by Bobby Akart
“Wow!” exclaimed Lucy. “Already? I thought it would take nine months for approval.”
Warwick smiled. “Do you remember when you and Major came in and placed your order? SilencerCo had just implemented a program where they provided an attorney to help jump through the federal logistical hurdles. The attorney eliminated some of the prepurchase requirements like obtaining written approval from local law enforcement and fingerprinting. The approval process for guns takes about twenty minutes in most cases, but a suppressor can take nine or ten months.”
Palmer picked up the silencer and studied the threads. “It screws on to the end of my gun too?”
Warwick nodded. “Absolutely. They are designed for both of your weapons.”
“Okay,” started Palmer. “I have to ask. Why do I need a silencer, or suppressor? I mean, I’m not gonna go stalking somebody like a secret agent or something.”
Lucy began to laugh because, in her mind, one never knows.
“I urge folks to practice using their weapons, Palmer,” replied Warwick. “The suppressor reduces the risk of hearing loss, and it also acts as a muzzle break, allowing you faster follow-up shots when necessary.”
Palmer shrugged. “Why not, right?”
Warwick nodded and then retrieved the box containing the rifle Major ordered. He opened the box and displayed a Daniel Defense DD5V1 rifle. He handed it to Lucy, who held it gingerly in both hands.
“It’s lighter than I imagined,” was her first comment.
“Around eight pounds,” said Warwick.
“Is that a machine gun?” asked Palmer.
“No, those are illegal,” replied Warwick. “Basically, it’s a more powerful version of the AR-15s your folks have purchased from me over the years. Only this particular weapon is chambered in .308.”
“Like my hunting rifle, right?” asked Palmer.
Warwick nodded and smiled. “Miss Lucy might remember this, but from the first time your folks became my customers, I impressed upon them to purchase weapons in common calibers. For example, try to purchase all of your handguns in either nine millimeter or forty-five caliber. Your AR-15 rifles all use .223 Remington. Your hunting rifles all take .308.”
Lucy handed the AR-10 platform weapon to her daughter. Palmer held it and then carefully pointed it away from the other occupants in the room to get an idea of how it felt in a shooter’s stance.
“I like this. Can you hunt with it?”
“You can, and a lot more,” replied Warwick. “With the right scopes, you’ll find this weapon to be just as versatile as your AR-15s but with more firepower and a much longer range.”
“Momma, I may have to arm-wrestle Daddy over this one,” said Palmer with a chuckle. She looked over to her mother, who seemed to be oblivious to the conversation as she stared at her phone. “Momma, is everything okay?”
Lucy held up one finger indicating for Palmer to wait for her answer. She continued to type a message to someone. When she finished, she immediately removed her glasses and looked at Warwick.
“Kirk, Major wants you to order another one of these.” Then she turned to Palmer with a grin. “One is none, right, honey?”
Chapter 30
November 11
Stockyard Championship Rodeo
Fort Worth, Texas
With the not-so-secret injury to Cooper’s head on the forefront of Miss Lucy’s mind, she insisted on checking the truck and trailer to make sure he’d left his gear behind as promised. She then threatened each and every one of them, reminding her rodeo kids in no uncertain terms, that if Cooper got within twenty yards of a bull, including the mechanical kind in a bar, she’d provide them a whoopin’ they’d never forget. None of the three laughed at the prospect of their momma tannin’ their hides. Despite the fact they were all bigger and grown adults, they honestly feared her mama grizzly side.
It took about four hours to drive to the Fort Worth Stockyards, where the season finale of the Stockyard Championship Rodeo was taking place that weekend. This was the next-to-last event before the PBR World Championship in Las Vegas. Had Cooper’s head fully healed, he would have ridden at Fort Worth, although the prize money was insufficient to vault him into the top ten and keep him there. The event at the Calgary Stampede in two weeks was the date he’d circled on his mental calendar, and he had no intention of incurring a setback prior to then.
