Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  Bubba evidently didn’t agree with their agenda.

  The bullet was close enough that Zach sensed the concussion of its wake. It was a big sucker too, his temple feeling like someone had given him a playful slap on the head. Somehow, he didn’t think that was the shooter’s intent.

  The Texan eyed a nearby tree trunk, said a prayer that his foe was working a bolt-action rifle and pushed off. Rain-soaked ground and the clumsiness of adrenaline-powered legs caused him to slip, the last ten feet to his objective achieved via a sliding, slipping, scrambling crawl through thick mud. The ranger was pissed.

  Using his finger like a windshield wiper, Zachariah Bass scraped swaths of sticky, clay-thickened goo from his rifle’s optic and muzzle, and then went to work on his face.

  Zach waited for the next blast. Movement caught his eye, a quick glance showing Ranger Temple scurrying to a cluster of trees on his flank, which she managed without collecting an extensive soil sample.

  They exchanged glances, Sam smirking at her partner’s mud bath. “You look like shit,” she silently mouthed.

  Another shot rang out, this one aimed at the newly minted lady ranger. It missed, striking a puddle of standing water and spraying her with a geyser of frothy silt.

  Obviously unhappy about the gunfight, muck, lack of sleep, and the caliber of firepower aimed in their direction, Sam flashed her partner a disgusted expression.

  “You wanted to be here, Ranger,” Zach whispered. “Welcome to the club.”

  Cupping her hand, Sam yelled out, “Texas Rangers! Cease fire! Drop your weapon, and come out with your hands where we can see them.”

  Her answer was another incoming round, the lead-behemoth striking a pine trunk less than four inches from Sam’s face. Splinters of bark and wood stung her cheeks, chasing her prone into a cold puddle of standing water.

  Zach’s first thought was that his partner had been hit, but a throaty growl, followed by a blind, three shot spread from Sam’s sidearm told the Texan that she was unharmed. Mad as hell, no doubt, but the incoming bullet had missed.

  He waited a moment until she’d recovered and looked his way. With his fingers drawing a map in the air, he communicated, “I’m going to flank left. You stay here and keep his attention.”

  Nodding, she squeezed even closer to her tree trunk-cover and yelled again, “I’m not going to warn you again. Put down your weapon; come out with your hands in the air. If I have to come and get you, I’m bringing an ass-kicking with me.”

  “There ain’t no fucking lady rangers,” the distant voice called back. “Besides, we’re in the good ol’ U.S. of A., sweetheart. Don’t you recognize the Creole State when you see it?” he smirked. “Go back to Texas where you belong, bitch. You come any closer, and I’ll cut you in half with some of my homemade Louisiana hot sauce.” He punctuated his offer with a live round.

  Zach was moving while the suspect taunted his partner, trying to accomplish speed and stealth at the same time. It was an impossible task, but he did his best, rushing along a dense strand of trees and undergrowth.

  Their antagonist was either a little dusty on his navigation skills, or he was throwing out a pretty good bluff. In actuality, the border between the Republic of Texas and the state of Louisiana was still a considerable distance to the east.

  He heard Sam’s pistol expend three more shots, no doubt using the shooter’s voice to refine her aim. The big hunting rifle fired again.

  “That’s it, Sam. Keep his ass pinned down,” Zach hissed as he ran. “Give me one more minute.”

  He advanced to a two-track, dirt lane, one of hundreds that crisscrossed the Great Piney Woods of East Texas. The logging trail meandered the same direction Zach needed to travel, but he avoided it. The man they were chasing was too skilled as a marksman… and besides that, he had one big-ass gun.

  Ducking, running and zigzagging, the lanky Texan dodged limbs, skirted stumps, and accelerated through the few open patches. Now far in the distance, he heard his partner’s voice again.

  “Okay, you cross-eyed shit eater. I tried to warn ya. Now I’m coming in, and I am going to kick your ass. Say your prayers, inbreed.”

  Snorting, Zach had to admit, she certainly could cuss like a ranger.

