by Taylor Moore
Bo Clevenger lumbered out a side entrance and met Smitty and Boggs in the circle drive. “You got ’em?”
Boggs rolled down the window and spat out a plug of his tobacco. “We got the boy.”
Bo laughed, spying the goose egg on Boggs’s forehead. “The hell happened to you?”
“Old man put up a fight.” Boggs winced as he massaged the knot. “Kid shot up Smitty with a bow and arrow.”
“Bow and arrow?” Bo leaned inside the cab of the van and gave Smitty the onceover. “Well, you know them Kohl brothers are Comanches way back on their mama’s side. Still got kin over in Lawton. Maybe that boy’s a cousin or something?” He chuckled to himself, seeming to think on the possibility. “What about Lacey and Butch?”
Boggs shook his head. “Like I said, old man made a ruckus. And the girl ran off.”
“Ran off?” Any amusement on Bo’s face over the arrow incident vanished. “Boss ain’t gonna like that.” He pulled his head out of the window and glanced over his shoulder at the house. “Let you explain that one.”
Boggs shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Bo turned back and whacked the side of the van with his thick palm. “Kid in the back?”
“Yeah, you don’t worry about that little bastard.” A rare grin rose from under Boggs’s scraggly beard. “We hit the pharmacy on the way over.”
“Pharmacy?” Bo cocked an eyebrow. “What pharmacy?”
“Parking lot behind the Flying Bandit.” Boggs lifted the hypodermic needle he’d used on the kid and gave it a squirt out the window. “Stopped off and got a little ketamine from a guy I know. Should keep the brat docile until the Garzas take him.”
Bo gave an approving nod, turned on his boot heel, and gave them the follow me gesture. “Go grab his ass then. We’ll lock him up in the library with Bridger Kohl’s girls.”
Smitty hopped out, went to the back of the van and opened the double doors. He sighed with relief and wrestled back a Hallelujah Jesus the kid wasn’t dead. As Boggs dragged the boy out, Smitty gathered his clothes, coat, and hat, wadded them into a ball and tucked them under his arm.
He followed Bo into the house and trailed him down a dim hallway. It reminded him of an art museum, like one he’d been to with his foster family back in the sixth grade. The paintings were mostly of nature scenes and wildlife, but he recognized a Jasper Johns and slowed to admire it.
Boggs threw a shoulder into Smitty’s back as he was walking by. “Hurry up. Boss wants to see us in his office.”
Smitty’s heart sank. They’d done their job and all he wanted to do now was go home to his wife and let her tend to his wounds properly. “Mr. Kaiser wants to see us?”
Still following Bo down the hall, Boggs turned and called back over his shoulder, “I’m talking about the real boss.”
Smitty didn’t know all the details, only that Kaiser had run afoul of the Garzas’ cartel on a high-dollar whitetail hunt down in Mexico. As the story went, he got coked up out of his mind and beat to death a fourteen-year-old prostitute. But rather than kill him, the Garzas took pictures of the two naked as jaybirds and threatened to release the photos if Kaiser didn’t play ball. Since then, the Garzas’ man Nagual had been calling the shots at Mescalero.
Smitty followed Boggs into the library and over to where he laid the boy down on an Oriental rug by the fireplace. He knelt beside him and tucked the ball of clothing under the kid’s arm. Leaning in close to his face, barely visible but for the glow of the flickering flames, Smitty could tell he was still breathing, albeit shallow.
He took the crocheted scarf his wife had made from around his neck, stretched it out, and draped it over the kid. Worried Boggs or Bo might’ve seen what he’d done, he turned back. They were already out in the hallway.
With the split second of privacy he checked his phone, but there was still no response from Malek. The son of a bitch was taking his sweet time. Smitty typed another frantic message.
Butch Kohl shot and dying at home. I’m at Mescalero Ranch. Please help now!!!
He’d just hit send when Boggs yelled from behind, “What the hell’s taking so long?”
