by JT Sawyer
Blake parked his Ford F-350 then headed inside, gaining nods from the other locals, who looked at him in envy for being the highest-paid rancher in the state.
If it hadn’t been for his divorce last spring and half of his income going to alimony and child support payments, he’d have welcomed their stares, but he just wanted to throw a few shots down and bullshit with his friends, since most of his own ranch-hands were out on roundup for the next two weeks and the Colombians living in the hangar next to his bunkhouse didn’t speak English.
He plunked down at a round table with two other forty-something cowboys who were working on draining their second pitcher of beer.
“You come for the company or the sights?” said Wade Jennings to his right, who was staring at the four female out-of-towners on the dance floor.
“That one there would wear us all out, I bet,” said Josh Stanton, the oldest of them, sitting to Blake’s left. “She’s been tearin’ up the place since the music started.”
Their eyes all settled on a vivacious thirty-something woman with short black hair in a denim miniskirt, sleeveless white blouse and new cowboy boots.
“Damn, I wonder how those moves would translate to the bedroom,” said Blake, waving his hand at the older woman behind the bar to bring him a beer and the bottle of whiskey from the counter.
The music stopped as the three-man band took a break, and the meager crowd dispersed. The brunette strode past Blake’s table, letting her eyes linger on them for a minute before she sat on a stool at the bar.
He watched her throw down a shot of tequila like it was apple juice, then he traced his eyes along her athletic figure.
A woman like that can’t be alone.
Blake glanced around the rest of the place, not noticing anyone else from outside the region.
Shit, maybe she’s just passing through. It wasn’t uncommon, since it was a major route across the western part of the state, and there were numerous hotels dotting the interstate behind the bar.
He picked up his beer mug, which had just arrived, and sauntered over to the bar, sitting one seat away from her.
“Howdy…you look like you’re having a good time.”
She smiled. “Howdy yourself. And yeah, it’s good to let loose after a long week of travel.”
“You visiting family out in these parts?” he said.
She took another shot of tequila then chewed on a lime twist before turning slightly towards him.
“Work, actually. You?”
“I run a large cattle operation not far from here.”
“So, you’re taking a short break from your work before all the cows come home during roundup.”
He flared an eyebrow, sipping on his beer. “That’s right. Not many folks know about this being the roundup season though.”
“I spent a few months with cowboys in Australia and then briefly in southern Arizona, so I got a feel for some of the lifestyle.”
“No shit. How’d you get to be doin’ that?”
“I’m a photojournalist, and I convinced my shit-for-brains editor whose only experience with wildlife is feeding the pigeons at the park that he should send me out to do a story on real working men…and cowboys came to mind. Now, he wants to do a special feature on Texas and their cowboy history, so here I am.” She poured another shot for herself, running her finger along the rim of the glass.
“Sounds more like fun than work. Somebody actually pays you for that kinda thing, eh?”
“It’s not so bad, but days like today can be a downer. I had a flat tire this morning west of Dallas. That was a real bitch, changing it in 115-degree heat along the highway.”
He raised his beer, tapping it on her shot glass as she went to drink. “Name’s Blake…and here’s to staying cool.”
“Annie…and amen to that.”
She put her empty glass down then hopped off her bar stool as the band returned to their miniscule stage in the corner. Annie glanced back at him, clapping her hands in the air above her head as she started to sway.
“Come on, Mr. Blake, and show me how y’all do things out West.”
He grinned, looking back at his two friends behind him, who were thrusting their chins out in her direction.
Blake nodded at her then heartily swigged down the last of the liquid courage in his glass.
After thirty minutes of some of the most intense dancing he’d ever done, Blake left the floor red-faced and sweaty. He returned to the table, where his friends patted him on the back, their gazes still transfixed on the five-foot-six whirlwind still gyrating to the last song like she’d just arrived at the bar.
When she was done, Annie waved to the musicians then exited the dance floor. She walked towards the three men, blowing a strand of her raven hair from her nose, then leaned against a pole.
Wade slid a chair back, tipping his hat at her. “Take a load off.”
“Thank you! I will.” She patted him on the arm, smiling.
“Blake tells us you’re a writer.”
She picked up Blake’s beer, taking a sip then sliding it back at him, winking.
“Yes, sir. You heard right. I’m doing a feature article for the New York Times on the Old West. Wanted to spend a few days in these parts, hoping to get in touch with some honest-to-God cowboys.” She rested her hand on Blake’s shoulder. “And it seems like I came to the right place.”
“You sure did, darlin’,” Blake said, tipping up his Stetson hat. “This is the last pocket of real men left in this country.”
“I’ve got two days to get my photos, then I gotta be back on the road. Maybe you can point me in the right direction.”
He nodded, grinning at the other men. “I can do better than that. You can get a glimpse of a day in the life of a working cattle ranch just down the road where I’m the foreman.”
The woman swigged down another shot of whiskey, smiling. “Yee-hah.”
After the second bottle of tequila was nearly depleted and the other ranchers had left, Blake escorted the young woman out to the parking lot just after midnight.
“That your ride?” he said, glancing at a white cargo van near the back corner of the dirt lot.
