by Taylor Moore
Leaping over the lifeless body by the door, Sophie ran to her parents, waving her arms wildly. “Mom! Dad! Over here! Over here!”
As the two riders flew up to the barn and halted their horses, Asadi smiled at the sight of Ginger and Sparrow. It felt like seeing old friends.
Chloe took Asadi’s hand. “It’s okay.” She patted her heart. “They’re family.”
Recognizing the word family, he pointed to them. “We go. For ride?”
Chloe smiled and nodded as she mimicked his words. “We go for ride. That’s right.” She pointed to her mom. “You hop on with her. Okay?”
With her head and face covered, the woman atop the horse looked a bit intimidating. But her eyes shone with a mother’s warmth. “It’s okay. I promise.” She lowered her scarf and smiled. “Time to go, big guy. Not out of trouble yet.”
As more gunfire erupted, Sparrow whinnied and stamped. The woman reached out and Asadi took her hand.
In the blink of an eye, she yanked him into the saddle and Sparrow lurched forward. Within seconds, they blasted across the snowy flatland, bounding over bushes and swerving to miss trees.
Nearly bouncing off the saddle, Asadi squeezed the woman with an iron embrace. At first he closed his eyes, but eventually he peered out, feeling the burn from the frozen wind.
Just out front, rifles erupted, and bullets buzzed past them.
Keeping his body pressed tight against the woman, he ducked below her left elbow. With eyes trained forward, he searched in vain for the twins and their father. They had pulled out ahead and were no longer visible.
At the pop of gunfire, they veered right in a wide circle, only to be met by more bullets, then cut left, desperate to evade the shooters. But with guns blazing in every direction, Cassidy pulled Sparrow to a halt.
Asadi swiveled in the saddle in search of an outlet, his breath coming in panicked gasps, but it was clear they were completely surrounded. Chance of escape was hopeless.
In Nagual’s crosshairs, Garrett burst from his cover and low-crawled to the closest tree. With a popping trail of machine-gun fire in his wake, he scurried to his feet and sprinted to Cassidy and Asadi, surrounded by Garza reinforcements.
Midstride, Garrett tripped, dropping his rifle. He scrabbled beneath the snow and felt the cold steel in his palm. Jerking the Ruger to his shoulder, he aimed at the gunman nearest Sparrow and pulled the trigger. His heart sank as he heard the telltale tick of an empty mag.
But in nearly the same instant the gunfire intensified, and the sicario was felled by another bullet. Searching for muzzle flashes on the outskirts of the moonlit battlefield, Garrett came up empty. But one thing was certain. He hadn’t heard several of those distinctive sounds since his Special Forces days in Iraq and Afghanistan.
One of them was the thuck–thuck of an M-203 grenade launcher. The other came from an M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon. Whoever was wielding the SAW used controlled bursts from the belt-fed machine gun to obliterate any bad guys not already decimated by the bombs.
Garrett observed with pleasure the panicked frenzy as the SAW’s ceaseless stream of bullets tore the cartel fighters to shreds. Then as suddenly as he first heard them, Garrett’s saviors materialized like phantoms from the snow-covered brush, and began hunting down what was left of the Garza gunmen as they fled for the safety of the hangar.
Given their distinguishing look, this unit could have been from any of the U.S. military’s elite cadre of fighters. But these were no everyday special operations soldiers.
Why in the hell Carlos Contreras’s Ground Branch team was on the Texas High Plains, Garrett hadn’t a clue. And he really didn’t care. All that mattered was that the eyes in the sky were on him. And the CIA had done what it does best.
Make some hellacious craters.
Feeling elation beyond any he’d ever known, Garrett rose to his feet, spying the Dragon Queen herself, Kim Manning, running and gunning with her paramilitary officers. With the exception of the H&K MP7 in her grip, she looked a bit more snowbunny than spec ops soldier. But never in his life did Garrett think he’d be this happy to see anyone.
He had just taken his first step toward her when the bullet from behind ripped through his abdomen and sent him face-first into the snow.
