Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  She crouched low, turned back and raised her finger to her lips. “Quiet,” she whispered.

  Creeping up from behind, Chloe squatted beside her sister. “You see something?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No. That’s what worries me.”

  Stooped beside them, Asadi spun on a heel, surveying the lake’s edge. They were about fifty yards from land in every direction.

  Chloe glanced back to where they started. “I think they’re gone.”

  Straining his eyes, Asadi searched but found only snow-covered prairie on the moonlit horizon. Then a crack-crack-crack of bullets slammed the surface, buzzing and whirring as they ricocheted across the ice and out into the darkness.

  With her pistol raised, Chloe spun around, aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger, and a burst of fire leapt from the barrel. There was a short pause as confidence trumped fear and she pulled the trigger three more times.

  Asadi squinted hard, looking for movement. There was a sharp snap, then a pop-pop-pop as the ice split beneath him. He shifted his weight and the fissure grew longer and wider.

  “Don’t move,” Chloe whispered. She took a step, the ice cracked underfoot, and she broke into a run. “Go! Go! Go!”

  Asadi did his best to keep up, but the girls outpaced him by four or five steps. As he fell farther and farther behind, he imagined the ice caving in beneath his every step, frigid black water lapping at his heels—dragging him under.

  Relief washed over him as he hit the edge of the lake, but he was no safer when he dove into a snowbank. Just ahead, a group of riders were galloping toward them—four horses, at least. With the horses bearing down, Asadi looked to the girls for their next move. But the riders’ gunfire sent them immediately running.

  Each twin grabbed a handful of Asadi’s coat and yanked him along. They sprinted a wide loop around the lake dam, leapt a hedgerow and darted across a garden, rising terrace by terrace until equal in height to the mounted gunmen.

  They ran as far and fast as they could until coming to a dead-end wall. To the right, one of the marauders galloped up on a black horse and raised his rifle to shoot. But Chloe beat him to the trigger.

  As the gunman fell, she shot three more times until the other riders turned and beat a hasty retreat for the cover of the woods.

  Sophie screamed, “Keep shooting! What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m trying! I’m trying!” Chloe pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. “I think something’s wrong with it!”

  The top of the pistol locked back like it was hung. Maybe even broken.

  Sophie grabbed the gun and inspected it. “It’s out of bullets!” She tossed it to the ground.

  On the other side of the clearing from where they stood, riders dismounted and scurried beneath the shadows of the trees, speaking in hushed voices before suddenly going silent.

  And in that moment, Asadi came to a simple understanding. They were no longer being chased—they were being hunted.

  35

  Hovering through the late-evening darkness in his Hughes 500, Ike pondered all the dumb things he’d done to shorten his life span. Almost dying in nearly every war zone on the planet was his crowning achievement and running a dirty dive bar that catered to scofflaws and cutthroats ran a close second. But flying drunk into whatever trouble the Kohls had gotten themselves into with a Mexican drug cartel was somewhere at the top of the list.

  Of course, knowing it was stupid didn’t mean he regretted it—not one iota. Ike considered himself a no-account daredevil destined to die a fiery death. His mother once told him he’d end up dead in a ditch, rot to pieces, and turn to dust before anybody could do him the courtesy of a decent Christian burial. It was a story he was apt to believe but he didn’t so much care if the buzzards picked his bones, so long as his boots were on while they did it.

  Ike always knew God kept him around for a reason. He didn’t know if helping Garrett Kohl was his saving grace, but he’d put his neck on the chopping block for lesser men. On top of that, there’d always been a nagging voice in the back of his head that still pricked him raw over Mogadishu, even after all these years. He’d had the good fortune to come home while others hadn’t. Since then, he’d tried to make amends.

  Finding Butch Kohl’s house in the dark wasn’t as tough as it could’ve been. The moon was shining bright and the massive caprock escarpment made for a perfect landmark. All he had to do was follow the ridge to the ranch headquarters and the rest was cake.

