by Joe Nobody
Deciding he had plenty of time, Dusty turned at the next street, intent on circling the block to see where his antagonists might be going. He was halfway through the maneuver, slowly progressing down a side street while glancing right and left.
He almost missed seeing the pair of legs protruding from behind a nearby-parked car. Someone was lying on the sidewalk.
“Shit,” he grunted, stopping in the middle of the street and throwing open the door.
He rushed around the back of the car and found an elderly man prone on the concrete. The old fellow was trying to rise up on one elbow at the same time as spitting blood from his mouth.
“You okay, sir?” Dusty asked, bending over to check on the injured man.
“I was robbed,” the guy mumbled. “I think they damn near broke my jaw,” he added, rubbing his face and chin.
Dusty helped the gent up, keeping close as the victim leaned against his car on wobbly legs.
“Did you see who did it?”
“No… no I didn’t,” came the mumbled response, the effort required to answer clearly causing the old-timer serious discomfort.
“Do you need a ride to the hospital? Should I call the police?”
Again rubbing his face, the man managed, “I was on my way to the courthouse to meet my client. Those two thugs took my briefcase. I’ll fill a complaint there… always plenty of cops around.”
“Is your name Mr. Hastings by any chance?” Dusty asked, now growing very suspicious at the circumstances.
“Why yes… yes, it is. Have we had the pleasure?”
“No, sir. No, we’ve never met,” Dusty stumbled, not sure where to take the conversation.
After brushing off his suit pants and straightening his jacket, the lawyer glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “The judge isn’t going to be happy that I don’t have my paperwork, but at least I can show up to stand with my client.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes… yes, I’m fine,” came the reply. “I’ve not always been such an upstanding officer of the court, young man. This isn’t the first time a fist has landed against my mandible. I’ll be just fine.”
Growing weary of the exposure and proximity to both a crime and the courthouse, Dusty decided to let it go without further ado. After patting the attorney on the shoulder, he returned to the pickup and drove away.
Two streets over, he almost experienced his second accident of the morning. A car sped past, completely ignoring a stop sign and almost t-boning Penny’s truck. Dusty caught a glance of the passenger and knew instantly it was the two men who had just cold-cocked Mr. Hastings. He turned to follow.
The old truck wasn’t a match for the sedan when it came to raw speed, but then again the streets of downtown Laredo weren’t exactly a racecourse either. Dusty tried to keep back, but not too far back, as the dark green getaway car rushed through town.
It quickly became clear where the driver ahead of him was going. Almost retracing the exact route he and Penny had used to enter town, Dusty was amazed at the brazen attitude of the men he was chasing.
A short time later, he grunted as the two muggers signaled their turn into the Tri-Materials plant entrance.
He should have driven past, continued back toward the farm like an unaware traveler heading home. But he couldn’t let it go.
He pulled into the factory’s lane and stopped just as the gate was opening for the green 4-door ahead.
Dusty just sat there, 50 yards from the entrance, hoping the men in the car would notice his presence and realize there was a witness to their nefarious deeds. He watched as the muggers pulled through the gate and continued toward the distant facility. His voice of reason spoke up, telling the Texan that he should skedaddle out of there – make a clean escape from the enemy’s home camp.
As the taillights of the green car faded into the distant parking lot, Dusty noticed one of the security guards walking from the booth toward his idling truck. Throwing the shifter into reverse, he backed out onto the road and headed toward town.
He fumbled through the shopping list absentmindedly, picking up the supplies noted on Penny’s note without really focusing on what he was doing.
The events of the morning had shed new light on the situation he had accidently bumbled into, the audacity of the Tri-Material’s personnel both shocking and revealing at the same time.
Dusty struggled to plot a future course. On one hand, his survival instincts pushed him to flee. There was trouble here in south Texas, and it really wasn’t his fight. Eventually, things were going to escalate, and that would inevitably draw unwanted attention to his whereabouts.
But there was a part of him that wanted to right the wrongs that were happening all around him. He had no idea what had put a burr under Tri-Material’s saddle. There was no way of knowing whether it was because the factory wanted the Boyce land, or was polluting the area somehow, or wanted to send a message to the town making it clear who was the big dog on the block.
Whatever their reasoning, Dusty suspected they had the local city officials either in their pocket or cowed. The length of time it was taking to resolve Mike Boyce’s minor offenses was a clear indication that the local employer held significant sway and influence.
He desperately wanted to talk to Grace about the entire affair, but knew the authorities would be watching her like hawks. The thought reminded him of their promise to keep in touch. “It’s been a few days,” he whispered. “I’d better let her know I’m okay.”
He found the pawnshop where he’d sold the pistol without much trouble. A few minutes later, he walked out with a used laptop and charger.
The next stop was a local coffeehouse, entering the establishment reminding him of the last time he’d seen his brother in just such a place. With a Styrofoam cup of java in his hand, Dusty returned to the pickup with the password to access the internet. He powered up the new computer.
It took longer than he anticipated, but eventually he was connected to the internet via the free Wi-Fi offered by the coffee shop. Grace had made him repeat the address of a specific website over and over again, and now he was glad.