“Yep. My home on the road when I’m workin’. I was just gonna sleep in back for a few hours.” She started to walk towards it but swayed to the right, leaning against the bumper of his pickup and holding her hand up to her head.
She tried to stand up then fell back, sliding down and sitting on the bumper of his truck, giggling and waving her hand. “God, I think that last shot did me in.”
Blake looked around the parking lot, which had emptied of locals. There were only a few semi-trucks parked at the far end with their lights off, and the cook had just taken out the trash, so the place would be closing soon.
No one would know if some dumb, drunk tourist came back to his place. And if she wasn’t compliant, then he knew plenty of deep canyons that could hold a secret.
“You know, my place ain’t far from here if you want to crash on the couch downstairs. I sure don’t wanna see you drivin’ off in this condition. Lots of wildlife on the road this time of night.”
Though he usually despised city slickers, she was an exception. He rubbed his whiskered chin, staring at her hips again as she tried to stand then staggered back to her seat on the bumper.
Hell, she’s rarin’ to go.
Blake swaggered forward, a primeval look burning in his eyes. He slid his beefy arm around her waist, helping her walk over to the passenger’s side of his pickup then opening the door and hoisting her inside.
“Come on, girl, get in. I’ll take care of ya tonight.”
51
The lights inside the Mason County Sheriff’s Department turned off, and Cal watched Sheriff Tom Donnelly walking out the back door and locking up the small building that was the sole law-enforcement agency for the entire county.
By the looks of the shiny new police cruiser, the high-end satellite dish on the roof and the well-kept buil
ding amid the other dilapidated structures in the one traffic-light town, Cal was pretty sure that Roth was a frequent contributor to the sheriff’s slush fund. The officer was probably the eyes and ears outside of Roth’s ranch, seven miles to the south.
Cal had remained in the shadows of a thick grove of young elm trees near the back of the parking lot for the past three hours since Viper dropped him off, and now it was time to put his plan into action.
The sheriff headed towards his blue police cruiser, pausing in his tracks when the sound of a baby crying near the dumpster beside his vehicle pierced the air.
“What the hell?” Donnelly pivoted and walked to the rear of his vehicle.
Cal waited until the man was passing by the middle of his bumper before he yanked up the nearly invisible fishing line that was attached to the axle. The fifty-pound catfish line caught Donnelly at the ankles, sending him crashing into the gravel substrate. Cal rushed forward and slammed his heel down on the man’s spine.
The sheriff gasped, his face smashing into the ground. Cal snapped the retention clasp on the Taser on the man’s belt, yanking out the device and firing the two leads into Donnelly’s back.
The man thrashed and shrieked, his bloodied face soiling the parking lot. Cal gave him another jolt then flipped him over, removing his pistol, cuffs and OC spray, then he pointed the sheriff’s own service weapon at him while he retrieved his iPhone from beside the dumpster and turned off the grating baby wails.
“Who the fuck are you?” shouted the man.
He kept his boot planted on Donnelly’s chest.
“Cal Shepard. America’s Most Wanted Criminal these days. And we’re gonna go on a short drive.”
52
Roth paced back and forth in his office on the third floor of his ranch home, alternating his glares between Hunley and Rimaldi, who were sitting on the couch beside the albino grizzly bear in the center of the spacious room. On a mahogany coffee table in the middle were two large suitcases with neatly arranged stacks of cash. It was the final installment of Roth’s campaign financing before the election. After Rimaldi finished his last speaking engagement with the remaining exiled Venezuelan elite in Dallas, he and Roth were meeting to work out the final details of the election.
To their right was a woman with a black hood over her head and her hands zip-tied behind her back; Carlos Montoya stood watch with a pistol in his hands, frozen still like one of the trophy animals on the wall behind him.
“Are you going to tell me why the hell there’s a person being held against their will here?” said Rimaldi whose face seemed to grow more tense with each passing moment.
“She’s none of your God-damn business,” snapped Roth who shifted his footing to squarely face Hunley. “Are you fucking crazy detaining her?” Roth said. “This is just going to be the start of another shit-storm on an apocalyptic scale.”
“She will be the leverage we need once Shepard arrives,” said Hunley. “Then we’ll stage things to make it look like he tried to kill you and took her out at the same time.”
“It’s been a week. Shepard hasn’t reared his head since he killed Landis and Rourke. What makes you think he’ll show? He’s probably squattin’ under some bamboo hut in the Philippines.”
Hunley stood up, pouring himself a drink from the wet bar near the patio doors. “I’ve been tracking him since the day he fled his home. Trust me, he’s close. I’ve got a source that hasn’t let me down yet.” Roth peered out the large window to the left, seeing a set of headlights coming down the main road in the dark.
Hunley raised his glass up like he was toasting. “Ah, that should be them right now.”
53
The woman felt like her ribs were going to be bruised after bobbing along the bony shoulders of Blake Weissman as he carried her limp figure into his bunkhouse, setting her gently down on his king-sized bed at the back of the two-story stone building.
The air smelled of woodsmoke and old leather, which was just pungent enough to override the man’s considerable body odor. She leaned her head back, staring at the log rafters in the ceiling as he stood between her legs, undoing his belt.