  Ike circled Butch’s house, making a wide swath. He wasn’t averse to setting down in a hot landing zone, but if someone was going to be shooting at him, he preferred to know it beforehand. As far as he could tell from his quick reconnaissance, there was nothing to see but a lot of snow and an old white house ripped up by gunfire.

  With hardly a window unshattered, the ruined farmhouse sent a chill up his spine.

  Nestling into a clear spot between the horse barn and the corral, Ike eased the stick left and lowered the collective. As he hovered in to set her down, a whiteout blasted up from the rotor wash beneath, blinding him momentarily. Not ideal landing conditions, but with no other choice, he rested the skids in the snow by feel and powered his bird down quick as he could.

  “Thank God, he’s here,” Lacey whispered to herself, and pulled the big comforter up around Butch’s chin. With the windows gone and the door busted in, the temperature was dropping by the second.

  “Just hang in there a little longer, Butch. Help’s on the way.”

  The minutes it had taken Ike to get there felt like hours. Lacey looked down at Butch’s ashen face to find it looking different—less determined. The man who wore a permanent scowl, the portrait of grit, was yielding to his injuries. As much as she didn’t want to believe it, even a tough old cuss like Butch had his limits.

  Lacey had her ear to Butch’s face to check for breathing when Ike came flying through the door from the back porch. He rushed over, knelt beside her, and scooped the rancher into his arms like he weighed nothing. And he did it all without a single word.

  Lacey grabbed some more clean towels for bandages and bolted out the back door after him. By the time she leapt from the porch Ike was already loading Butch into a black-and-silver helicopter.

  She sprinted over and hopped in back with Butch, resting his head on her lap atop a pillow of towels. Ike placed a headset over her ears then ran back to the front and jumped in.

  As the motor whirred to life, Ike spoke to her over the headset. “Lacey, you hear me?”

  She nodded instead of answering, fixated on how much more listless Butch had become. After a few seconds, Ike spoke again. “You gotta talk into the mike, darlin’.”

  Realizing her mistake, she immediately answered. “Yes, I can hear you. Sorry.”

  “No sweat. You’ve got a lot on your plate back there and you’re doing fantastic.”

  Lacey didn’t feel that way, but it was still nice to hear. She leaned down to put her cheek against Butch’s nose. “I can barely feel his breath, Ike. I think we’re running out of time.”

  “You don’t worry about time. That’s my department. Just keep lots of pressure on that wound and change out the bandages soon as they soak through. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded again then caught herself. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “What are his vitals?”

  She felt his wrist. “His pulse is so low I can barely feel it. He feels really cold, but he’s not shivering. Not moving at all, really.”

  “Okay, there’s a good chance he’s going into shock. Keep him warm as you can with that blanket. Cover him up with those towels too and elevate his feet. Now if his pulse starts to race and he starts breathing heavy, I don’t want you to panic. Just talk to him nice and easy. He may not respond but I guarantee he can hear you. Let him know what we’re doing the whole way there. You don’t have to lie to him like some kid. Just keep telling him we’re close to the hospital and a team is waiting to treat him, which the
y are. Got it?”

  She remembered to answer this time. “Got it.”

  It was clear to Lacey that Ike had done this many times before, which made her wonder how many shootings there’d been at Crippled Crows.

  Ike turned his head slightly. “One more thing I need you to do for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ike lost the bravado in his voice. “I’m uh . . . probably not on the best of terms with the Almighty, so any favors to be asked might get a better reception from you rather than me.”

  Lacey nearly laughed but she could tell he was being sincere. “Consider it done, Ike.”

  With his bird zooming toward Pampa at 150 knots, Ike glanced back to see if he could gauge Butch’s condition. Lacey was smiling optimistically and speaking to him in a soft voice, just like he’d told her to do. Through the headset he could hear her walking Butch through every step of the process, all matter-of-fact, like they were taking a Sunday drive.

  “Almost there now, Butch.” Lacey stroked his white hair gently. “You’re doing great. Flying over the Hayhook right now. Means we’re real close to the hospital.”