He entered the gardening site as a guest, quickly finding the link for the forum. Grace’s post was a few days old, but he eventually found the last entry from GKinWTexas, a user ID for Grace Kennedy in West Texas.
“My lantanas are blooming a bright orange this year,” the title of the post read. “Is anyone else seeing such a wonderful color?”
A few of her fellow gardeners had responded with various replies. Dusty had no idea what a lantana looked like, but started typing a response that included their secret word – Canadian.
“We are seeing similar colors here in Laredo,” he started. “I’m giving credit to the cold Canadian air that swept through last winter. I was hoping for some red or yellow, but I’m just fine with the current bloom.”
He wanted to say more, but couldn’t risk the exposure. She would know where he was and that he was fine. Grace had told him that she frequented this and a couple of other forums on a regular basis. She didn’t think the FBI would find anything unusual about the activity. He couldn’t think of anything more to add that would read like an appropriate response from a fellow plant-lover and posted the message.
After finishing the secret correspondence, he began driving to the courthouse, hoping the attack on Mr. Hastings hadn’t completely ruined the woman’s day. He took his time, meandering through the side streets and avoiding traffic as much as possible.
“Why do you want to get involved in all this?” he kept asking himself. “You’ve got enough problems as it is. The entire United States government is looking for your sorry ass, and now you’re contemplating getting involved in a local dispute that’s none of your business.”
The pickup’s cab didn’t answer the question, so his conscience tried to fill in the gap.
Dusty realized he needed to do some good, to offer a sense of balance
to the universe for the damage the rail gun had caused. The destruction in Houston… downing those jets and the loss of life were all weighing on his soul. “Death and mayhem aren’t what I’m all about,” he whispered to himself. He realized the answer, smirking at the simplicity of his mind.
Dusty wanted to help the Boyces because it would be an offset to the negative in his life. He wanted to partially right the wrong of his deeds.
“Run… run like the wind,” his opposite voice chimed in. “You must survive. You must play out what the rail gun represents. You must make it back to Grace and Fort Davis. You have that right.”
The internal debate raged until he parked nearby the courthouse. Penny had evidently been waiting and saw the truck pass by because she and the girls were approaching before he’d even finished backing into the spot. It was clear from the look on her face that things had not gone as expected.
After opening the passenger door and helping the girls inside, she gave Dusty a disgusted look and explained, “Someone mugged my lawyer before the hearing. The judge had to reschedule.”
“Oh no,” Dusty answered, playing ignorant. “Is your attorney okay?”
“He took a punch to the face, and they stole his briefcase, but I think he’ll be fine. He’s a tough old bird.” She paused for a moment and sniffed, her eyes growing moist. “Mike is still behind bars, and it’s going to be another two days before the judge can hear our case.”
Dusty shook his head, “I’m sorry to hear that. Any idea who robbed Mr. Hastings?”
Penny didn’t answer at first, staring out the window as Dusty headed back to the farm. “I’m probably going to sound a little paranoid,” she finally began. “I think it was probably those jerks at Tri-Mat. Hastings said his attackers bushwhacked him from behind, so I can’t prove that.”
Trying to play dumb and yet wanting to console the distraught wife, Dusty replied, “I don’t think you sound paranoid at all.”
“I can’t blame every bit of bad luck or unfortunate incident on Tri-Mat,” she said. “They aren’t the root of all evil. Just because something bad happens doesn’t mean they’re behind it.”
If you only knew, Dusty thought as they pulled into the farm. If you only knew.
The cartel always battled storing hefty amounts of cash on hand. Paper money was bulky, difficult to protect and always a challenge to process. For those reasons, they were always on the lookout for legitimate businesses that dealt primarily in hard currency. The crime empire would either partner with existing firms, or bankroll its own “company stores.” Small businessmen were always seeking a source of cheap cash, and Tio’s organization was often more than happy to provide it.
Food trucks, title loan companies, payday loan providers, gold and silver buyers and pawnshops were all prime candidates. While most of the firms providing such services were legitimate, family-run businesses, the cartels found those markets too tempting to avoid. Any business that exchanged goods or commitments for cash helped the syndicate transfer its ill-gotten gains into legitimate, bankable assets.
It was just such a “partner” that provided Mr. Vega with the first significant clue in the organization’s search for Durham Weathers. A pawnshop, linked into the cartel’s financial network, reported a motorcycle helmet being purchased on the same day as Weathers’ shootout with the police.
Vega would have completely missed the obscure inventory item were it not for his searching for the keyword, “Motorcycle.” The bulletins issued to Texas law enforcement agencies were easy to access, and it hadn’t escaped the cartel’s attention that the police were looking for a man who might be wearing such protective headgear.
The cartel acted as the pawnshop’s financial partner, and it was an easy task to fax Mr. Weathers’ picture to the manager. The answer was quick and positive – their target had been in Laredo just a few days ago.
In so many ways, Mr. Vega had dreaded locating the fugitive. He now had a decision to make, and it wasn’t an easy call.
