Hawke's Prey

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  The Texas congressman knew the regional accents of his home state, and this one was close, but he recognized it as fake. He moved the receiver from his ear and put the desk phone on speaker. Both hands free, he scrolled through the text messages on his cell phone, looking for her name. Like most young people, Katie often preferred texts to speaking with someone.

  The last text that morning was about the unusual weather back home. She’d been as excited as a kid. It reminded him of when she was little and wanted to stay home even after a dusting of snow.

  “What do you want? Is she all right?” He thumbed a quick email to Willa Mae. Come here now! He hoped her cell phone was near, and not on silent, or that she had the office email up on her computer.

  “I ’magine she’s all right at the moment.”

  Just in case, Bright threw a book at his office door. It hit with a bang.

  “Now don’t get all het up there, Congressman, and start kicking things around. Don’t think about trying any electronic magic, either, because you won’t have time to do anything about this call. It ain’t gonna last much longer, and besides, this is a drop phone, so trying to capture this number won’t do you no good neither. I’m ’bout to throw it in the burn barrel and ’at’ll be the end of that, that, that.”

  “I’m listening.” Bright snatched a pen off his desk and scribbled a quick note, “OCD?” on the cover sheet of his report on illegal immigration. He penned, possibly real Texan under that.

  “Good.” The faint hint of a Spanish accent took over and sounded genuine. “Here’s the deal.”

  Another written note, not East Texas. South?

  “My people have the Ballard courthouse and Katie, along with a number of others who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To the best of my knowledge, everyone is all right, aw, I take that back, there’s a few dead folks, but they’re nothing to you. The rest are fine, Katie, too, though I hear it’s a little cold down there. I’ll continue to maintain control over that facility and the people within until you cooperate with my demands.”

  Willa Mae opened the door, stuck her head inside. “Everything okay?”

  Bright shook his head and waved her over. The new accent was real with a soft Texas inflection that could have come from any of the five regions. “Fine. Tell me what you want.” He wrote on his notepad. Willa Mae twisted her head to read it.

  Guy on the line says he’s taken over the Ballard courthouse. They have Katie. Demands are coming.

  Willa Mae drew a shocked breath and mouthed, What do you want me to do?

  “I know you sit on the Homeland Security Committee.”

  “Yes.”

  Bright wrote: Contact the FBI.

  “Hey, you sound distracted. I suggest you stop what you’re doing for a second. Everything I say from now on is in your daughter’s best interest.”

  Bright stopped writing and hit the button again. “All right. You’re off speaker. You have my full attention.”

  “Good. I am going to maintain control of the courthouse and everyone inside for the next several hours while you put together a plan to stop the National Guard from going to the border. Then you are going to stop the movement of any additional security to the border, and that includes state troopers and that company of Texas Regulars you’re putting together.”

  “What do you know about—?”

  “I know a lot of things. The buildup you’re sending down to the river is going to stop, and to make that happen, I have your daughter’s life in my hands.”

  “You hurt her and I’ll kill you.”

  Desi snapped back “What are you going to do, huh? You have no idea where I am or about the situation. I suggest you forgo the TV drama and listen. Understood?”

  Bright swallowed the truth. “Yes.”

  “When we are finished in the courthouse, my people will leave and take Katie with them. You’ll get her back once the following demands are met. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.” Bright’s pen moved again. Texan for sure. Called it the river.

  “You will destroy everything you have on the project and tell them it was funded with dirty money or something, I don’t care. Then you will commit political suicide and bow out of the picture. You’ll like that part best, I imagine, because when I first came up with the idea, I was going to have you shoot yourself on camera, but I decided that might be a little extreme.”

  The man calling himself Desi gave a little half bark, half laugh.

  “It still sounds like a good idea though, all that blood and brain tissue in HD. Instead, you’re going to find some way to leave politics forever. You can say anything you want . . . you’ve been taking bribes, you’re in bed with the cartels and can’t live with yourself anymore, you’re having an affair with a subordinate . . . ahhh, wait, you’ve been having a sexual relationship with a male intern. I like that one. But no matter, you will call a press conference and confess your sins on the six o’clock news.”

  “Why?”

  Bright knew why. He was the hardest working, most charismatic congressman in the nation and was pushing for increased border control along the Rio Grande to shut down illegal immigration. His rising star was headed for the White House.

  With Congressman Don Bright out of the way, the people massed on the other side of the international border could cross. They were held up for the time being by the increased presence of the National Guard and Bright’s Texas Regulars, a shadow company of well-trained military and law-enforcement veterans poised to saturate the Texas side of the border with unimaginable technology and techniques.

  With those obstacles removed, the flood of illegals would once again overwhelm the understaffed and underfunded Border Patrol. Thousands of minors, a significant number of them hardened gangsters, were waiting to cross into Texas and join the ranks of the first tsunamis of illegal youngsters, setting the stage for future political change.