  Glancing down at the massive Hayhook Ranch, Ike determined she was right. He could see the lights of Pampa off in the distance and hoped Sanchez was there waiting for him like he was supposed to be. He’d told the deputy to keep quiet about what was going on, but there was nothing in the world low-key about flying in hot with a gunshot victim in the back of your bird.

  There’d be a lot of questions from law enforcement to which he had few answers. And he wanted Sanchez there to make sure he could break loose of any eager-beaver cops, deputies, or state troopers who felt the need to grill him over a bunch of crap he knew nothing about. Last thing he wanted to do was get held up in questioning when Garrett needed him most.

  Let ’em be pissed. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Circling to set her down, Ike saw a crowd of folks standing around the helipad. It was mostly medical personnel by the gurney, but some lawmen were in the bunch.

  Ike pushed the stick left and pulled the collective as he spoke to Lacey through the headset. “You did a great job back there.”

  A nervous laugh preceded her voice. “I didn’t really do anything, Ike.”

  “You did everything you could do with the tools you had. And you did it to perfection.”

  “What do I do now?”

  Ike throttled back, lining up on the pad. He held the bird steady before landing.

  “You stay right there by Butch’s side and let him know everything’s going to be just fine. And you tell him I’m headed out to the Mescalero Ranch to help his boys. Okay?”

  The second the skids hit concrete Lacey’s door opened and a blast of frigid air filled the cockpit. Butch was whisked from Lacey’s lap and placed on the gurney.

  Parting the crowd like Moses split the Red Sea, Sanchez stepped up and opened the front-passenger door. He yelled over the rotors and engine, “Who the hell did this, Ike?”

  Ike turned to Lacey, who hadn’t moved a muscle. She looked as if she might be going into shock herself.

  Willing her to shake a leg, Ike mustered a voice that was both gentle and commanding. “Mission accomplished, darlin’. Now head on in there and take care of our patient.”

  Lacey didn’t look up or acknowledge him. She just sat in stunned silence.

  Sanchez yelled again at Ike, this time louder, “Come on, Ike! What’s happening? Where’s Garrett?”

  Cupping his hand over his ear, Ike feigned confusion to give Lacey some more time.

  Sanchez leaned in and yelled, “Dammit, Ike! Shut her down!” He tilted his head toward the throng of law enforcement officials behind him. “These boys have some questions!”

  Two grim-faced state troopers—thick and solid as chimneys—stepped up behind Sanchez. One reached for his sidearm.

  Ike looked back to find Lacey unchanged. She was staring straight down, her eyes transfixed on the blood-drenched towels in her lap.

  He spoke to her again. This time with a little more force. “All right, Lacey! You done real good, girl! Now hop on out and go help Butch!”

  Her trance finally broken, Lacey flashed a timid smile and stepped out onto the helipad.

  Ike looked to Sanchez, who had just leaned in, grabbed him by the collar and jerked him into the cockpit. The stupefied state troopers sprinted forward but not before Ike yanked the collective, shooting the bird off the ground like a bottle rocket.

  Sanchez yelled so loud that Ike could hear him over the blast of the rotors. “Dammit, Ike! You crazy-ass son of a bitch! What the hell are you—”

  His reaction was the same as anyone who’d been shanghaied while hanging halfway out of a helicopter. But there was no time to deal with that. Ike figured his old buddy Deputy Dawg would understand once he got an explanation. And if not, there was always the door.

  Part Four

  Shoot first and never miss.

  —Bat Masterson

  36

  Garrett panned the moonlit horizon for any signs of trouble. But in the fifteen minutes his pickup had been bumping over the Mescalero Ranch oil field roads, he, Bridger, and Cassidy had encountered only a few nasty chuckholes. Roughly the size of Washington, DC, Kaiser’s backyard was a colossus of rough country. Towering mesas, deep crags, and rolling sandhills over two stories high covered a snowy landscape of frozen creeks and thorny mesquite.

  Garrett wondered if they’d bitten off more than they could chew, but there was no going back now. Decisions were made, and this was happening. No amount of second-guessing would change any of that.