Plus, for once, this rodeo could be all about Riley and Palmer. After they got settled, they registered for their respective events, and Cooper made small talk with some of his fellow bull riders. Most were supportive, as they’d developed mutual respect for one another over time. There were others, naturally, the haters as Cooper referred to them, who secretly wished Cooper would disappear into obscurity. He’d come out of nowhere to reach his level of success, and the haters wanted nothing more than to see Cooper fail. When he encountered these losers, he’d remember words that Pops taught him when he was young—don’t worry about failing, but concentrate only on winning. Cooper did win, and often, which only exacerbated the jealousy among the haters.
The rodeo events calendar was full for both Friday and Saturday, although Riley’s event was only scheduled for Friday evening as part of the day’s final competitions. Riley was the perfect build for a steer wrestler. Speed and strength were the attributes found in champions, and Riley excelled in both. Steer wrestlers, also known as bulldoggers, used power and technique to wrestle the steer to the ground. That might sound simple enough, but then the real work began.
The steer weighed twice as much as his opponent, the bulldogger. Once the two entered the arena, the steer wrestler chased the animal on his horse, typically at thirty miles per hour. Riley would start on his horse confined in a box. The steer was given a head start, the length of which was determined by the size of the arena. The arena at the Fort Worth Stockyards was large, so Riley had plenty of room to work.
Cooper and Palmer stood on the rails of the box where Riley readied himself behind the barrier. As the steer reached a precise advantage point, the chase would be on.
“You got this, Riley,” said Cooper as he shouted words of encouragement over the noise of the crowd.
Riley was getting hyped up, the adrenalin pumping through his veins. “He’s a big ’un, Coop. Did you see the size of that boy? Heck, you should be ridin’ that sucker!”
“Nah, he’s a pussycat,” said Cooper. “Remember, you’re smarter than he is!”
Riley managed a smile despite his rapidly building intensity. It was almost time to release the steer from the breakaway rope barrier. Riley’s muscles tensed, his brow furrowed, and he took a moment to pull his black felt cowboy hat lower on his forehead.
Riley glanced to his right and nodded to his hazer. In steer wrestling, the rider had the assistance of a hazer, another mounted cowboy who galloped his horse along the right side of the steer and kept it from veering away from the bulldogger. The top ten steer wrestlers in the world had a partner who acted as the hazer who could be nearly as important as those who wrestled the steer. Riley shared a hazer with several other steer wrestlers at this stage in his career, and usually shared a quarter of his earnings with the hazer.
His hazer nodded back and gave him a thumbs-up. Riley was ready. Steer wrestling differed from bull riding in which remaining on the bull eight seconds completed the event. In steer wrestling, the fastest time wins, so it was important to have a fast, responsive horse, and the bulldogger had to time his takedown perfectly. Riley had to be aware not to break through his barrier prematurely, for that would result in a ten-second penalty and likely keep him out of the money.
He waited patiently as the cowboys controlling the steer’s breakaway rope watched him. Seconds later, the steer was released, and the chase was on. The chase resembled a drag race between the steer, the bulldogger, and the hazer.
Riley kicked his heels and his horse bolted forward. Within two seconds he was alongside the steer, even before his hazer was. As Riley pulled alongsid
e, he slid down off the right side of his horse, which continued to race ahead, and then he hooked his right arm around the powerful steer’s right horn.
In one simultaneous motion, Riley grabbed the steer’s left horn, locked it in his grip, and using all the strength and leverage he could muster, slowed the steer and then leaned. However, Riley’s work wasn’t complete.
In order to stop the clock, he had to wrestle the steer flat on its back with all four feet pointed in the same direction. First, Riley stuck out his feet and slid with the steer’s forward process, kicking up dirt but slowing the beast at the same time. With this leaning motion, Riley had gained momentum before he rotated his body, turned the steer and flipped him. With one fell swoop, Riley flawlessly dropped the steer to the ground, its feet flying upward, causing the clock to stop.
The announcer said it all. “Riley Armstrong’s time of five point eight seconds vaults him into first place!”
He removed his hat and waved to the cheering crowd in the arena as the night’s rodeo events concluded. Riley would go home with a fifteen-hundred-dollar check and a trophy in the form of a champion steer wrestler buckle sponsored by Wrangler.
