Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Sophie reached the door first, yanked it open and held it for Asadi and her sister. They all rushed in and Chloe secured the lock.

  Before Asadi had even gotten a good look around, he knew exactly where they were. The tangy smell of alfalfa hay was a big hint. So was another less pleasant odor. But his heart sank when he turned to find row after row of empty stalls.

  It was obvious the girls felt the same way. He could see the disappointment on their faces. Chloe looked past the stalls and the tack room, to the other end of the barn. Above a pile of feed sacks and a folded metal chair hung a dusty black telephone.

  With the heavy thump of the helicopter’s rotors fast approaching, Garrett spurred the sorrel from under the snow canopy of the willows. Bearing down in the saddle as they raced across the prairie, his body was in sync with the four-beat pattern of the rumbling hooves.

  Fifty yards from the perimeter wall, the Bell 206 roared over, broke right, and circled around. He took aim at the helo and raked its fuselage until his rifle was empty. At the rumble of a truck engine from behind, Garrett twisted in the saddle to locate the threat. Grabbing a new mag from his chest rig and reloading, he spotted the second white pickup not forty yards out. It was dipping and bounding as it rumbled toward him at well over seventy.

  Garrett fired three rounds, but the truck didn’t waver.

  With both an air and ground assault under way, Garrett worried that he was pushing King beyond the limits of his luck.

  Reluctantly, he leapt from the saddle, gave the gelding a little whap to the rear, and watched as his old friend trotted out of the line of fire.

  Desperate for cover, Garrett dashed to what looked to be an old bison wallow, dove in, and scurried to its earthen edge. He had just settled into the prone shooting position when he remembered the words of Joe Bob Dawson. He said if you’re in danger of being overrun, it all boils down to four simple words:

  Kill everything that moves.

  Garrett took three quick shots at the approaching pickup then flipped over and pulled the trigger rapid fire at the hovering Bell, raking its underbelly until his TX15 was empty. While the helo bucked and veered left, he popped in a fresh mag, chambered a round, and was about to set his sights on the truck when it roared overhead.

  Dropping the rifle, Garrett rolled out from beneath it, narrowly missing the pickup’s skidding back wheels as they plowed a trench through the snow-filled wallow.

  Bo Clevenger’s silver F-350 slid to an abrupt halt when the front wheels rammed the berm. A cowboy flung the back door open and blasted at Garrett with a Kel-Tec KS7.

  The shooter was quick, but Garrett’s aim was truer. Jerking the Nighthawk from his belt, he sank three center mass and pivoted left as the driver leapt out firing a pistol.

  His ammo spent, Garrett sprinted to the back of the truck and dove behind the bumper. Reloading on the move, he turned back just as the driver flew around the bed.

  Garrett dropped the slide, pulled the trigger, and put a single round in the gunman’s chest.

  At the screeching of a door, Garrett scrambled on all fours to the end of the bumper, hung his pistol around the side, and fired twice. The .45 hollow points sent the gunman tumbling backward.

  Garrett clambered to his feet, dashed to the passenger side, and dove in. He’d just climbed into the driver’s seat when the helo buzzed over, rotated left, and hovered in front of the pickup.

  Caught within the cyclone of snow and ice kicked up by the Bell’s rotor wash, the cab went completely dark. Seconds later a bullet thwacked the windshield.

  Gripping the steering wheel, Garrett threw the truck in drive and stomped on the gas. It rocked forward a few inches, then the engine whined and the tires spun. He slammed it in reverse, with the same results.

  Another round cracked the windshield and slammed the center console.

  With the compound floodlights less than forty yards to his left, Garrett flung the door open and bolted for the cover of the perimeter wall. He’d barely made it a few steps when the Bell circled in from behind, and rounds snapped past, popping at his feet.

  In a dead sprint, twenty yards from the safety of the stone hedge, a bullet grazed his right shoulder and sent him tumbling prostrate into the snow. With his momentum halted, out in the open, and several yards from cover, there was little left he could do.

  Garrett rolled over, looked up, and braced for the kill shot.