Shoving the phone in his pocket, Smitty turned and saw a shadow move in the corner. It was Bridger Kohl’s twins, huddled together in black-and-gold sweat suits. Their terrified eyes glimmered in the fire. Smitty didn’t know what to say. He knew what was in store for those kids and none of it was good.
“Boy here’s been runnin’ around out in the cold. Maybe you could get him dressed.” He pointed to the fireplace. “See to it he gets warmed up or something. Could you do that for me?”
When the girls didn’t answer, Smitty looked back at the bony kid, unsure if he was going to make it—unsure if he wanted him to make it. There were worse things in the world than a quiet death beside a warm fire. And if the boy lived, he’d find out exactly what those things were.
31
Trembling from the cold, Lacey peeked around the thick trunk of a hackberry tree about thirty yards from Butch’s house. The van was gone and there was no activity inside. At least, as far as she could tell. For probably the thousandth time, she pulled up her cell phone with a shaky hand and checked for service. And like every time before the results were the same: no signal.
Her head and heart were torn. As a mother, Lacey wanted more than anything to run and hide, to live another day and see her own children again. But a young boy and an old man were in trouble. And right now, she was the only help they had.
Forcing her stiff legs into action, she stumbled toward the house, her feet frozen numb.
Lacey circled the house once for a closer look, then hopped onto the back porch and eased the door open. Her heart broke at the sight of Butch’s body. He was bleeding badly and white as a sheet.
She dashed to the landline in his kitchen, lifted the receiver, but found no dial tone. From there, she grabbed a dish towel, sprinted back to Butch, and pressed it against his dripping wound.
Groggily he opened his eyes and gave her a weak smile. “If you’re Saint Peter I ain’t disappointed.”
Lacey couldn’t help but chuckle. Even on the brink of death, the old man could flirt. “Hang in there, Butch. I’m gonna get you to a hospital.” She tried to get him off the floor, but he was pure deadweight. “Can you walk at all? I don’t think I can carry you.”
Butch made an effort to pick himself off the floor, but even with Lacey’s help it was no use. He winced, slumped back down, and closed his eyes.
She rubbed his stubbly cheek gently but firmly. “Come on, Butch. Stay with me now.” She looked up at a set of headlights in the front window. For some reason she felt it was safer to whisper. “Somebody’s coming up the road.”
Feeling around for his pistol, Butch opened his woozy eyes about halfway. Once his finger found the gun, he handed it to Lacey. “Know how to use one of these?”
She could shoot really well, but it’d been a while. Her father insisted she practice before going off to college at TCU in Fort Worth. As far as Lacey knew, she was the only Tri Delta in the sorority house packing a nine-millimeter.
Butch slurred out, “Just gotta pull the trigger.”
With a nod, Lacey took the pistol and reloaded the bullets from the box beside him. All she could think about was her own two kids and how heartbroken they’d be getting the same kind of devastating phone call she’d received about her father. Determined not to let that happen, she cocked the pistol and pointed it at the door.
Rumbling over the cattle guard, Garrett jammed his foot on the gas, bringing the pickup to up over sixty on the caliche road leading up to the house. He tried Lacey’s cell phone again, but nobody answered. Same went for his dad’s landline.
He turned to his brother, but before he could speak, Bridger beat him to it. “Something’s wrong.” He leaned forward with his eyes trained on the house. “Front door’s wide open. Looks busted off the hinges.”
Dammit! Garrett pounded the steering wheel. Every windo
w was shattered and there were bullet holes everywhere. Looked like a war zone.
He skidded up and threw the truck in park. Yanking the .45 from his belt, he jumped out and leapt onto the porch. Shoulder to wall, he inched to the door. Peering inside he found no threat, just glass shards and wood slivers from what used to be his mother’s kitchen.
With his pistol at the ready, Garrett took his first steps inside. Despite his effort to tread in silence, debris cracked and crunched beneath his boots with every step.
At the sound of ragged breathing in the living room, Garrett slowed his pace and inched past the pantry. He had just dipped his head to peer around the corner when the deafening boom of a .357 Magnum sent him flush with the wall. The bullet ripped past and lodged in the ceiling.