  He rounded a patch too thick to penetrate, catching a glimpse of a red and black flannel shirt scooting through the underbrush. “Stop! Texas Rangers! We have you surrounded,” Zach screamed.

  Through the foliage, a motion registered in the Texan’s mind. Throwing himself prone just as the bullet snapped over his diving body, Zach rolled twice while flipping off his rifle’s safety.

  The ranger took aim waist high and began pulling the trigger, snapping five rounds left to right where he anticipated the shooter to be.

  Then he was up and moving, cursing the low branches and twigs that scratched his face and clawed at his eyes.

  Again, he caught a glimpse of his quarry, scurrying for the border at a remarkable clip. Taking more time, the ranger centered his sights and squeezed off three rounds. Bubba went down.

  Running slower now, cautious of rushing up on a wounded, but still-armed man, Zach changed his vector twice just in case.

  But his target had escaped.

  Zach took off, sprinting hard in the direction he was sure Bubba was headed. Visions of losing their best lead paraded through the ranger’s mind as he ran. With every step, he found himself second-guessing the decision not to call in reinforcements.

  The woods eventually thinned, trees turning into waist-high grass under a string of high-capacity power lines and their massive steel towers. Just beyond was the road that marked the border.

  Zach scanned left and right, sure he hadn’t overrun the suspect. The cutout for the electrical lines and the road wasn’t much wider than a football field, but there was no way the fugitive could have made it across that open area already. Seconds later, Bubba lost his nerve and showed himself, bounding up from his hide in the weeds and scampering like hell for the border road.

  The Texan drew breath, preparing to shout one last order for the guy to stop before Zach ventilated his carcass with pain pills.

  But the command never made it from Zach's throat.

  Another blast rang out, the shot originating across the lane. Zach’s heart stopped as he watched Bubba’s stride pull short and then his body collapse in a heap.

  Sam appeared at his side right then. “What the hell?” she said, beating her partner to the punch.

  “No idea, but let’s hang back here for a bit. Whoever pulled the trigger over there is one damned fine shot. Let’s not give him another target.

  “I hear you,” she replied breathlessly.

  Zach motioned for Sam to move down a few yards to better cover. The two rangers stayed low and just inside the tree line, inspecting the road for any signs of movement. After a few minutes, the sound of an engine drifted through the forest, and then a dark sedan raced out of the Louisiana woods.

  The vehicle stopped directly across from the victim, a single individual exiting and dashing to the dead man’s body. Zach, realizing someone was going to steal his evidence, zipped out of the woods. “Stop! Texas Rangers! Stop!”

  The lone gunman didn’t even glance up. Evidently having successfully pilfered Bubba’s body, Zach watched helplessly as the man returned to his car and sped off into the new sun.

  The two rangers hurried to investigate Bubba’s corpse. Sam retrieved her cell phone so she could snap pictures. Zach did the same, cursing when he found the glass of his mobile phone smashed and cracked, the exterior coated in mud.

  “Shit, there goes another one,” he cursed. “The major is going to have my ass.”

  “What the hell just happened?” she asked, still trying to put it all together.

  “Somebody didn’t want Bubba attending this evening’s crawfish boil,” Zach replied, “and they wanted to make sure he got the message loud and clear. I think our junk dealing frie
nd was just double-crossed. I should have seen that coming.”

  They continued exploring cautiously around the corpse, Sam calling the county sheriff for backup and an ambulance. No emergency.

  Thirty minutes later, the sheriff’s deputies started arriving.

  Zach couldn’t see any reason to spend the Republic’s money on a full crime scene investigation, only being interested in a particular piece of forensic evidence. “I want his cell phone records,” the ranger informed one of the deputies.

  “Cell phone history?” snarled one of the cops. “Good luck with that. Since the secession, it takes days to get cell phone records. Our fearless leaders in Austin promised the people that the new Republic wouldn’t spy on them like Washington did for years, which means we have to get a search warrant.”

