by Taylor Moore
When she finally realized it wasn’t a rhetorical question, she stuttered out her answer. “Oh. Oh—no. Of course not.”
“Then how about we revisit your story. See if we can’t remember some things maybe you . . . forgot.” His smile returned. “It’s expected given the stress you’ve been under. But that usually fades with time and folks start to remember all sorts of stuff.”
Her pulse raced at the veiled accusation. “I really don’t know anything, Sheriff.” All of a sudden, she felt like a sixteen-year-old caught at a keg party. “When we got to the house, Butch was unconscious, and whoever shot him was long gone. Garrett called Ike immediately and then went to look for anyone else who might be hurt.”
“Anyone else?” He looked at her curiously. “Who else would’ve been there?”
She shrugged.
“And you say Garrett never came back?”
Lacey just shook her head, feeling more comfortable not having to say the lies out loud.
Crowley cleared his throat. “Why did he call that barman and not 911? Seems peculiar.”
“He said it would take too long for Lifestar to get there. Ike was just down the road.”
“Uh-huh. But why not call us as soon as you could?”
“I did,” Lacey lied. “I mean, I tried to call but I didn’t have cell service out at the ranch. And the landline was dead.” She paused and added, “You can check.”
She regretted adding that last part which made her sound guilty.
“I will.” Crowley glanced around again at the troopers then back to her. “And you don’t have any clue who did this? Garrett never mentioned anything at all? Not a name? Nothin’?”
She shook her head again but this time her reticence seemed to make him angry. She could see it on his face. His phony smile faded away.
Crowley looked around before asking, “You have a couple kids, don’t you?”
His sudden switch of topic startled her. “What about them?”
“Where are they?”
“Why does that matter?”
Crowley donned a satisfied smile. He’d struck a nerve and knew it. “No need to get defensive now. I’m just asking as a matter of security. Didn’t know if they were alone.”
The accusation made her bristle. “My children are eight and five, Sheriff. Of course, they’re not alone. What kind of mother do you think I am?”
“Well, now, I thought maybe you might’ve left them in a moment of . . . haste. Emergency situation and all.” He pointed to a deputy leaning against the wall, twirling a cigarette in his fingers. “Could send a man by the house if you need someone to check on ’em.”
“Sheriff, my children are perfectly safe. They’re with their father.”
“In Amarillo?”
“What does that have to do—” Lacey was about to keep going when she stopped herself. “Their father took them out of town for the weekend.” She added the lie, “Skiing in Red River.”
Crowley glanced over his shoulder at the other law enforcement officers then back at her. “Listen, I’m trying to help you here.” He lowered his voice. “The Kohls are into something bad. Working with a drug cartel, we think. Found a big stash of dope and three dead bodies out at Bridger’s house this evening.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Lacey snapped back.
“Yeah, there is. And it starts with Bridger Kohl acting as conduit between a Mexican cartel and Renegade hands running heroin all over the country. How’s that for an explanation?”
“Bridger Kohl is a prominent attorney. He does quite well on his own.” Lacey shook off the idea like it was nonsense. “I highly doubt he’s involved with the people you’re describing.”
“He’s very much involved,” Crowley argued. “Defended that Renegade oil field trash in a court of law. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
“If Renegade is at the center of this, then search no further than Preston Kaiser. I know firsthand he’s into some shady dealings with them. Look that up, if you don’t believe me.”
Crowley let out a huff. “Now, you can’t go throwing around accusations like that. The Kaisers are a respected family. That just won’t fly.”
“Respected? Maybe by you, kowtowing for their blessing and campaign contributions.”
“Now, you listen here.” The sheriff was close to losing his cool when the doctor approached. He’d been the first one to look at Butch when they arrived. He must’ve thought Lacey was family since she was the one who brought him in.
“Sheriff, may I have a moment with her in private?”
Crowley murmured something under his breath about police business but walked back toward the group of law enforcement officers waiting for the elevator. He put his pudgy hand on the shoulder of a state trooper and made a lame joke resulting in his own howl of laughter and courteous chuckles from the others.