  Bright stared out his window at the bare trees and the leaden Washington sky. “And if I do all that, do you think it will make any difference? Someone else will take my place.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “If I do what you ask, you’ll release Katie, and the others?”

  “Sure ’nough!”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “Why hoss, you cain’t, but the truth be known, you ain’t got no other choice. Oh, by the way, you don’t contact anyone in law enforcement about this little talk we’re having. You understand? No Homeland Security, now that’s funny, no FBI, no Special Ops . . . no one, no one, no one. I have people watching you. We’re a big organization, and we know what you’re doing every minute. No phone calls, no messages, no nothing.”

  The man’s voice rose. “If I see that you’ve talked about this, I’ll kill every person in that courthouse. I’ll. Kill. Them. All of them. All of them. All of them. And that’s after I torture them, starting with your daughter. Do you understand? Do you understa—.”

  “I understand.” Bright swallowed, his mouth dry. “I’ll do what you want. Do I have your word?”

  “Yes.” Desi chuckled. “You have my word. I’ll call you back soon to touch base. I’ll be on a different phone, so be careful about screening your calls.” He was back to his friendly voice. “Oh, and thanks for your cooperation. I’m sure we’re going to have a short, but productive, association. Hey, wait, I forgot something.”

  Bright’s breath caught. What else could this lunatic want?

  A new, shrill voice came through the phone, what the guy on the other end probably thought was his best British accent. “I want . . . a shrubbery.”

  “What?”

  The voice was high and scratchy. Bright realized the man was impersonating the “Knights who say Ni” scene from movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. “I’ve changed my mind. I want five five five million dollars.” The piercing shriek came again. “At once!”

  “What?”

  The voice returned to normal, or what was the most normal of al
l this lunatic’s personalities. “Five of the eight million you have in that little offshore account of yours.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shut up! I know all about it. You can’t collect that much dirty money without someone talking, and I know, knew, that someone intimately for a few hours. You’ll key in this code within the next thirty minutes to transfer five million that we won’t ever discuss again. I won’t tell anyone about it.” The redneck voice came back. “How ’bout t’at?”

  There was no use arguing. “But it can be traced.”

  “Naw, it cain’t. The funds’ll hit that account and bounce around like a pinball for a while, at least till it lands in my pocket. Now you’re gonna do it, right?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Fine. Six million. Going up?”

  Bright clamped his jaw. “Fine.”

  The voice was cheery once again. “Excellent. Here’s that number, and you better write it down, but don’t worry none about chasing after it later, that account’ll be gone before you can whistle Dixie.” He recited a long line of numbers and letters. “Didja get it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. Read it back.”

  “I said, I got—”

  The tone in his real voice was chilling. “Read the damn thing back, friend.”

  Bright read aloud.

  “Good. Bye bye bye now.”

  Shaking, Congressman Bright hung up and loosened his tie.

  Willa Mae reached across the desk and picked up the receiver. Bright put his hand on hers. “No.”

  “We have to call Homeland Security, or the FBI, or the CIA, or someone, for God’s sake.”

  “You didn’t hear all that he said. They have Katie, and I can’t call any law enforcement or they’ll kill her. If the courthouse really is in the hands of terrorists, Homeland Security’ll already be on the way. This part’s between us.”

  Willa Mae’s expression hardened. She was from tough stock raised in the rough, hardscrabble mountains of southeast Oklahoma. “We’ll do something.”

  He rose and closed the door. Wiping his tears, Bright told her what the man on the other end of the line said. Willa Mae stood rooted to the carpet, a hand over her mouth. When he relayed the part about the Ballard courthouse, Bright picked up the remote from his desk and switched on the wall-mounted television. CNN was all over the takeover, with nothing from Ballard other than file footage. Congressman Bright and Willa Mae learned even more about the massive West Texas snowstorm and its impact on the situation.

  After the report, a former Special Forces colonel told the newscaster his opinion of what Ballard’s first responders needed to do.

  While they listened and Bright sailed through his limited options, he checked his cell and saw that in his haste to scroll through the many calls that morning he had missed a second call from Katie that came through minutes after they had hung up. He put it on speaker and pushed the arrow to play the message.

  The terror in the young woman’s voice was sharp and painful with a little-girl quality that he knew so well. “Daddy! There’s men with guns—” The phone went silent except for a male voice in the distance. The words weren’t clear, but a gunshot was. Screaming. Crying. Katie brushed the phone against something with a loud clack that was followed by more gunshots. The staccato sound of automatic weapons filled the background before the recording ended.

  Bright and Willa Mae stared at the silent phone in his hand.

  “What do we do?”

  He met Willa Mae’s gaze. “What they told me to do.”

  Chapter 29

  Arturo and I hauled the terrorist’s heavy dead ass across the floor and into the frigid attic where we rassled him around behind the brick chimney. The kid did good, even though he looked kinda sick when he first took the guy’s ankles.

