by Taylor Moore
Right where it was supposed to be.
Garrett killed the headlights as he pulled up behind a couple of crude oil reservoirs. Turning to his brother he asked, “Still think this is as far as we can make it by road?”
Bridger laid the map down on the center console and clicked on the interior light to confirm. “Afraid so. From here, we cut due west, ride about a mile to this ravine.” He made a circle around it with the tip of his finger. “It’s a hundred-foot drop in some places, but we can cross at this little gulley.”
Shifting into park Garrett glanced at the map. “Central Tank Battery looks hard to miss.”
“It is. Every bit of oil and gas on the Mescalero Ranch flows into this spot. There’s at least a dozen or so forty-foot crude reservoirs and that’s not including all your flow lines, condensers, and separators on the pad. They keep an office out there too. But I doubt anyone’s around this time of night.”
A trace of Garrett’s finger put them where they needed to be. He could tell by the topographic map they’d have the high ground. “Looks like Kaiser’s compound will be in plain view from there.”
Before Bridger could answer, he was interrupted by a clang of stomping hooves from the trailer. The horses were ready to move.
“Guess that’s our cue,” Garrett added.
Grabbing their gear, Bridger and Cassidy jumped out of the truck and slammed the doors.
Garrett had just pulled the door handle when he noticed Kim had left a voice mail. He clicked the speaker button and played the message as he pulled his pack from the backseat.
Where are you, Kohl . . . ? Contreras and I put a team together in Virginia and we’re headed back to Tsavo. Got the go ahead to “take care” of the problem. Call me ASAP.
Garrett instinctively reached to call back but stopped short. Where would he even begin?
After trading his silverbelly Catalena for a black wool stocking cap, he threw open the door and stepped outside. Shuddering as the cold wind slammed him, Garrett couldn’t believe how quickly the temperature had dropped in the half hour since they’d left the ranch.
Grabbing the Spiritus Systems Micro Fight chest rig from the front seat, he slipped it over his coat and wrapped a black-and-gray shemagh scarf around his neck. Behind him, Bridger and Cassidy were already outfitted in thick camo coats, beanies, and snake boots as tall as their knees. Better still, they were mounted and ready to go.
Garrett opened the back door, pulled his Lone Star Armory TX15 off the seat, and slung the rifle over his shoulder. He turned to find Bridger riding over on Ginger, the roan mare.
Handing over the reins to a muscled sorrel gelding, Bridger asked, “You good with King?”
Garrett gave a nod. “Fastest we’ve got, to hear Daddy tell it.” Thrusting the toe of his left boot into the stirrup, he swung into the saddle and looped King in a circle to face Bridger and Cassidy.
“Got everything? Guns? Extra ammo? Flashlights? Maps?”
Bridger patted the Henry rifle tucked in his saddle scabbard. Cassidy mimicked the gesture, but with Butch’s Colt Python tucked into her jeans. With a little spur, Garrett eased King closer to Ginger and Sparrow. Their breath formed one rising vapor cloud.
Harkening back to the old days, Garrett resurrected his sergeant’s voice. “Something happens to me, ya’ll keep going for the kids. Ride hard, fast, and don’t look back. Understand?”
Bridger shook off the order. “We ain’t leaving you behind. Might as well get that nonsense out of your head.”
“Now, I’m serious about this, Bridger. Don’t wait on me. Not even for a second. This thing goes sideways, just haul ass. I can take care of myself.”
Bridger didn’t reply. He tugged the reins right and spurred Ginger into a trot. Cassidy was right behind him, kicking up a snow cloud in Sparrow’s wake.
Garrett panned the flat horizon and nudged King with his boot heels. Eager for the chase, the sorrel lurched forward and dug his hooves into the earth until they built into a gallop.
Within a couple of seconds, the world around them was a blur of white prairie and a ceiling of stars. Beyond the blasting wind and the four-beat pattern of thundering hooves, every other sound disappeared.
It was serenity and chaos—all in a single motion.
But as Garrett charged into battle, his mind wrestled with Bridger’s earlier words.
We live as a family. We die as a family.
