell, and into the den. One hitman stepped into view from the left and panned the room with a short-barreled AK-47. He had a stocky build, short cropped hair, and a gray goatee.

  The second gunman entering right had his CZ Scorpion submachine gun at the ready. He was tall and lean, with a spiderweb tattoo covering the length of his neck. His inky-black ponytail fell to midback. Both men wore the uniform of the
trade—shiny dark suits and pointy-toed boots.

  When the one with the goatee headed toward Bridger and Cassidy’s bedroom, Garrett slammed his elbow against the wall with an echoing thud. An instant later, heavy footsteps rumbled up the stairs.

  Garrett got flush with the wall, raised his pistol, and aimed at the doorway.

  Leading with his rifle, the one with the goatee made a sharp right turn into the Nighthawk.

  Garrett pulled the trigger and the sicario’s head became a red splotch on the wall.

  Stunned by the near headless body, the trailing gunman with the spiderweb tattoo faltered, giving Garrett the half-second edge to lean out and aim. With the barrel of the 1911 at nearly point-blank range, Garrett fired a .45 hollow point into the sicario’s chest—sending him tumbling down the stairs to land at the bottom in a heap of twisted limbs.

  A gunshot rang out from below and Garrett raced down the stairs, across the den to the master bedroom, and threw a shoulder into the door. At the crack of a second shot, he found Bridger by the window, his lever-action Henry X model leveled at a man missing half his head.

  Given the sicario’s additional gut wound, Garrett quickly deduced that Bridger’s second shot was done execution style. It wasn’t the kind of thing that held up in court as self-defense, but he assumed his attorney brother already knew that. It was the act of a father doling out a little justice of his own.

  Before Garrett could say a word, Bridger hurried to the closet, opened the door, and led Cassidy out by the hand. He held her as she sobbed.

  Garrett shifted uncomfortably. “Ya’ll need to get out of here and go somewhere safe. Cassidy’s parents’ maybe? Just keep your phone handy and I’ll be in touch.”

  Bridger turned back, his wife still in his tight embrace. “You’re not doing a damn thing without me, Garrett. That’s for sure.”

  “Look, I understand you’re upset and I—”

  “No. You don’t understand. We lose those girls, we lose everything. You don’t make a move without me.”

  Realizing he really had no choice in the matter, Garrett gave a slow nod. “Okay, fair enough. We do this. We do it together.”

  Cassidy pulled away from her husband. “Same goes for me.” She drew herself up, chin raised, and locked eyes with Garrett. “I’m not going anywhere until my baby girls are safe in my arms. You got that?”

  Garrett knew she wouldn’t be dissuaded but he looked to his bother in deference anyhow.

  Bridger was decidedly resolute. “We live as a family. We die as a family. Whatever you’ve got planned. Count us both in. All the way.”

  Garrett moved from the bedroom to the bottom of the stairs and spun the sicario over. Just as he’d done in every raid in his special operations career, he searched for intel, riffling through every pocket but ultimately finding nothing. No phone. No pocket litter. Not a thing to provide a clue to where the girls were located.

  Seeing what Garrett was doing, Bridger checked the body up top and Cassidy did the same in the bedroom. Garrett was about to go help her when his brother called down. “Got something.”

  To Garrett’s relief Bridger had found a phone. It was a prepaid device, likely a burner meant to be used only once. Bridger eased down and stood beside Cassidy who’d come back empty-handed.

  Garrett flipped the phone open. There were no plugged-in numbers and no history—just a single cryptic text exchange from the same number that had made contact with Bridger.

  Incoming:

  Girls are here at the house. Kohl brothers?

  Outgoing:

  Soon.

  Incoming:

  Call when it’s done.

  Nobody said a word but they all locked eyes. Bridger gave the nod and Garrett pushed the number. It rang and rang but nobody answered. No voice mail. No nothing. They were back to square one. Garrett was about to look for the sicarios’ truck keys when the phone vibrated.

  It happened so suddenly it gave Cassidy a jolt. After putting his index finger to his lips, Garrett answered and pressed the speaker button. Not a second later, the caller on the other end asked, “You take care of it?”

  Bridger couldn’t have hidden his reaction if he’d tried. The shock and rage burned way too deep.

  28

  Asadi looked over at Garrett’s friend Lacey, who sat rigid beside him—not even laughing at the funniest parts of the cartoons. Unsure what was wrong, he rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen where Butch stared out the window at nothing in particular. His face looked the way Asadi’s father’s had when the marauders came—the last time he ever saw him.

  The old man turned, looking startled. “Oh, hey there, sonny.” He gave Asadi a playful jab on the shoulder. “You’re sneakier than Geronimo.”