  41

  Ike knew he’d done right to trust his gut when he saw through the green glow of his night vision goggles (NVGs) that Garrett was on the ground taking heavy gunfire from the Bell 206 hovering above. He blasted past, looped back around, and spoke to Sanchez through the headset.

  “How’s our boy?”

  There was a brief pause as Sanchez stared out the copilot window and scanned the grounds with his NVGs. “Chopper has him pinned flat.”

  “Then let’s give him some breathing room.”

  Sanchez turned to the pilot. “What the hell are you thinking, Ike?”

  “Thinking you’d better hold on to your ass.”

  Before Sanchez could object, Ike pulled the collective and pushed the cyclic, launching them toward the Bell. At fifty feet, he lowered the collective and yanked hard on the stick, exacting a quick stop maneuver, and flipped on his spotlight.

  Immediately, the Bell tilted, veered left, and bugged out. It made a circle over the grounds, giving Ike’s Hughes a wide-ass berth.

  As Sanchez hurled a slew of profanities, Ike yanked the collective, blasting them into the air.

  Sanchez turned, infuriated. “Where we going, Ike? Fight’s down there.”

  Watching his altimeter, Ike got to ten thousand feet and slowed to a hover. He looked below to find the Central Tank Battery blaze was now the size of a campfire.

  “That bird’s gonna stay on Garrett’s ass unless we get rid of it.”

  “How you gonna do that from up here?”

  Ike turned and smiled. “Who do you think is shooting at us?”

  “Probably Kaiser. It’s his chopper.”

  “You’re damn right.” Ike smiled wider. “And that arrogant son of a bitch won’t like the stunt I just pulled one bit. After he’s done scooping the crap from his britches, he’ll come after us.”

  “You better be right or Garrett’s a dead man.”

  Ike took a hand from the stick and pointed down. “Look back and tell me what you see.”

  Still looking skeptical, Sanchez glanced out his window. “Blinking lights.”

  “Bingo. Kaiser’s as cocky as his pilot is stupid. Heard enough of that loudmouth to know the only thing he’s good at is talking trash.”

  Sanchez smiled for the first time since the flying circus act began. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Ike paused before answering. “You really want to know?”

  Now the pause came from Sanchez. “Probably not.”

  “Smart boy.” Ike pushed the cyclic forward. “Time for a little follow the leader.”

  “Whatever you have in mind, Ike, just remember one thing.”

  Ike could tell his friend was cooking up something good. “What’s that, pardner?”

  “You kill me, you better hope you die too.”

  Ike laughed into the headset. “Let me guess, if God don’t take me out Silvia will.”

  Sanchez flicked up his NVGs. “Hell . . . you won’t get off that easy. We got mouths to feed. She’ll kneecap your old ass and take your bar as condolence pay.”

  “Well, there’s no need to worry about any of that, Deputy Dawg.”

  “And why is that?”

  Ike turned and smiled. “Because you’re ridin’ with the best there is.”

  Sanchez laughed and mumbled an inaudible response.

  Ike pulled the collective to generate some thrust and pushed the stick forward, approaching the Bell 206 from the rear. He flipped his NVGs back in place and watched the Bell circle, trying to spot him.

  When the bird quit spinning, Ike flip
ped the strobes on. “Over here, dumbass. We’re right on your tail.” He tapped the goggles on Sanchez’s head. “Need you as my eyes.”

  Ike pushed the stick left and pulling the collective, he added, “This Zuma ain’t worth a damn, but he’ll stick with me out of spite. Pilots can be a cocky bunch.”

  Sanchez chuckled through the headset. “You don’t say?”

  Ike had walked right into that one. “Just let me know what’s happening out there.”

  Sanchez turned, looking nervous. “Where we headed now?”

  “Higher.”

  “Higher?” Sanchez looked down at the earth below. They were so high they could see the lights of Pampa over twenty miles away. “Think they’ll follow us?”

  “It’ll be so slow and gradual they won’t even know what’s happening.”

  Sanchez looked across the cockpit. “I see lights. They’re coming.”

  Ike pushed the right pedal to give Sanchez a better view. “Now what’s happening?”

  Sanchez jerked right. “Muzzle flash! They’re shooting!”