For the first time in his life, Vega was considering crossing the organization that had brought him so much wealth and reward. Such acts rarely succeeded, and when they failed, torture and horrendous death were sure to follow.
He couldn’t keep the information from his boss. That was far too risky given that any number of people dealt with the pawnshop on a daily basis. Perhaps he could walk the narrow line between outright disloyalty and Tio gaining possession of the super-weapon.
He would downplay the lead… make it seem uncertain or questionable. If Tio wanted to send in an army, Vega would talk him out of it. He would use phrases like discretion, unwanted attention, and flushing the prey to bolster the argument. He, Vega, should travel alone to Laredo. He should investigate this lead solo. If it proved reliable, he’d call for support.
Repeatedly he played the conversation through in his mind. He tried to anticipate every question, move and counter-move Tio could execute. In the end, no matter how strong his logic, Vega knew it was risky. The cartel boss was unpredictable at times, and if the man insisted on sending in additional assets, there was absolutely nothing Vega could do about it.
With nervous fingers, he typed the message into the computer. A few moments later, a digital carrier pigeon was flying through the web, looking to deliver a message to Tio.
It was a very fast carrier pigeon.
Within a minute, Vega’s phone rang.
“What do you propose,” the unmistakable voice of Tio sounded.
“I suggest we keep a low profile and that I visit the region to verify the information,” Vega offered.
“And?”
“If it is accurate, then I will notify you, and we can proceed from there.”
The hiss of long distance communications was the only reply for several moments. Finally, “I don’t know if I like this plan of yours.”
“Let me remind you, El Jefe, that the Americans tried to apprehend our friend using force. It didn’t work out so well. I believe a more measured approach might work to our advantage, but there is no way to be sure without additional information. This is why I believe it best to carefully scout the area.”
“I don’t care about methods or processes or measured approaches. I want that fucking weapon, and I don’t care what it takes. Do it.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Vega responded, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.
“Make it soon,” came the threatening response, and then the line went dead.
He busied himself in the workshop, examining weapons and using his new laptop to reference information concerning some of the more eccentric models via the net. Working with what he considered fine instruments of craftsmanship, Dusty normally found his gunsmithing activities relaxing and therapeutic.
This afternoon, it wasn’t working.
It was clear that Tri-Materials was a bully, flexing its influence that no doubt involved hefty contributions to the local tax base, various elected officials, and probably a little under the table gift-giving. They wouldn’t be the first corporation to dole out a little cash in exchange for a favor here or there, and Tri-Mat probably wouldn’t be the last.
Given his situation as an outlaw, none of that should matter. He didn’t like it, wished it wasn’t so, but in reality, it wasn’t his problem. “You’ve got enough trouble in your life right now, cowboy,” he mumbled to himself.
Still, it tasked him. He couldn’t help but feel anger over men who hurt other people for the sake of profit. Dusty had zero issue with corporations making money. He didn’t care how much chief executives took home. But when Mike Boyce was in jail while his wife and daughters suffered, that was just plain wrong. Shooting at your neighbors after knocking over their fence wasn’t exactly model corporate behavior.
Then there was the death of the county agent, which Dusty now assumed was no accident. Clearly, the boys at Tri-Mat were playing a serious game, and murder didn’t seem to be outside the rules. Even if that death was purely coincidental, anyone
capable of beating up an old man in broad daylight wasn’t to be taken lightly.
Wiping down the barrel of a WWII era bolt-action with an oily rag, his anger continued to simmer. Glancing over at the always-nearby rail gun, he grunted at the thought of simply leveling the neighboring plant. One shot on a modest power setting would eliminate the problem, at least until the company collected its insurance and rebuilt. He even went so far as to plot the facility’s demise in the wee hours of the morning so there wouldn’t be any workers inside.
But that would only provide a temporary solution and most likely bring the entire weight of the federal government down on his head. Mike Boyce would still be in jail, and Tri-Materials’ money and muscle would still be riding roughshod around Laredo and the surrounding county.
The fantasy of a smoldering heap of Tri-Mat ruins caused a dichotomy of swelling emotions to fill the gunsmith’s chest. The mere thought of destroying more property and using violence to impart his sense of right and wrong went against his grain. The employees of the plant, probably innocent citizens of the surrounding community, would be the ones who suffered most. The resulting financial hardship of the unemployed workers would create a whole group of people like the Boyces.
Besides, the problem was really a broken system of justice and governance. Tri-Mat was just a small example of a flawed environment, the company’s achievements merely symptoms of a deeper core of decay. Dusty was reminded of Winston Churchill’s famous quote; Democracy is the worst form of government except for all the others that have been tried.
Again, Dusty glanced at the rail gun. “Perhaps I’m thinking on too small a level,” he whispered. “Maybe I should pack up and head to Washington. Maybe my little invention can intimidate some sense into our elected officials.”
As he cleaned the breach of a Remington 700 hunting rifle, Dusty let his mind fill with fantasy; daydreaming of a trip to the nation’s capital. He would have to do something spectacular to get everyone’s attention and enjoyed the mental process of selecting a target.