The doctor shook Lacey’s hand. “Mrs. Kohl, I’m Dr. Yaza. My apologies for not introducing myself earlier, but I wanted to get him into surgery immediately.”
Lacey considered correcting Yaza’s assumption that Butch was a relative but opted against it. She was the closest thing he had right now. “Thank you, Dr. Yaza. How is he?”
Yaza’s grave expression told her much of what she was about to hear. “Critical but stable. He’s lost a lot of blood. In fact, most would have died before they even got here. But—” His face softened. “He’s a tough one, Mr. Kohl. Of course, I’m sure you know that.”
Lacey smiled, nodded, but didn’t elaborate. The less said, the better.
“Well, I expect you would like to visit him.”
As Dr. Yaza led her back to the ICU, he took her hand and patted it gently. “For now, we’ve done as much as we can do. In the meantime, he needs to hear encouraging words.” The doctor stopped mid-step and looked her in the eyes. “Do you understand? He needs hope.”
Lacey again nodded. She did understand. The prognosis wasn’t good.
Sheriff Crowley, who unfortunately hadn’t left with the others, called out in a voice slightly above a whisper, “Miss Lacey!”
Lacey kept her gaze straight ahead and quickened her step. She was already through the electric double doors leading into the intensive care unit and past the big No Unauthorized Visitors beyond This Point sign when she heard him again.
Crowley called louder, “Lacey! We’re not—”
A nurse the size of a refrigerator stepped out from behind the desk and stopped Crowley in his tracks, repeating the sign’s clear message verbatim. “No unauthorized visitors beyond this point.” She added with disdain, “Not even you, Sheriff.”
“But she’s not—”
As the nurse chased Crowley back into the hallway, Lacey walked to Butch’s bedside along with Dr. Yaza. At the sight of him hooked up to tubes and a respirator, she nearly broke down in tears. Without his Texas armor of Wrangler blue jeans, work jacket, and wide-brimmed Resistol, Butch Kohl was just a regular old man fighting for his life.
Yaza started to say something but didn’t. Lacey took it as another bad sign. “I need to check on a patient downstairs.” He flashed her a consoling smile, then turned and walked out.
Spotting a rolling chair just outside the curtain she brought it in and positioned it next to Butch. She sat down and held his limp hand in hers. He had the rough calluses of a real rancher—the kind that were too few and far between these days.
“Mr. Kohl.” She corrected herself, per his earlier instructions. “Butch, you gotta hang in there for us, okay?” After looking around to make sure no one was listening, she continued. “I know what it’s like to lose a father and—” Tears formed in her eyes as she spoke. “I know Garrett will never admit it, but he’s still broken up over his mom.” She swallowed hard. “And losing you would be too much to bear.”
The next part was almost too embarrassing to utter, but if hope was the answer, then hope she’d deliver.
“My dad taught me horses, but I don’t know a thimble of what he
did. I thought maybe if things worked out between me and Garrett that you could teach my kids. The way he would’ve.” Her lips curled at the thought. “Now that’s between you and me, old man.” She gave his hand a light tap.
Lacey doubted he heard a word but imagined that he’d like the idea. She was just about to continue when the electric doors leading to the ICU whirred open and an echoing tap of boot heels followed.
Crowley is relentless.
With the nurse no longer standing guard, Lacey would have to fend for herself. She sprang from her seat, eased up to the plastic partition, and peeked out. A fireplug of a man in a black leather overcoat stood in the entry. He was dark-complected, with a smooth-shaven head that shone under the fluorescents. Alerted by a chirp from Butch’s monitor, he looked over.
Jerking back, Lacey said a silent prayer as the reverberating tock-tock-tock of boots on vinyl tile got closer and closer.
43
Garrett thanked the good Lord above that he’d made it across that field alive. Somebody up there was looking after him, and it wasn’t just his guardian angel. The only son of a bitch crazy enough to play chicken with another helicopter was the old Night Stalker pilot himself—Ike Hodges.