“Whoa, whoa! Lacey, it’s me! It’s Garrett!”
The cocking hammer set him rigid.
He rested his pistol down on the kitchen counter, loud enough for her to hear it. “I’m putting my gun down, okay? And I’m coming over to you now.”
He was about to ease his empty hands out for her to see when Bridger stepped up to the door. “What’s going—”
Throwing up a palm and pumping the air, Garrett put his index finger to his lips. He turned back in the direction of the living room.
“Lacey, I know you’re scared, but I need you to put the gun down, okay? It’s just me, Bridger, and Cassidy. We’re here to help.”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m coming around the corner now, so please don’t shoot.”
Amid heavy breathing, she let out a slight whimper, and then, “Garrett?”
He eased out hands and arms first, then let his head trail behind. The massive .357 Magnum was pointing at him. A moment later, Lacey’s terrified eyes registered that it was him and she tipped the barrel up to the ceiling.
Garrett rushed over, grabbed the gun, and set it to the side. “It’s okay, Lacey. You’re safe now.” He took her into his arms. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
She quickly pulled away and looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “It was those Mescalero boys, Garrett. Same ones I saw in Bridger’s office.”
Scanning the room, Garrett asked, “Where’s Asadi?”
“I think they’ve got him.” She shook her head as tears fell. “I snuck out to get help but got turned around in the drifts. And when I came back, he was gone.”
Bridger scrambled over with Cassidy on his heels. He knelt beside Butch and scooped his father’s lifeless hand into his own. He’d worn the exact same look right before he smashed Rocky Anderson’s face into the table. “These sons of bitches, Garrett. I swear to God.”
“I know, Bridger—I know. There’ll be plenty of time to settle the score. But right now, we’ve gotta focus on getting Daddy to the hospital.” Garrett pulled the cell phone from his coat pocket. “I’ll call up Ike. He can have him over to Pampa in no time.”
Cassidy knelt beside Butch and ran her hand gently over his thick white hair. “What about a Med-Star helicopter?”
Garrett glanced at his dad who was growing paler by the second. “No time. He’s lost too much blood. Ike’s just minutes away.”
Having done all the explaining he was going to, Garrett instructed Bridger and Cassidy to load up the horses. He dialed Ike and prayed like hell he’d pick up. Remarkably, the barman answered, and accepted the job as casually as Domino’s takes a pizza order. He sounded a little drunk though.
After ending the call, Garrett turned to Lacey. “Look, I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
He looked down at his dad for what he hoped wouldn’t be the last time. “Take care of him for me, okay?”
Taking a momentary break from caressing Butch’s cheek, she applied a fresh towel to his wound. “If anybody knows how much is riding on this, it’s me.” She glanced up and smiled. “He’s in good hands, Garrett.”
Garrett couldn’t believe how quickly Bridger and Cassidy had saddled the horses and hooked up the trailer. Of course, those were two things both had been doing since childhood so he shouldn’t have been all that surprised. What did take him off guard was the fact that in addition to King and Ginger, Sparrow was ready to go too.
“Ah, hell no. Not a chance.”
Cassidy charged up to Garrett looking ready to take a swing. “You think you’re going to stop me from going after my own girls?”
“It’s nothing to do with that, Cassidy. Truth be told, I’d rather go in alone. The more of us there are, the likelier it is they’ll see us coming.”
“I can ride as well as you, Garrett. Maybe better. I may not have been to war, but nobody can beat me on a horse. You know that.”
Everything she said was true. Cassidy was as good a rider as God ever put on the face of the earth. And now with Asadi in the mix, he needed an extra horse. He needed her too.
“All right then.” Garrett gave a nod. “Plans have changed anyhow.”
It was Bridger who took the bait. “What do you mean changed?”
“Now that we’re owning up to our secrets, I’ve got a little confessing of my own.”
Bridger narrowed his gaze. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“About why I’m back home and who I really work for.” Garrett could already feel the weight rising off his chest. “Ya’ll get in the truck, I’ll tell you on the way. You’re going to want to be sitting for this news anyhow.”