His ears rang.
His body shook.
His sight went blurry.
The warm wetness of his draining stomach wound soaked his hand. He sucked in a quick stinging breath through his teeth while swirling pain seared its way through his body.
As the cloudiness engulfed his mind, he was tempted to give in and let the darkness take him. But of course, that would mean never meeting Nagual face-to-face.
And there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let that happen.
44
As the steps grew closer, Lacey felt the urge to panic. If she screamed, it would give them away. And if she ran, Butch was dead. Her only option was to fight. She had just thrown her back against the partition when she saw the gunman’s black boots under the aqua curtain. She saw the shadow of something in the man’s hand on the other side of the curtain. Could that be a gun?
Mind racing and heart pounding, Lacey rushed the assassin with such force it ripped the plastic curtain from the grommets. The pistol barked and punched a hole in the wall, missing Butch by only a sliver. The gunman blasted another wild round that went high as he fended off Lacey, then leveled off on her to fire. But suddenly someone else was shooting and they caught the gunman before he could get off another shot.
Whether it was five or fifteen rounds, Lacey wasn’t sure. She only knew that Sheriff Crowley didn’t quit until the gunman stopped moving.
Seconds later a mammoth state trooper rushed in and knocked the silver pistol away from the gunman on the floor. The trooper flipped him over and cuffed him even though he was probably dead.
The trooper gave Lacey the onceover. “You hurt, ma’am?”
“Don’t think so.”
Lacey went over to Butch to make sure he hadn’t been hit by an errant round.
Crowley walked up behind her. “Is he okay?”
Lacey looked over at the heart rate monitor which kept a steady beat. “It’s a miracle.”
Crowley took a few more steps inside. “And you?”
She couldn’t be certain, but thought he looked disappointed.
Crowley pulled the magazine from his pistol and popped in another. He donned his campaign smile again. “Guess you’re lucky I got here when I did.”
She wanted to ask how the gunman slipped into the hospital in the first place but was careful not to start raising questions here. Crowley seemed unnerved. Like something had gone wrong.
The sheriff dropped his smile. “Now, you’re sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?” He pointed back to where the EMS crew was loading the gunman on a gurney. “Could be more folks at risk. Don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”
Crowley was edging toward her when a man in boots, a blue blazer, and a silverbelly Stetson entered the room. He was a bit on the tall and lanky side.
Flashing his Texas Rangers badge, he turned to Crowley. “Got it from here, Sheriff.”
“A day late and a dollar short. As usual,” Crowley said.
“Cade Malek, ma’am.” The man ignored the comment and moved closer to Lacey. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Lacey put her hand on Butch’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving him here alone.” She looked right at Crowley when she said it.
Malek gave a slow nod, an obvious signal he understood. “Only my men will be watching him.” He stared down the sheriff. “From now on, he’ll be in good hands. I promise.”
“What are you looking at me for?” Crowley’s face reddened. “Case you haven’t heard, I’m the one saved the day here.”
“Yeah, and we all appreciate you doing your job, Sheriff.” Malek reiterated his initial statement with more force. “But like I said, we’ve got it from here.”
&nbs
p; There was something about the man Lacey trusted. He was leading her out when Crowley blocked the door.
“I think you got your facts mixed up, Malek.” Crowley patted the badge on his chest. “You got questions, you talk to me.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll be talking to you plenty.” Malek pushed past Crowley and escorted Lacey out into the hallway where two other Rangers were waiting. “See that the sheriff finds his way out.” Under his breath he added, “Been watching him for a while.”
Malek turned right instead of left and walked Lacey toward the back exit. “I’ve got strict orders not to let you out of my sight.”
Lacey glanced over her shoulder to make sure Crowley was gone. “Where are we going?”
Malek popped the door open and ushered Lacey down the stairwell. “I’ve got an informant out at the Mescalero saying the Kohls made a raid on the place.”
“Are they okay?”