After the arena was cleared, Cooper and Palmer jumped over the rail to celebrate with their brother. Cooper had already achieved notoriety around the Pro Rodeo circuit, and now Riley was making a name for himself.
Tomorrow would be Palmer’s day, but at age twenty-one, she was still new to the National Barrel Horse Association circuit. In all of her shows, she competed with the best and typically earned top-ten finishes although she hadn’t yet been in the money. Palmer was patient and knew she had to gain experience and pay her dues, just like her brothers.
“I think this calls for a celebratory Bud, don’t y’all think?” asked Palmer, who despite having just turned twenty-one in recent months, was always the first to suggest a cold beer following an event.
“My mouth is still full of dirt,” said Riley. “I need to wash it down with somethin’.”
“Let’s do it,” said Cooper as he led his siblings out of the arena. “Y’all thinkin’ Billy Bob’s?”
Riley started to laugh. “We’d best not risk it. It’s Friday night bull night there.”
In the early years, Gilley’s was a cowboy bar located just outside Houston that had become world famous when it was featured in the movie Urban Cowboy. When the co-owners had a falling out, the club closed and was relocated to Dallas, a move that included the original mechanical bull, El Toro, featured in the movie.
Not to be outdone, Billy Bob’s at the Stockyards embarked on what turned out to be a brilliant marketing strategy. They installed an actual bull riding arena within their honky-tonk and adopted the slogan Real Bulls, Not Steel Bulls.
Bull riding at Billy Bob’s became a regular Friday night occurrence and was run like a professional rodeo event. Points were awarded for the way the bull bucked, the degree of difficulty, and the technique used by the rider. Because the arena was located within the confines of the bar, the ring was tight, which encouraged the bull to buck fierce and spin tight.
Even as Cooper was rising through the ranks, he’d never considered riding at Billy Bob’s, despite the notoriety he might have achieved. He thought it was too dangerous because bulls were unpredictable enough, much less in a confined space. In addition, Riley’s point was well taken.
“I agree, Riley,” said Cooper. “Would it surprise you that Momma has spies everywhere? They’re probably following us now.”
Palmer and Riley began to look around nervously, causing Cooper to chuckle.
“Where are we gonna go?” asked Palmer as she looked around at the crowd of people descending upon the Stockyards for a night of drinkin’ and dancin’.
Cooper saw a neon sign that read Basement Bar pointing down a flight of stairs. A chalkboard sign on the inside of the door displayed the bar’s specials. No cover. $2.00 beer. $2.00 wells. Cooper smiled, as all three specials met their budgets. The rodeo kids were not big drinkers. They usually enjoyed no more than two beers. Their interest in frequenting these cowboy bars at the end of the day was usually for the comradery of their fellow rodeo participants.
After the trio produced their IDs confirming they were twenty-one, they entered the small, but noisy bar, which billed itself as the world’s smallest honky-tonk. They made the rounds and chatted with familiar faces. Riley and Cooper were catching up with two up-and-coming bull riders from San Antonio, Adriano Morales and Eduardo Pacheco. The guys were from Brazil, having immigrated to America with their parents in 2015 when political uprisings dominated the country and the economies of South America began to collapse.
Their fathers were employees of InBev, one of the world’s largest beer companies, which had merged with Anheuser-Busch. With the completed acquisition of Corona Beer and Grupo Modelo, whose marketing arm was located in San Antonio, the boys’ parents sought positions there and came to Texas on L-visas designed for intercompany employee transfers. Their parents worked to achieve their American citizenship, and the boys continued to pursue their dreams of being bull riders.
Cooper enjoyed talking with Morales and Pacheco because the Brazilians employed a slightly different bull-riding strategy in dealing with the rope and grip. They were comparing notes when suddenly Riley tapped Cooper on the chest and nodded toward Palmer, who was involved in a conversation with two cowboys at the bar.
Two guys, clearly full of themselves and probably several beers too many, were shouting at Palmer, who’d turned her back to them.