  Butch checked his watch and ambled to the coatrack by the back door. “You wouldn’t want to go feed horses now, would ya’?” He tilted his head to Lacey, who was still sitting on the sofa watching television. “Maybe your pretty friend over there will pitch in and help?”

  At the word horses, Asadi’s pulse quickened. It was what he had been waiting for all day. He grabbed his Dallas Cowboys coat and John Deere stocking hat from the kitchen table.

  Butch donned his jacket and dusty brown cowboy hat and called to Lacey. “Got a few chores out in the barn. Could I interest you in joining us?”

  It took a second for Lacey to realize he was talking to her. “Be glad to, Butch.” She rose from the sofa and threw on a coat that was as white and puffy as a marshmallow. “Gotta see those quarter horses Garrett’s always bragging about.”

  Butch looked surprised. “He’s mentioned them to you?”

  Lacey walked over to Asadi, zipped the Dallas Cowboys coat to his chin, and turned back to Butch. “Talks about those horses more than anything else.”

  The old man fought back a smile. “Well, he’s proud of what we got. But I reckon I’m as guilty. Haven’t done a whole helluva lot right in my lifetime but them horses are near close to perfection. Still have folks call me from all over the world interested in our bloodline.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me.” Lacey joined Butch by the back door. “I’ve heard enough jealous ranchers grumbling over at the café to know you’ve outdone them by a country mile.”

  Butch blushed at the compliment. He dug into his coat pocket, turned to Asadi, and handed him some cubes. “Lacey and I’ll distract the others, so you and your buddy can visit.”

  Asadi scooped up the sugar cubes, careful not to drop any, and put them in his front pocket for safekeeping. Understanding Butch’s plan, he nodded. “Tenk. You.”

  Butch looked as if he was about to say something but was interrupted by a barking growl from Pato, who had been napping out in the barn. From the look in Butch’s eyes, something was wrong. Asadi wanted to stop him before he opened the door, but it was already too late.

  Butch hadn’t taken even a step outside when a gunshot cracked and the bullet ripped through his shoulder. He slammed the door and clutched his wound as his knees buckled.

  Lacey’s eyes went wide, she screamed, then rushed to Butch.

  Collapsing, he threw his back into the door, reached up and clicked the dead bolt. “Saw two shadows by the corral.” He looked to Lacey. “I can hold ’em a minute, but you two gotta run. House down the road. Shanessy place. Get there quick as you can.”

  “No way, Butch.” She shook her head. “Uh-uh. We’re not leaving you.”

  “Gun and bullets.” He jabbed his finger toward the kitchen, wincing as he spoke. “In the pantry.”

  Asadi knelt beside Butch as Lacey sprinted to the kitchen. She rummaged through the closet then darted right back with the big silver pistol. “I’ll call the sheriff. Maybe they can—”

  “Won’t do no good.” He shook off the suggestion as he took the handoff from Lacey. “It’s going down, right here, right now. Gotta take care of ourselves.”

  Asadi shuddered, his heart jumping, at the sound of footsteps that thump-thump-thumped along
the creaking planks of the back porch. He scooted nearer Butch who looped his arm around him and pulled tight. “It’s all right, sonny. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  Lacey whispered, “What do I do?”

  Butch leaned hard into the door and whispered back, “Go to the bedroom. Lock yourselves in and get behind the bed. Call Garrett and tell him to get here quick as he can.”

  Lacey glanced up as the steps ceased outside the door. “What about you?”

  “Something happens to me,” Butch took a deep breath and grimaced in pain. “Hightail it to Kate Shanessy’s place. Climb out the window and run like hell. It’s the white house,” he said, gasping. “Big trees out front.”

  Butch pressed his bloody hand against the wound and red droplets oozed between his fingers. He gave Asadi a gentle nudge and whispered, “Go on, sonny. Hide real good for me now.” He smiled with his eyes and pointed to Garrett’s room. “Keep her safe.” Butch slid to the side, his back against the wall, and aimed the silver pistol up at the door.

  Asadi took Lacey’s hand as he trailed her through the living room, down the hallway, and into Garrett’s bedroom. The last thing he heard was Butch cocking the pistol. Then Lacey shut the door, turned off the lights, and their whole world went completely dark.

  Smitty looked to Boggs and shook his head. The psycho had fired on Butch Kohl without cause and it was clear as day he had no intention of taking the old man alive.

  Boggs pointed the AK-47 at Smitty. This time the safety wasn’t on. “What’s your problem?”

  Smitty looked for a place to take cover but there was none to be found. They were out in the open between the back porch and the barn. “I didn’t say nothing.”

  “You got a look though.”

  In one last bid to save his own life and everyone inside that house, Smitty made a desperate appeal to logic. “Didn’t Bo say to bring ’em alive for Nagual to deal with?”