“No idea. I just flew in from Weslaco and when I got off the plane, I had a bunch of frantic text messages and phone calls saying Butch Kohl was shot and Bridger’s kids were abducted by the Garza cartel. Got here as quick as I could.”
“Is anyone helping them now?”
“Got a deputy I trust out there.” He turned to her, curious. “You know Tony Sanchez?”
Lacey nodded, thinking it odd that he and Garrett were best friends. She wondered if this connection had something to do with the secrets he was hiding.
“I know Tony, but not well. We went to school together and I see him at our café.”
“Sanchez has been helping me on the Renegade investigation. Started over a year ago down in South Texas and I followed the trail up here. It’s what led me to Sheriff Crowley and Preston Kaiser. We were about to move in a Ranger Reconnaissance Team on the Mescalero Ranch when my captain got a call from the chief, who got a call from the governor telling us to stand down. Said another organization was taking care of things.”
Lacey got the impression Malek knew more than he was saying. “But someone is helping them out there?”
“That’s my understanding.” He opened the door leading back to the helipad and a gust of frigid wind nearly stopped Lacey in her tracks. There was a waiting black-and-white helicopter with the Texas Department of Public Safety logo on the side. A man in black military fatigues jumped from the copilot seat as the rotors started to spin and the engine whirred to life.
Malek stepped in, took Lacey by the hand, and helped her into the helicopter. He raised his index finger to the pilot, swirled the air, and got a nod in return. As the bird slowly lifted, she affixed the headphones to her ears just in time to hear Malek’s voice over the intercom.
“You ready?”
Lacey would have asked, for what, but she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to know.
45
Given the line of work he’d maintained throughout most of his life, Garrett always knew death was stalking him. But up until now he’d never been this close. It had struck by surprise, while his guard was down and the world had seemed right. He was elated beyond belief that Kim and the paramilitary officers had shown up to even the odds, but his saviors were over a hundred yards out and chasing the enemy in the opposite direction.
Garrett needed their help and he needed it now. The crosshairs were on him, and Nagual likely was creeping up from behind to confirm his kill.
Facedown in the snow, Garrett mustered every bit of self-control to keep from quivering, as his wound burned, and he struggled to breathe. He was right at the limit of his pain threshold when he heard the crunch of cautious steps.
When they finally ceased, Garrett innately knew the rifle barrel was hovering above his head. He could almost hear Nagual’s finger grazing the trigger—feel his body clench as it braced for recoil.
And as the muzzle drew closer, an angel whispered softly but firmly.
Move. Now.
Garrett spun right, yanking his bowie knife from its sheath and raking it across the gunman’s calf—slicing to the bone.
The shocked assassin fired, lost his grip on the AK-47, and bent to retrieve it.
Quick with his blade, Garrett thrust the knife into the shooter’s outstretched arm, ripping a gash across his bicep.
The sicario staggered back, escaping the next slash and gripped his bloody arm.
Drawing on the last fumes of his reserve strength, Garrett clambered to his feet and crouched in a fighting stance. He extended the bowie knife in his right hand and cupped his dripping gut wound with the left.
With an aching curiosity, he asked, “You Nagual?”
The cartel commander gave a single nod, pulled two T-handled push daggers from his belt, and replied in a thick Latin accent, “You the soldier?”
Given his roguish appearance, Garrett had to smile. “Do I look like a lawyer to you?”
Nagual didn’t respond, just limped forward. The razor-sharp blades jutting from his fists glimmered in the moonlight.
Garrett took a few steps back, feeling more light-headed by the second. Hoping to buy a little recovery time, he tried to bargain. “I’m guessing you know this already, but Kaiser went down in that chopper. And your whole crew is wiped out. This thing is over, Nagual. Finished. No sense in dying for a lost cause.”
Nagual marched forward. Then, without warning he charged—punching and swinging with daggered fists. Left-right-left-right. Uppercut-hook.
Garrett bobbed and weaved, then parried and struck with a stab to the ribs.
Despite his wounds, the hitman kept up the attack—jabbing and ducking like a professional boxer. He lunged with a groan but lost his footing and stumbled to one knee.