Out of breath, out of gas, and frozen out of his mind, Garrett yanked the shemagh scarf from his face and huffed in frozen air. With adrenaline waning and the aftershocks of the beating from Rocky Anderson taking their toll, he felt the temptation to give up and give in. But his mother’s words came to him just when he needed them.
She’d always said, It’s not what you want. It’s what you can’t live without.
Unable to bear the thought of losing those kids, Garrett struggled to his feet, stumbled to the perimeter wall, and clambered over. He forced one foot in front of the other, trudging toward the mansion through snowdrifts as high as his knees.
Garrett thrust a frozen hand into his coat pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and tried to call his brother. He again got no answer.
Keeping a sharp eye out for more trouble, he maneuvered across the outer grounds until coming upon an open courtyard where he found a small blessing.
A weapon.
As luck would have it, the guard standing watch some ten feet below the garden terrace was carrying a tactical model Mini-14. Garrett recognized him from the Crippled Crows. He’d been sitting at the table across from him and Bridger, wearing the same black coveralls and bright orange stocking cap.
Garrett crept to the ledge and dropped in from behind, knocking the gunman off his feet. The startled guard dropped his rifle, rolled left, and popped up. But before he could locate the Ruger, he came eye to eye with Garrett’s Nighthawk.
Rigid with fear, the roughneck threw up his hands. “Wasn’t gonna do nothing, Kohl. Just trying to scare you off. That’s all.”
Garrett had to laugh at the bald-faced lie. “Bullets flying at my head tell another story.”
“Wasn’t me. That was Nagual’s crew. I swear it.”
“Nagual, huh? Where’s he now?” When he got no reply, Garrett eased his .45 into the guard’s forehead. “This ain’t no time to go defending your buddies.”
“He ain’t my buddy and I ain’t defending no one.” Considering his options, he took in a stammering breath. “But Nagual will kill me, sure as the world, if I rat him out.”
Garrett pressed the muzzle into flesh. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
Narrowing his eyes, the guard pointed to a spot about fifty yards beyond the house. “Thataway. Out by the lake. Took off after them kids with his rifle.”
Garrett surveyed the frozen landscape between him and a thick grove of cottonwoods, finding a layout of hedgerows, statues, and water features all brightly lit under halogens.
Nagual could be behind any one of those, lining up the kids in his sights.
With enough intel to get moving, Garrett turned and pistol-whipped the guard, knocking him to the ground. He moved to pick up the rifle and found himself staring down the barrel of Bo Clevenger’s 12-gauge.
“Well, well, if it ain’t the big badass Green Beret.” Bo looked exceptionally pleased with himself. “Drop that pistol nice and easy, why don’t you?”
Slowly and carefully, Garrett set his Nighthawk in the snow, then stood, hands raised. Hearing the shriek of jet engines in the distance, he glanced over at Kaiser’s airport. From the high elevation of the compound, Garrett got a full view of the six-thousand-foot runway, hangar, and massive tarmac.
Bo stepped forward with his Remington 870 trained on Garrett’s head. “Oh yeah, Garzas sent us some backup. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case I didn’t get to fill you and your brother full a buckshot.”
Garrett snorted. “That your big plan, Bo?”
“Too bad for you. It is.”
The reverse thrusters of the landing jet forced Garrett’s attention back to the airstrip. “Well, then I’d get started if I were you.”
Bo had just opened his mouth for a smart-ass retort when a whirring from behind caught his attention. He jerked around about a half second too late. The loop of Bridger’s rope was already beneath his chin. With a swift yank, the lariat cinched tight and the line went stiff.
Bridger coiled the rope on his saddle horn, gave a palatal click, and Ginger shot backward, whipping Bo off his feet and slamming him on his back with a thud. His eyes bulged, neck veins swelled, and face burned beet red as the noose tightened around his neck. He dug in his boot heels but gained no purchase. Bo’s thrashing was little contest for the champion roping horse.
Images of Bo Clevenger killing innocent animals and threatening Lacey flashed through Garrett’s mind. And the temptation to rid the world of this nuisance was a powerful one. But summary execution wasn’t part of the plan. At least not yet.