Smitty figured he’d tromped through the snow for at least a mile and a half. He turned back to Kaiser’s compound and admired the luster. With the floodlights blazing, the place looked like a raging fire. After several minutes meandering through the mesquite, he found the Central Tank Battery. In the light of the fluorescents shone a set of stairs and a scaffolding atop the tanks. He hurried up the iron framework, his work boots clanging with every step.
Smitty turned east and detected horses galloping in from the back side of the ranch. In the darkness they were silhouettes, but he recognized Garrett Kohl by the long hair. With his scarf-wrapped face and strapped down with ammo, he looked like some outlaw gunslinger from The Magnificent Seven.
Smitty fished the phone from his coat pocket to find there was still no response from Malek. Instead a call came in from Kaiser.
“All right, Smitty, cameras picked up the Kohls at the 12–25H. Got three coming on horseback your way. You see ’em yet?”
“Not yet,” Smitty lied. “Maybe they went in another direction.”
“Not likely. Straightest path to get here is down the CTB road. Right beside you.”
Smitty kept a careful eye on the Kohls, who were still at the edge of the canyon. “I’ll keep a good lookout for them.”
“You’ll have to do more than that. Those Comanche brothers get the drop on you and there’ll be hell to pay. You heard what they did to Nagual’s men, didn’t you?”
Smitty swallowed hard. “Yeah, I heard. Killed ’em all dead.”
“I’ll send Rocky and the Mexicans to back you up.”
“How long?”
“Few minutes at the most.” There was a pause on Kaiser’s end. “And, Smitty, you let them slip past, then you’d better put a bullet in your own head. Those brothers don’t kill you, I sure as hell will.”
Before he could respond, Kaiser ended the call. Hoping he’d get a text from Malek telling him help was on the way, Smitty checked his phone again. Nothing.
Smitty looked out over the ravine as the Kohls trotted up to the ledge. If he murdered them in cold blood, he’d be no better than the Garzas. If he didn’t, Kaiser would kill him straight-out. He shouldered the AK-47 and put the sights on Garrett, praying desperately for an option that was somewhere in between.
37
Garrett had traveled no more than a mile, but he was just about frozen solid. Still, it was good to be back in the saddle. The rhythm between horse and rider had no equal. There was a mutually recognized cadence, a union of spirits where everything faded but the ride itself.
Pulling up behind Bridger and Cassidy, he stopped at the ledge of a gully. At first glance, the area below the ridge looked like a dark abyss, but after his eyes adjusted, he estimated the drop to the bottom of the gulch was about fifty feet.
On the other side was Mescalero’s Central Tank Battery—a complex about half the size of a football field. With its two thirty-foot pipes flaring natural gas, the facility looked like something out of Mad Max. The steel fortress basked in the light of a flickering orange glow.
Nudging King in between Ginger and Sparrow, Garrett shouldered the TX15 and scanned the facility with his Vortex scope. There were twelve steel cauldrons, each forty feet high, and one mobile home office flanked by halogen lamps on poles.
“This is it.” Garrett turned to his brother. “You ready?”
“Hold on a second. Need one last look.” Bridger pulled the map from inside his coat, clicked on a small flashlight, and studied a folded section. “Once we cross here, we head due south. There’s a road leading s
traight up to Kaiser’s compound.” He swapped the ranch map for his blueprints. “Kitchen entrance is on the north end.”
Panning the snow-covered mesquite brush, Garrett studied the tank battery for a third time, finally satisfied it was secure. “And what if the kids aren’t around when we get there?”
“Then we find somebody who knows where they are and start asking some serious questions.”
Garrett hated to grill his brother over simple objectives, but in his experience, direct-action assaults were never pulled off without a hitch or two. Their crash course in close quarters battle wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.
Pulling up his rifle, Garrett panned the tank battery again. This time a silhouette dashed across the yellow scaffolding above the oil tanks. He had just gotten the shadow in his crosshairs when a muzzle flashed, and a bullet cracked overhead.
Damn! So much for coming in under the radar.
Garrett yelled, “Go, Bridger! Go! I’ll catch up!”