Garrett seized the opening and thrust his blade into Nagual’s shoulder, then pulled back for another blow.
But Nagual popped up and landed a solid front kick to Garrett’s gut wound.
In a shock wave of blinding pain, Garrett stumbled back and hurled his knife. He caught his balance and braced for the daggers. But when his vision cleared, the fight was done.
Motionless, Nagual stared down at the knife jutting from his sternum in a state of pure disbelief. Reaching up with his right hand, he jerked the stag handle until the blade slipped out.
A mere distraction for Nagual, but it was all Garrett needed. He jerked his pistol and drilled a .45 hollow point through the assassin’s forehead.
With nothing left to give, Garrett collapsed where he stood. He didn’t know if it was shock, blood loss, or the fact that he was just plumb worn out, but he couldn’t move, not even to raise his arm when Bridger called his name.
His brother rushed in, knelt beside him, and checked his wound. “Let me get a look here.” Pulling a flashlight from his coat, Bridger clicked it on and ran the beam across Garrett’s body. “Ah hell, I’ve seen hangnails worse than this.”
Bridger’s cheery words didn’t match his worried eyes, and Garrett wondered how many of his friends had seen that same look on his own face right before they died.
He turned his head slightly at the sound of shouting voices in the distance. “Kids okay?”
Bridger pulled off his coat and started cutting material for a makeshift compress with his pocketknife. “Cold as hell and scared out of their minds. But no worse for the wear. Your little buddy took a thump to the eye, but he hasn’t stopped grinning since we put him on the back of a horse. Took that to mean he’ll be all right.”
Garrett smiled a weak smile. “Boy loves horses.” He raised his head and looked over his chest, wondering if Asadi was nearby. “Don’t let him see me like this. Please.”
“See you like what? Ugly?” Bridger set the dressing on Garrett’s wound and pressed. “Afraid it’s too late for that.”
“Don’t joke.” He laughed and coughed out his words, “Hurts too much.”
“Quit your bellyaching then.” Bridger turned back at the sound of a landing helicopter. “Ain’t but a damn scratch.”
Garrett couldn’t help but laugh again. Bridger was trea
ting the gunshot the same as he would a skinned knee during a backyard football game. Some things between brothers never changed.
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
“Told you a million times, Bucky. Sympathy is for soccer players.” Bridger looked over at the clearing where Ike’s Hughes 500 was landing. “Ready for the latest and greatest in trailer park triage?” He turned to Garrett and smiled. “Probably fly you over to Crippled Crows. Let our old waitress, Nurse Knockers, fix you up with some Wild Turkey and duct tape.”
Garrett laughed again, but this time it didn’t hurt as much. He thought about Ike using that nasty old bar rag to clean his wound. “Just put me down before that happens.”
His brother chuckled but Garrett recognized that look of doubt. It was one he himself had worn many times before. With the loss of blood making him woozy, Garrett had to get a few things off his chest. “Listen, Bridge, I gotta tell you something.”
Bridger looked back at the helicopter. “What’s stopping you?”
“That boy I was looking after. Asadi. Doesn’t have family anymore. And I want someone to take him in. You and Cassidy, or Daddy if he lives. Just want him to have a good home.”
“Daddy? Good home?” Bridger gave a skeptical glare. “Hang with me now. You’re talking crazy.”
Garrett coughed out a laugh. “Believe it or not, those two are thick as thieves.” When Bridger didn’t answer, he pressed. “You’ll do that for me? Make sure someone looks after him?”
“Yes, I will do that for you, Garrett.”
Bridger looked uncomfortable and Garrett couldn’t blame him. He’d had more than a few fatalistic conversations on the battlefield, making promises to blown-up soldiers just like himself. It was a miserable affair. And more than a few times he’d wished he was the one dying.
Bridger kept looking back at the chopper. Voices were moving closer. “Anything else, while I’m at it? Want me to adopt Daddy too? Give him a kidney? You name it. I’ll do it.”