32
Asadi awoke to warmth, comfort, and the tune of a familiar lullaby. He tried to open his eyes, but they were far too heavy. The rest of his body was the same—arms and legs full of sand and a head swimming in fog. In his mind, he passed from earth to heaven where his mother was waiting with outstretched arms.
Asadi forced his eyes open. Unfortunately, as in every dream since the massacre, the image of his mother disappeared as soon as he woke fully, and he was left with an awful emptiness.
Instead of his mother, the lovely faces of two pretty girls hovered above him. One was singing. The other, holding his head in her lap, stroked his hair. At first, he thought they might be angels, but after a few seconds he recognized them from a photo on Butch’s dresser.
The twins had long blond hair and blue eyes and wore identical black-and-gold hoodies, just as they did in the picture. The one singing moved closer. Her forehead wrinkled as she turned to her sister.
“I think he’s awake.” Her voice barely carried over the crackling fire.
Asadi panicked, remembering the kidnappers had stripped him nearly naked. But with a quick glance downward he found himself clothed again. The shame of realizing these pretty girls must have dressed him caused his face to grow warm. He pushed passed the embarrassment, propped up, and glanced around, taking in the strong scents of leather and varnish from the dark wood tables and plush burgundy chairs. His cloudy gaze moved beyond the furniture, and out to walls made entirely of books—thousands of them—all lined up on two separate levels.
The twin stroking his hair moved her hand to his swollen eye. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”
Asadi was put at ease by her gentle words. He felt safe in the girls’ presence, as if he’d known them forever. He tried to speak but produced only gibberish.
The singing twin spoke. “He’s trying to say something.”
Feeling slightly more in control, Asadi tried again. “Booch.”
The one stroking his hair turned to her sister. “Sounds like he said Butch.”
“Maybe he speaks Spanish like the men who took us. Ask him and see.”
“You know as much Spanish as I do. You ask him.”
The singer looked pensive, then spoke to him softly. “Hola. Coma estas?”
Clearly annoyed, the other rolled her eyes. “Hello. How are you? Are you kidding me? He’s in big trouble, just like we are!”
“I don’t know what to say! You say something!”
The one who’d stroked his hair smiled and put
her hand to her chest. “I’m Sophie.” She pointed to her sister. “This is Chloe.”
He patted his chest and forced his words past swollen lips, “I. Asadi.”
Chloe sounded out the name, carefully pronouncing each syllable. “Uh-saw-dee.” She nudged her sister. “See! I told you it was Spanish.”
Wanting to say something, anything to let them know he was a friend, Asadi searched for the right words to explain his connection to their family. “Booch. Gerwett. Fren.”
The girls looked to each other in amazement. Sophie grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Did you say . . . Garrett?”
Asadi nodded and patted his chest. “Fren. Fren.”
Chloe smiled. “You know my grandpa and uncle?” She thought hard for a moment. “How do you know them?”
Asadi had never wanted to understand so badly. “Booch. Pease. Hewp.”
Chloe looked to Sophie. “You think they hurt Grandpa?”
Remembering the condition Butch was in, Asadi rose to his feet. He tried to walk but he was moving far too quickly and immediately felt his head spin. He faltered after his first step but caught himself before falling. “Booch. Need. Hewp.”
Sophie grabbed Asadi by the arm and steadied him. “Look. I know you don’t feel well, but we’re going to have to make a run for it.” She pumped her arms. “You know—run?”
Asadi made the same motion to show her he understood. If there was a chance to escape, they would take it. “Run,” he repeated.
Chloe looked at the door leading out into the hallway. “I wonder if these are the same horrible men who killed Scooter.”
Sophie shook off the suggestion. “I’m not sure about anything, Chlo. I just know we have to get out of here or something bad is gonna happen.” She glanced up at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “So, just get ready to run. Okay?”
Chloe didn’t answer—just stared at the door.
Sophie turned back to Asadi and made the pumping motion with her arms again.