Tugging the reins left, his brother spurred Ginger into a gallop along the lip of the ridge with Cassidy close behind on Sparrow. About thirty yards out, they found a switchback trail leading down into the gulley and turned onto it.
Adrenaline pumping, Garrett jerked the rifle to his shoulder and clicked the selector off safety. With eyes on optics he searched the top of the tanks and saw a shadow move. Multiple muzzle flashes followed as the gunman kept firing.
Resting his crosshairs on the erratic light bursts, Garrett pulled the trigger twice and the thenkthenk of his suppressed rifle echoed in the ravine below. Sweeping the platform, Garrett caught movement at the bottom of his reticle. He dropped the scope and found the gunman hurtling down the stairs—taking three steps at a time.
Garrett fired again, but the shooter cut left and the bullet sparked off a handrail.
Working to reengage, Garrett trailed his target, but the crosshairs were always a sliver behind. The gunman took cover behind a maroon shipping container and the shot was lost.
With a lull in the action, Garrett snuck in a quick breath to get his head in the game. He lowered the scope and took in the tank battery with his naked eye.
Beneath the licking flames of the gas flares, every shadow moved, and every pipe was a gun. He’d just focused in on the Conex box when a rifle hung around it and fired full-auto.
Garrett ducked as supersonic rounds ripped the air overhead and spooked King into a panicked fit of snorting, rearing, and bucking. Nearly thrown from the saddle, he gentled the horse with some sweet talk and a scratch between the ears.
When the rodeo ended, Garrett loped his horse in a counterclockwise circle, building momentum into a gallop as he steered toward the ravine.
Leaning back in the saddle, Garrett thrust his full weight into the stirrups as King leapt from the ledge and they plunged in a near vertical free fall.
One.
Two.
Three seconds passed, until hooves caught again and thundered on the downslope.
The bounding sorrel let out a shallow breath as he picked up speed and tore across the straightaway of the valley floor.
Spotting a cattle trail, Garrett moved the reins right, nosing onto the path. He leaned forward, head beside King’s as they traversed up the ridge.
Once they’d crested it, he gave his horse the spurs and galloped the length of the tank battery, pulling up behind the shipping container where he had last spotted the shooter. But all that was left were spent casings and fresh tracks.
Sucking in frigid air, Garrett dismounted and followed the trail that twisted and turned on the narrow concrete pathway through the towering steel cauldrons. The odor of methane hung heavy in the air, catching his attention, as did the startling sight of a red flammable gases sign.
Ignoring the warning, Garrett shouldered his rifle and switched from optics to offset iron sights. Finger by the trigger, he crept forward.
Beyond the oil tanks, twenty yards ahead, a gun barrel swung around a blue compressor unit and opened fire.
With bullets sparking off steel, Garrett dropped to a knee and found flesh in his sights. His shot ripped the gunman’s hip and spun him off his feet.
Garrett hopped up, sprinted forward, and kicked the rifle out of reach.
The gunman rolled to his back and threw up his hands. “Don’t! Please! I wasn’t trying to hit you!”
“If your plan was to shoot at me and miss, you need to rethink your strategy.”
“I swear it!”
Garrett leaned in and read the name patch on the guy’s Renegade coat: Ray Smitty. Remembering him from the Wagon Bridge, he jammed a boot on his chest to keep him pinned as he tried to squirm away.
Smitty clenched his eyes. “Look, I been hunting all my life. I had a clean shot from the tower. If I was going to hit you, I’d a hit you, man. I just wanted to run ya’ll outta here!”
Remembering where Smitty was positioned on the tower, Garrett realized it could’ve been true. Country boys like him had hunted since birth. If the guy had missed them, while they were standing still, no less, he was either the worst shot in the world or Smitty was telling the truth.
Garrett pressed the barrel of his rifle against Smitty’s forehead. “You know why I’m here, Ray. Where are the kids?”
“They’re gone, man! Gone!”
Garrett’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean gone?” He slid the rifle down and jabbed the muzzle into Smitty’s cheek.