  Shaking off the bad juju of pessimism, he cut his eyes to Bridger, who was uncharacteristically quiet. As Garrett expected, his admission to working for the DEA had come as quite a shock. “I know you got something to say, so go on and say it.”

  His brother didn’t look over, but at least he spoke. “You didn’t trust us, or what?”

  “Not that at all, Bridger. I kept it quiet for your protection and my own.”

  Garrett was thinking specifically of DEA Special Agent Kiki Camarena, who was horrifically tortured and murdered by drug traffickers down in Mexico.

  “But you told Daddy?”

  “I needed to designate a next of kin in case something happened.”

  Bridger finally turned and stared. “So, this oil company work you’ve been talking about for years was all just a big lie?”

  “I was living my cover, Bridger. That’s what we have to do. The more real it is to me and everyone else, the more real it is to a narco who might want to lop my head off. Cartels have eyes and ears everywhere. I couldn’t take a chance.” He turned and faced down his brother. “Hell, what’s happening to us right now is all the proof you need. Surprised I have to explain it.”

  Bridger was silent and he appeared to be calming down as he digested Garrett’s reasoning. “Still. You could’ve told me.”

  Garrett had to think for a second. He didn’t know how much he wanted to get into with everything else going on. But it was clear Bridger wasn’t going to let this thing go. He glanced in the rearview, hoping Cassidy might weigh in on his side, which she sometimes did, but his sister-in-law looked as eager for an answer as her husband.

  “Bridger, our whole lives you’ve always been the show. Quarterback. Rodeo star. Scholarships. Law school. You name the award or trophy, you won it.”

  Bridger looked over. “What the hell does that have to do with you?”

  “Nothing. And that’s the point. DEA was all my own. Something you couldn’t one-up me on with Daddy.”

  “One-up you! Is that what you think I’ve been doing all these years?”

  Hearing it out loud, Garrett had to admit it sounded petty. “I know it wasn’t intentional on your part, but that’s how it played out. Living in your shadow wasn’t easy.”

  “I could say the same,” Bridger snapped.

  Now Garrett looked over. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
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  “Means exactly what I said. How do you think it felt to be the brother of a big war hero? You really think Daddy was going to let that one slip by?”

  Garrett shook off the notion. Bridger was just trying to flip this thing around.

  “He never cared about any of that.”

  “Not to your face, maybe. But believe me, Garrett, I heard plenty. And so did everyone in the whole damn county. When you made Special Forces, it was all he talked about. You were the patriot son. Out there serving God and country. And I was the butt of his lawyer jokes.”

  Ah hell. Butch Kohl strikes again. That was the old man’s MO for sure.

  Bridger let out a breath and continued, “Look, we’re brothers. And despite our differences, we’ve always had each other’s backs. Had to after Mama died. And that’s how I want it to be from here on out. No more secrets. No more grudges. We got a deal?”

  Having come face-to-face with the Kohl Code for the second time in forty-eight hours, Garrett nodded and threw out a hand, which Bridger shook. And in true Kohl family fashion the hatchet was buried. Again.

  Tapping the brakes at a Y in the road, Garrett looked at Bridger. “Which way now?”

  Bridger pulled the map close to his face. “Southeast from here.”

  As Garrett veered left, Cassidy, who’d been silent for her own reasons, spoke up from the backseat. “How much farther?”

  Glancing in the rearview again, Garrett saw her fidgeting, her face tense with worry. “Almost there. Couple minutes maybe.” He looked to his brother for confirmation, hoping he’d be the one to do the consoling. “That right, Bridge?”

  Engrossed in his map, Bridger didn’t answer.

  Garrett’s iPhone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see Kim Manning again.

  Damn! Four missed calls in an hour.

  Clicking it to voice mail, Garrett turned his pickup south at Bridger’s command, and tore down a smaller oil field road leading up to an old drill site location. The sign on the fence around the forty-eight-foot pump jack read Boone 12–25H.