  Zach frowned, knowing the local’s statement was accurate. “We just have to work with what we’re given,” the ranger conceded. “I’ll handle the judge’s order. It’s the only thing I might be able to salvage out of this mess.”

  “Where is his cell phone?” Sam asked, the answer to her own question dawning before she’d completed the inquiry.

  “That’s what the sniper was after,” Zach replied. “And if our victim had a throw-down phone, it’s going to take a while to figure out who he was talking to.”

  Chapter 7

  Rangers Temple and Bass stood at attention in front of the major’s desk, both keeping their eyes fixed on the wall just above their superior’s head.

  “In all my years as a Texas Ranger, I’ve never seen such poor judgement. Ranger Temple, while you’re still in a probationary period, and thus not officially responsible, I had higher expectations from you. Ranger Bass, I’ll put this bluntly – you should have known better.”

  Putnam’s eyes darted between the two rangers, almost as if he dared either to speak.

  “As of this moment, one of the highest profile cases in our organization’s history is at a complete standstill. The Bender family has lawyered up and is publically accusing you two of personally executing the suspect. The press is eating it up.”

  Again he paused, allowing the two officers to absorb his words before continuing.

  “Ranger Bass, you should have called for backup. While our ranks may present a Western image to the general public, we are not a bunch of cowboys riding roughshod over the land. And I’m not even taking into consideration the fact that both of you admit purchasing and consuming alcoholic beverages in an icehouse just before the incident. Didn’t either of you stop to think how much was riding on this investigation?”

  Fortunately for both, Sam and Zach realized the question was rhetorical. Dialog, as of the moment, was a terrible idea.

  “The Republic has now become the world’s whipping boy, and the incident along the border yesterday is only providing more food for the feeding frenzy. President Simmons, as well as Colonel Bowmark and I are all extremely disappointed in your lack of judgement and execution on this matter.”

  That one hurt, Zach visibly wincing at the remark.

  “Were it not for your exemplary records, I’d be filling out termination paperwork, perhaps even filing charges. But that’s not going to happen... just yet. As of this moment, I’m suspending both of you until the autopsy results from Mr. Bender’s body prove that Ranger Bass’s rifle wasn’t the weapon that issued the fatal shot. If and when the medical examiner clears your names of any wrongdoing, I’ll determine your status going forward. Do either of you have any questions?”

  Neither did.

  “Then you’re dismissed. I will be in touch when the reports on Mr. Bender’s cause of death are on my desk. Until that time, I suggest both of you take a few days off. I’m not expecting the official results until next week. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  Ghost abandoned the hotel’s car, complete with keys in the ignition, two blocks away from where it was regularly parked. After thoroughly wiping down the interior, he’d hefted his case and strolled innocently through the lobby.

  After a quick meal and two hours of sleep, he repeated his routine of checking messages.

  The anticipated communication had finally arrived. There was no additional bad news.

  Hailing a taxi, he again found himself traveling through an area that didn’t see a lot of tourist activity.

  The address provided to the driver led them to a sizeable retail lot jam-packed with row after row of campers and recreational vehicles, one of a dozen such businesses listed in the Lake Charles yellow pages.

  Ghost wasn’t interested in the RV lifestyle or roaming the continent in a class-A motorhome. What did spike the Arab’s interest were the services offered to those who did travel extensively.

  The RV dealership offered a program called “Always Home.”

  For a reasonable fee, and precious little documentation, the helpful staff would store packages and mail, forward correspondence, and even pay monthly bills for those who lived the address-less lifestyle.

  The young woman behind the counter didn’t even ask for Ghost’s identification. After giving her a 4-digit PIN number, she nodded at the computer screen and responded, “I’ll be right back.”

  The box, for its size, was hefty. At 20 inches per side, she grunted just slightly lifting it to the counter.

  Ghost investigated the shipping label with some suspicion. “We’re getting ready to head for the Grand Canyon,” he lied. “I wasn’t expecting anything so quickly, but it was a successful test of your services. Thank you.”