“Hey, girl! What’s your problem? Me and my brother are just tryin’ to be friendly.”
One of the men reached for her arm to turn her around, but Palmer spun and said, “Friendly leads to conversation, and I don’t feel like talkin’. Leave me alone!” She yanked her arm away from the man’s hand and swung around, her ponytail swishing behind her.
The guy slammed his beer on the bar and growled. “Maybe you oughta learn a little respect, hussy.” He began to follow after her, but he was immediately stopped by a charging bull in the form of Riley Armstrong.
It all happened so fast that Cooper couldn’t recall if Riley was more steer wrestler, middle linebacker, or his nemesis, One Night Stand. In any event, a certified western bar brawl broke out.
Riley had knocked the wind out of the rude cowboy and immediately began to rain hail marys into the man’s jaw. When the guy’s friend tried to jump Riley, Pacheco kicked his legs, causing him to crash to the floor in pain.
Another bar patron, apparently friends with the two loudmouths, jumped on Cooper’s back, who began to spin around in circles, emulating a bull trying to throw his rider. The man held on until one final spin when his face met the fist of Morales, causing him to loosen his grip on Cooper and fly onto, and then over, the bar.
Pacheco finally got Riley’s attention and forced him to stop the beat down of the worst offender. Riley’s hands were bloodied, but not near as bad as the other guy’s face.
As others in the bar pushed and shoved each other just to be part of the action, the lights came on and the bouncers moved in to control the crowd.
Cooper grabbed everyone and whispered to them, “Quick, this way.”
Several of the bar’s patrons wanted no part of the fight and scurried for the exit. Cooper guided the group to blend in with everyone else so they wouldn’t be identified by the guys who still lay on the floor, writhing in pain.
At the top of the stairs, they emerged into the cool, fresh air and then scampered down West Exchange to the White Elephant Saloon, where a line stretched around the block to get in. The five of them didn’t say a word as they heaved in and out to catch their breath. Palmer kept a watchful eye on the street to see if they were being pursued by anyone, but it appeared they were in the clear.
All at once, the group began to laugh hysterically. Pacheco pulled a bandana out of his jeans and handed it to Palmer, who wrapped Riley’s hand.
“We’d better get some ice
on this before it swells up too badly,” said Palmer.
“It ain’t broke,” said Riley.
“Maybe, let’s see,” said Palmer as she gave it a squeeze.
“Hey! Dang it, Palmer! That hurt worse than the punches I was landin’.”
As the group had a good laugh, two Fort Worth patrol cars drove toward the bar with their blue lights flashing, reflecting off the walls of the Stockyards as they passed.
Cooper laughed and then got serious. “Quit your squallin’. We need to get off the streets anyway.”
Morales laughed and patted Riley on the back. With his heavy Spanish accent, he said, “I see why you wrestle the steers. You are the baddest cowboy I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks,” said Riley. “And thanks, guys, for pullin’ me off that jackass. I was out of my mind. I might have killed him if ya’ll hadn’t stopped me.”
“No problem, my friend,” said Pacheco. “We have to ride tomorrow and must get some sleep.”
Cooper shook their hands and slapped them on the shoulders. “I wish I could ride with you, but I’m out. Thanks for your help tonight. If we ever need to return the favor, I promise we’ll have your backs.”
Chapter 31
November 12
The Oval Office
The White House
Washington, DC
Washington, DC, was full of diplomats. Some wielded authority and real power, including the authority to bind their countries to verbal agreements. Others were simply figureheads and mouthpieces for their government. One person likened it to the husband who claimed he couldn’t make a decision on a car without consulting his wife, who was at the other end of the showroom, hiding from the salesman.
While administrations came and went, as did the power between political parties, one rule remained constant in the duties of Washington’s diplomats—think twice before you say nothing. Ambassador Ho Lin of China was an expert in listening, analyzing, and saying nothing. For nearly three decades, he’d infuriated State Department officials and presidents with his shrewd poker face, careful choice of words, and ability to say nothing in the midst of said diplomacy.