  No sooner had he called out the warning than a bullet tore through the window and lodged in the roof of the cockpit. Ike mashed the left pedal to even up and put the tail between them and the shooter.

  Sanchez yelled through the headset. “This part of your brilliant plan, Ike?”

  “Hell no! You ever heard of a plan where the objective is to get shot?”

  The truth of the matter was that it was working exactly as Ike had hoped. Kaiser had thrown common sense out the window and was flying angry.

  Kaiser knew it was a mistake to pursue the Hughes but was not about to turn back. If there was any hope at all of taking down Garrett and the others, he would have to get rid of his white trash buddy, Ike Hodges. One clear shot would put an end to the barman’s flying theatrics.

  He kept a careful watch on the strobe lights, and when the moment finally came, ordered Zuma to get in position. “Move in on his left! Close as you can without hitting the rotor!”

  Zuma raised the collective to get more speed. They were thirty yards off the Hughes on his eight o’clock position.

  Kaiser kept watching the flashing strobe on the tail rotor. “Get in there! Faster!”

  The pilot pushed the stick left and increased torque. They were even with the Hughes, seventy-five feet on the left. Kaiser opened the portal and a sub-zero gust rushed into the cockpit.

  Pushing past the sting of the wind, Kaiser forced the barrel of his rifle out the small portal and looked into his optics to find them clouded over. He pulled the rifle back and worked with frozen fingers to defog the scope. “Hold steady, dammit!”

  “I’m trying!” Zuma whined. “My damn hands are froze!”

  With the optics ready, Kaiser thrust the C20 out and quickly lined up the crosshairs on the pilot’s window. “Little closer! Just an inch!”

  With the Bell moving in on his nine o’clock position, Ike knew Kaiser was lining up for a shot. He checked his altimeter and vertical speed indicator. They’d been at such a gradual climb that the other pilot either hadn’t noticed or was too pissed off to care.

  Ike turned to Sanchez. “You like roller coasters, don’t ya’?”

  Sanchez shook his head. “Hate ’em with a passion. Even when I was a kid.”

  “But you trust me, right?”

  “Nope. Wish I was ridin’ with the other guy.”

  Ike laughed, figuring this was all the buy-in he was going to get. He looked to his left and could see that the other bird was about thirty yards out. Realizing it was now or never, Ike made his move. He decreased collective power and jammed the stick forward, nosing downward from a ten-degree climb to a sixty-degree descent.

  With his stomach in his throat, Ike could only imagine what Sanchez felt. The poor bastard would’ve probably cussed him a blue streak if he weren’t trying to keep from puking his guts out. Ike spoke to him in the calmest voice he could muster.

  “Sanchez, I need my eyes.”

  No response. Ike turned toward the window to find Sanchez gritting his teeth. Other than fighter pilots, not many could handle the g’s they were pulling and keep their wits.

  In mid-dive, Ike gave some right pedal to give Sanchez a better view and asked again, “What do ya’ see back there?”

  “Lights,” Sanchez groaned, struggling to get the words out. “Behind us.”

  Ike yanked the collective and pulled back on the cyclic to level out. “Okay, I’m taking her back up again. Keep your eyes open and make sure they’re following.”

  Sanchez didn’t answer but Ike knew why. He was feeling the effects of the g-force too, experiencing a bit of tunnel vision himself. “Hang with me, buddy. Almost there.”

  A few seconds later they were back up, at which point Ike leveled off again and turned the bird for a better view. He was just about to ask for an update when Sanchez spoke over the headset between rapid breaths. “Lights still behind us.”

  Ike was happy to hear the Bell was still trailing but honestly a bit surprised. Maybe Zuma deserved more credit.

  “Okay, Sanchez, tell me when they’re close. And I mean right up on our ass.”

  Ike hit the right pedal and waited for what seemed like an eternity. When there was no report from Sanchez, he wondered if Kaiser had given up and gone back down. As he prepared to recalibrate, Ike heard the words he’d been waiting to hear.

  “Forty yards out and approaching fast, Ike.”