Confusion spread across Smitty’s face. “Just ran off! That’s all!”
Garrett rested only slightly easier. Cold as it was, they wouldn’t last long. “Ran off where?”
“Hell if I know! They whacked Kaiser with a lamp and tore off with his gun! Everybody’s out searching for them!”
Praise Jesus, they’re still alive. Garrett took a relieved breath. “The kids are all right, then? Nobody’s been hurt?”
“Somebody done whupped up on that boy, pretty good.” Smitty pointed back at the compound. “Probably Kaiser that done it.”
Glancing around again Garrett noticed approaching headlights. “Who’s on the way?”
“Nagual’s crew, I reckon.” Smitty shook his head. “Whatever you got cooked up, man, it ain’t gonna work. They seen you coming in on a security camera. Whole place is on lockdown.”
Garrett turned back and scanned the horizon. Given the elevation, he could see the lights of Kaiser’s sprawling compound nearly a mile away.
He pulled out his phone to warn Bridger or Cassidy.
No answer.
Dammit!
Garrett sprinted back through the narrow passageway between the steel cauldrons to find King. The dutiful horse was waiting behind the shipping container right where he’d left him. Swinging into the saddle, he gave the sorrel a nudge, galloped away from the pad about thirty yards, and took cover in a clump of hackberry trees.
If Kaiser wanted a war, he was damn sure going to get one—blood, bullets, and more.
38
Preston Kaiser hopped in the copilot seat of his blue-and-white Bell JetRanger 206 and placed the headphones over his ears. His head was spinning from the half bottle of Balmorhea whiskey he’d downed and he was still seeing double from getting whacked with the lamp. He looked to the normally loudmouthed chopper pilot who hadn’t said a word.
Chaz Zuma, no doubt a ridiculous alias, was a leather-skinned blowhard from Panama City, Florida, who never shut the hell up about his flying exploits. He claimed to have honed his piloting skills working for an offshore energy company in the Gulf of Mexico. Only thing Kaiser knew for sure was that he’d done a stretch in an Alabama state prison for drug trafficking.
Once situated in the cockpit, Kaiser chambered a round in his Colt Canada C20 rifle, equipped with a Trijicon REAP-IR thermal scope. His Bell was retrofitted with multiple gun ports on the front and back doors. He’d originally had them done to hunt coyotes and feral hogs, but tonight they’d do just as nicely for killing Kohls.
Kaiser op
ened the midport, thrust the rifle barrel outside, and swept it across the frozen landscape. The howling winds would make firing from a helicopter like shooting from a roller coaster. He nodded to Zuma and the Bell slowly lifted, never climbing more than a couple hundred feet off the ground.
As they hovered over the lake, Kaiser lowered the optics and took in the scene with his naked eye. The kids were hunkered down on an eight-foot garden terrace running the edge of the lake. Huddled together behind a hedgerow so tightly, they looked like a clump of bushes.
Bo and his cowboys were fanned out in the snow about fifty yards in front of them, below the kids’ position. Their rifles were ready, but nobody moved or fired.
Kaiser gave Zuma the swirling motion with his index finger. “Circle around. I want to see what the hell is going on down there.” He picked up his phone and texted Nagual, who was directing operations below:
What’s the holdup?
Nagual replied:
Children have a gun.
Kaiser jabbed the keys on the phone and mashed send.
SO WHAT??!!
There was a short delay, then:
They killed one of your men.
Kaiser was about to respond when Nagual added:
Do you have a shot at them?
Leaning forward, Kaiser raised the scope and scanned upward toward the lake. In the glow of the viewfinder, the kids’ faces were looking up. His crosshairs found them with ease, but with his Bell bucking and bobbing he couldn’t hold a good aim.
He turned to his white-knuckled pilot and barked, “Can’t you hold this thing steady for two damn seconds?”
Fighting the stick, Zuma’s panicked eyes darted from the controls to the windscreen. “Ain’t easy, boss. Wind’s slamming us at over twenty knots.”
Kaiser readjusted the rifle and jammed it against the bottom-right corner of the port window for stability. “Gimme some left pedal, dammit!”