“Just hold still, baby. I think you’re gonna enjoy this.”
She smiled, cooing as she held a leg up to his chest. “Take my boots off first.”
He grinned, holding her ankle. She pulled her other knee back then shot her leg forward, driving a vicious kick into his lower jaw, shattering his front teeth. The woman bolted upright, slamming her fist into his groin then kicking her boot into the side of his left knee, snapping the ACL and collapsing the immense figure. He groaned as rivulets of blood streamed from his lips.
She rushed up to his side, kicking him in the ribs. “That’s for assuming there was consent, you piece of shit.”
The woman grabbed an old lassoing rope off the wall above the fireplace and wound it around his hands then tied the end to the wrought-iron legs of the bed. She secured his legs in a similar fashion, lashing the other end of the rope to a couch leg.
She grabbed his truck keys from his pants pocket then headed out to the Ford F-350, retrieving the small duffle bag she’d stowed under his back seat during a bathroom break at the bar.
Bringing her gear back inside, she laid out the contents, quickly assembling a takedown AR-10 rifle then attaching the Leupold scope. She inserted a 20-round magazine with .308 rounds then racked the slide. When she was done, she pulled out the two Glock 19s inside along with the vest, which had six 15-round magazines.
Heading to the door, she slid out a pair of night-vision goggles then turned off the lights. Inserting a comms piece into her right ear, she peered out the door, seeing a sheriff’s vehicle approaching the main gate at the other end of the compound.
The woman took a deep breath, knowing the serene desert setting around her was about to become a battlefield.
She tapped on her mic. “This is Viper. I’m in place.”
54
The two Colombian mercenaries at the front entrance gate gave each other surprised glances at the sight of another vehicle approaching. They were about to radio Montoya when they saw it was the familiar outline of the sheriff’s patrol car. They’d met the deputies two days earlier, who gave them a warm welcome, which meant the officers were being paid handsomely to look the other way at whatever was unfolding within the Roth compound.
The larger merc with a thick beard waved his hand as the cruiser came to a stop at the entrance.
“How you boys like being in this dry heat compared to the tropics?” the driver said.
The first guard, who had a wispy mustache, shone his flashlight inside, lighting up the sheriff’s badge and then the back seat.
“You have better tamales here than we do,” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.
The driver leaned out slightly, pointing to the main house in the distance. “I just need to talk to Vincent for a few minutes. Something’s come up that he’s gonna wanna know about.”
The men nodded, stepping back to unlock the massive wrought-iron gates with the Diamond T logo on them. The driver pulled through, pausing on the other side and waving the men over as he leaned out.
The incoming headshots from the suppressed pistol barely disrupted the calm night air, dropping both guards near the rear bumper. Shepard stepped out, dragging each man behind a clump of creosote bushes to the left then removing their Springfield pistols, ARs, extra magazines and comms.
He heard his own earpiece crackle with the sound of Viper’s voice confirming her location.
Game time.
Shepard got back in the vehicle, slowly heading down the compacted dirt road with the headlights off. He stopped a half-mile from the main buildings under a cluster of oak trees lining the driveway, then he put the car in park and got out, opening the trunk. The sheriff was scrunched in the back, nestled between bundles of cocaine that he’d obtained as payment from the Colombians.
Shepard yanked on Donnelly, hauling him out of the tight spac
e then walking him to the front and securing his duct-taped hands to the steering wheel with Flex-Cuffs.
The man was thrashing, throwing his head back and trying to scream through the cloth restraint over his mouth until Shepard sent a vicious backhand across his face, causing Donnelly to collapse into his restraints.
Shepard bent down, using one of the sheriff’s Flex-Cuffs to secure Donnelly’s right foot to the accelerator until it was fully depressed. “The other mercs—you know, the ones you let enter this country—I’m gonna need your help in drawing them out from their concealed locations.”
The man’s eyes widened in the moonlight as he tried to squirm. Shepard straightened the steering wheel so it was aligned with the main road that led straight towards Roth’s estate.
He grabbed one of the radios from the dead guard, speaking frantically in Spanish.
“Shepard broke through the gate in the sheriff’s car. Looks like he’s on a collision course with the main house.”
He closed the driver’s door then leaned in through the window, shifting the gear into drive and watching the cruiser speed off into the darkness as the half-conscious man inside remained slumped onto the steering wheel.
Shepard tapped on his ear-mic. “Viper, get ready—your targets are about to be exposed.”
55
When he heard the news of Shepard’s imminent attack, Roth’s face seemed to become frostbitten. He stepped back from the porch and rushed to his desk, removing a .410 Taurus Judge pistol from a drawer as his bodyguard Karl closed the blinds and turned off the lights.
“Where the hell is Hunley?” he said to Karl, who was heading to the balcony with a .308 SCAR rifle.
“Downstairs with whoever just arrived a few minutes ago before Shepard,” said the barrel-chested bodyguard.
Rimaldi sprung up, rushing behind the taxidermied grizzly bear. “What is this? I didn’t come here to be involved in an abduction and shootout. Who’s Shepard?”