  Ike continued a gradual climb and gave it some right pedal to give his copilot a clear view of the bird at their six. Growing impatient, he was just about to ask for an update when Sanchez yelled into the headset.

  “Right behind us!”

  Ike dropped the collective and drove the stick forward, pushing his bird into a ninety-degree vertical plunge. Mid-nosedive he nudged the cyclic left, spinning until the Hughes went into a barrel roll. He yelled into the headset, “Sanchez! You with me?”

  No response. Sanchez was incapacitated.

  Watching the ground coming fast, Ike yanked the stick and pulled the collective. He was fighting to level out at about a thousand feet when the Bell screamed by them and slammed to earth in a booming explosion of smoke and flame.

  With his bird under control, Ike flipped up his NVGs and hovered a minute to make sure his body was back in good order. He gave a little left pedal to turn the Hughes in the direction of the crash. There was nothing left of the Bell JetRanger but a blazing pile of rubble.

  Ike leaned over, flipped up Sanchez’s NVGs, and patted his cheek. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”

  When Sanchez fully came to, he looked ready to hurl. “What happened, man?”

  “Good guys won! That’s what happened!”

  Sanchez shook his head and took a few deep breaths. “We did it?”

  “Yeah. We did it.” Ike chuckled. “Not too bad for a jarhead, I suppose.”

  Sanchez wore a look of disbelief. “What the hell kind of stunt was that?”

  “That was right from the manual, son.”

  “Manual?” Sanchez looked unconvinced. “What manual?”

  “I call it Rotors for Rednecks,” Ike said proudly. “What do you think?”

  Sanchez just shook his head. “Trust me, Ike. You don’t want to know.”

  42

  Lacey stood at the vending machine looking back and forth between a honeybun and a pack of powdered doughnuts. She wasn’t even hungry, just needed the distraction. A nurse had been kind enough to bring her a Styrofoam cup of coffee she’d yet to try. The problem was that her mind was racing, focused on about a billion other things, most of which were put there by the state troopers, police officers, and sheriff’s deputies who all had questions she couldn’t answer.

  At first she’d been treated like a hero for surviving the ordeal and keeping Butch alive, but the officers’ tone soon changed when they concluded she was stonewalling. Garrett had prepared her for this, giving her clear instructions not to say anything.
r />   Law shows up and the kids are dead.

  His last three words played over in her head like a skipping record. But for some reason it was the image of her own children that resounded. It was the first thing she’d guiltily thought of after hearing about Cassidy Kohl’s twins.

  What if this happened to me?

  Her own children were safe with their father in Amarillo, but for all she knew the Kohl kids were dead—and so was Garrett. Tears formed in her eyes.

  Lacey would’ve welcomed any distraction but the one walking down the hall toward her.

  Hemphill County sheriff Ted Crowley was in every way a bad stereotype of the crooked country lawman—down to the bulging paunch that lopped over his oversize belt buckle.

  “How are we doing now, Miss Lacey?” Crowley removed his cowboy hat and placed it over his heart like he was standing graveside. A few gray strands of his comb-over drooped onto his forehead. “I know you’ve been through quite an . . . ordeal.”

  “Fine, I guess, Sheriff. Given the circumstances.”

  He set the hat back on his head, the brim high on his forehead. “That was a fine job you did with Mr. Kohl. Real fine. He was lucky you were there.”

  Lacey nodded politely. “Wish I could’ve done more.”

  Crowley jerked his thumb over his back at the group of state troopers circled by the doors leading to the intensive care unit. “And I’m sorry about them boys over there. If you’ve ever dealt with highway patrol, you know they don’t have the sense of humor God gave a Doberman.”

  He laughed at his own joke and took a look around to make sure nobody’d heard him.

  Lacey just shook it off. “It’s okay. They’re just looking for answers I don’t have.” She stared at the troopers, who were watching her also. “Guess I’d be frustrated too.”

  Crowley donned a phony-looking smile—the same one from all his campaign posters. “Well, see, the problem is they’re used to folks lying at ’em all the time. Makes ’em pissed off and mean.” He eyed her intently. “Of course, nobody likes a liar, I suppose. Do they now?”