After a good thirty feet of dragging, Garrett called to Bridger. “He’s had enough!”
With a slow nod, Bridger uncoiled the rope and whipped out some slack.
Bo yanked the noose free and jerked it from around his neck. His massive body quaked as he gasped for air—coughing and hacking, then struggling to his knees to dry-heave.
Garrett picked up the shotgun, considering whacking Bo in the head, but he knew it’d probably kill him. Instead, he pumped the action on the Remington to eject all the shells and hurled it into the bushes.
Bridger rode over. “We gotta move!”
Garrett moved to the unconscious guard, picked up the Ruger, and yanked four extra magazines from his belt. By the time he got loaded, Cassidy was trotting up from behind.
Bridger threw out a hand and pulled Garrett into the saddle behind him. “Kids just called. They’re at the horse barn. Told them to stay put until we get there.”
Cassidy pointed west as she shoved the map back inside her coat. “Quarter mile that way. Other side of the lake.”
Garrett had a million questions, but before he could fire off a single one, Bridger spurred Ginger into a lope across the grounds. With his brother at the helm, Garrett could do little but hold tight and pray. Dodging bushes, ducking limbs, and leaping hedgerows was a whole hell of a lot less fun when you couldn’t see them coming.
After the moment it took to get into the rhythm, he looked over Bridger’s shoulder to find Cassidy in the lead. But when she stopped suddenly, Garrett knew something was wrong.
Bridger pulled Ginger up alongside Sparrow. Both horses snorted and stamped, clearly eager to carry this thing across the goal line.
About forty yards ahead stood the Mescalero horse barn. The singular stone-walled structure with its steep-pitched roof sat in a clearing surrounded by a grove of willows and cottonwoods.
In the glow of the fluorescent lamps, two Stetson-clad Mescalero cowboys eased along the wall with rifles at the ready. They stooped low, keeping their heads below the windows.
Cassidy yanked the scarf below her mouth. “They’re moving in! We gotta go!”
Beyond the barn’s halogen lamps, an u
nnatural clump moved in the dark periphery.
Garrett raised a hand. “Hold on, Cassidy. We rush in now, and they’ll cut us to pieces.”
“Can’t wait,” his brother argued. “They’re nearly at the door.”
Damn! Turning back, Garrett saw Bridger was right. He slid off the saddle and looked up.
“You ride in. I’ll be on overwatch. Smoke anyone brazen enough to show his head.”
Bridger turned to his wife. “I go down, you keep on. Don’t stop until the kids are safe.”
Tears welled in Cassidy’s eyes. “Same goes for you.”
Bridger reached down to Garrett. “See you when it’s over.”
Garrett took his brother’s hand and gave a single pump. “See you when it’s over.”
Bridger spurred Ginger and they were off in a lope. Cassidy gave him a couple of seconds head start and did the same. As they rode in hot, Garrett chambered a round on the fly, turned to the clump he’d seen earlier in the open area between the cottonwood grove and the stable’s dim edge. He rested his finger on the trigger and waited for movement.
Garrett saw a flash and ducked as the bullet snapped past, missing his head by only a hair. Rolling right, he popped up and sprinted along the tree line, keeping low as a flurry of rounds shredded limbs around him. About thirty yards out, Garrett took cover behind the thick silver trunk of a lone cottonwood. He had just leaned out for a peek when a bullet whapped the bark inches above his head.
The shooter was good. A professional. It had to be Nagual.
His heart racing in hope of rescue, Asadi hurried to the window, stood next to the girls, and stared at the shadowy edge of the tree line. With the guns’ leaping flames and echo of gunfire off the barn’s stone walls, the idea of being saved was as terrifying as it was thrilling.
“Look! Horses!” Chloe turned to Sophie. “I think it’s Mom and Dad!”
Sophie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the approaching riders. “It’s them! I’m sure of it! That’s Ginger out front!”
As the girls dashed to the door Asadi followed closely, careful to avoid looking at the dead men on the walkway. He looked out at the woman instead and realized he recognized her from one of the photos in Garrett’s bedroom.