  She seemed blasé, acknowledging his compliment with a simple nod, her eyes never leaving the computer’s screen.

  Nor did she take notice of the cab waiting outside. Many RVers used taxis instead of unhooking their rigs or begging a ride. For the interloper, it represented just one more layer of security.

  He would repeat the same process two more times, each using a different taxi company.

  After returning to the hotel, Ghost flicked open his knife and neatly sliced through the first box’s thick tape. The contents brought a smile to his face.

  Inside were neatly stacked bundles of Texas Greenbacks, each in the $100 denomination.

  Pulling a genuine bill from his pocket, Ghost took a few moments to study the forgery side-by-side with the real article. The workmanship was exceptional.

  The counterfeit bills had been created in Pakistan by the owner of a document management firm, a long-time, secret supporter of the Taliban and other radical elements in the region. It seems there was good money in creating propaganda for terrorist organizations.

  Utilizing state-of-the-art computer equipment, mega-high resolution scanners, and the finest laser printers money could buy, the forgeries not only mimicked the meticulous details of the new Republic’s currency, but also sported incremental serial numbers as well as an exact duplicate of the holographic stripe embedded in the real bills.

  Even the paper had been specially selected, so close to the original cloth and wood mixture that an expert would have difficulty telling the difference.

  “Now we will have a little fun,” Ghost whispered to the box of fake money. “As the infidels say, ‘Time to hit the town.’”

  Tucking the cans of spray paint in his case, Ghost made for the door. He’d leave the sign and call a meeting. By this evening, his team would be dumping counterfeit currency.

  “Even those idiots should be able to spend money,” he whispered. “How hard can that be?”

  Opening his briefcase and withdrawing several sheets of paper, Ghost began passing out the cell’s instructions.

  “The first task for each of you is to purchase a used vehicle… with cash. Our Mexican friend has compiled a list of car lots that are accustomed to dealing with illegal immigrants and will not ask for identification, nor will they find a cash purchase unusual. On the instructions, you will find a schedule, times and places for your meetings. He will accompany each of you and speak Spanish on your behalf.”

  Ghost gave them a few mi
nutes to scan the documents before moving on. “After you have secured transportation, you will start dumping money in the casinos. There is great risk of your being identified. You must wear sunglasses and baseball hats. Change your shirts and hats at least two times per day,” Ghost stated with emphasis. “Two of you will stay here in Lake Charles; others will spread out across the state so as not to geographically concentrate our activities.”

  “Do not spend more than $5,000 in any one casino per day. Bet on whatever game you wish, but pace yourself like a tourist who is out for a good time. Grumble a little when you lose. Act disappointed.”

  Handing out the stacks of counterfeit bills, the cell’s leader continued his instructions. “Change casinos often, at least every 3 hours. Buy expensive wine and dump it in the restroom stall. Purchase a whore if you wish. Pay her more than she asks.”

  “What if we win?”

  “Keep the profits. You will be paid in American dollars. You should also go to a shop and purchase something expensive, like a watch or other jewelry. We can sell these items later at pawnshops. Eat well and often. Buy expensive meals and beverages. Tip well. If someone is collecting money for charity, by all means contribute. Shine your shoes and wear your best clothes. Act and look like a wealthy Saudi. If you see management paying attention to you, then cash out your chips and move on.”

  After making eye contact with each member to make sure his commands were understood, Ghost carried on. “There are four of you. As a group, you can spend $100,000 per day without drawing attention. We will continue until the authorities announce they’ve discovered the counterfeiting scheme. At that point, stop immediately. We will gather back here at Lake Charles. Do you understand?”

  Again, all heads present bobbed north and south… a few even seeming as if they were looking forward to the endeavor. But not all.

  “I still do not understand the purpose of this exercise,” complained one man. “We will distribute a few hundred thousand dollars at most. That is a tiny, insignificant portion compared to the money being printed by Texas. How can this possibly harm our enemy?”