  We were breathing hard by the time we had the limp body tucked away on the maintenance man’s cot. I covered him with a blanket and shucked my coat when we returned to the door. “Here, put this on.”

  “I already have this.”

  “I know, but it’s gonna get cold while I’m gone and it’ll be in my way.”

  The ranch coat was way too big for him, but layers are effective. He pulled the zipper up to his neck and shivered. “Do you have to go?”

  I could feel the chill, standing there in my shirtsleeves. “Yep, I do, but you need to lay low up here. It’s the safest place for you.”

  I slipped into the H&K’s sling, adjusted it across my chest, and dropped the spare magazines into the terrorist’s tactical bag. I’d dumped the electronic gear beside the body. His 9mm Glock was still in the small of my back. With my Colt 1911 and two extra magazines in their pouches on the other side of the belt, I had plenty of firepower.

  I felt like a pack mule with all that hardware hanging on me. I didn’t have a military background and had never carried so much lethal gear at one time, other than to and from the shooting range. I hoped that all that practice would come in handy if the time came, while at the same time praying I wouldn’t have to use the weapons at all.

  The skinny little undersized kid who acted like he was tough dropped his attitude and stepped close. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around my waist, trembling. I hugged him. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Stay inside and keep this door closed.”

  I cracked the door and peeked out. The trapdoor in the floor was closed, the round room empty. I stepped out.

  The lock hanging open on the latch was an invitation for someone to come inside. I pushed the shackle until it snicked into the mechanism. The kid would throw a fit if he knew he was locked in, but I hoped that if the terrorists saw it, they’d bypass the attic.

  Chapter 30

  Three months earlier, a mixed group of intense men and women sat spellbound in the plush living room of a sprawling 15,000-square-foot house in the upscale River Oaks section of Houston, Texas. Instead of the razor-sharp picture on the sixty-inch HD television, raw, fuzzy images captured from online security cameras provided graphic images of the bloody 2004 Beslan massacre in Russia.

  The volume on the grainy video was so low they could hear the tinkling of ice in expensive crystal glasses.

  Marc Chavez scanned the faces of his crowd instead of watching the video. Some were smiling, despite the horrific scene unfolding on the screen.

  Different angles from outside surveillance cameras interspersed with news footage of better quality gave viewers the sense they were watching a movie. The media reports weren’t as graphic, but the aftermath and blood-soaked bodies stood out in HD clarity.

  When the video ended, a collective, almost sexual sigh filled the room. Marc Chavez, who often liked to impersonate Desi Arnaz, pointed the remote toward the television and the screen went dark. Shuffles filled the room as his guests focused their attention on him.

  Well-dressed and ordinary-looking men and women sat on the sofa, love seat, and soft chairs. A few tardies perched on dining-room chairs, like guests at a cocktail party.

  Chavez held a crystal tumbler in his palm and gave it three spins with his manicured fingers before taking a sip of the twenty-one-year-old scotch.

  Those fingers had been washed three times before he left the restroom. He checked door locks three times, adjusted place settings three times, and even though he was aware of it, he often repeated words or phrases three times. The repetition was the hardest of the many idiosyncrasies he exhibited, because strangers often snickered or projected their discomfort in a number of ways.

  He observed the group’s body language and expressions. No one spoke. “Y’all are pretty tough. All that blood didn’t seem to faze you one bit.”

  The group snickered, waiting to hear from the man who’d called them together. His dark hair and olive complexion revealed a South American heritage. His parents migrated to the Texas Rio Grande Valley long before Chavez was born.

  He took another sip, feeling the warmth of the single-malt Scotch light a pleasant heat all the
way down. “Eleven hundred people were taken hostage in a Beslan school and over the course of three days, nearly four hundred lives were lost. This was an awesome event that was heard around the world, the world, the wo—” He caught himself and scanned the audience for reaction.

  Faces composed, his audience waited for him to continue. They were looking forward to hearing his plan before donating large sums of money to whatever idea he had in mind.

  Each person in the room was convinced that the United States teetered on the brink of change, and was willing to help push it over the edge.

  “The plan, solid. The results were stunning and far reaching. Make no mistake, this mission was a feint, a trial run . . . a dress rehearsal for things to come. That’s why we’re here tonight. Our first operation I’m asking you to fund isn’t a school takeover like I explained last year. You were generous in your donations, and we’ve embargoed that money for this event that will build fear in the heart of the American sheep.”

  He didn’t care for that phrase, but the man he was about to put in charge of the first phase of the operation had used it in conversation the week before. Chavez felt those in the room would find a certain appeal to the reference.

  He met Lorenzo DeVaca’s gaze and held it. DeVaca sat behind the group in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. Balancing a delicate china plate on the knees of his creased khakis, DeVaca’s posture was impeccable. Expressionless, he pushed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose. Chavez knew that inside that meek exterior, the man was a bloodthirsty monster.

  Chavez released the gaze and addressed the group. “We’ll do that somewhere down the road.” He gave them a brilliant smile, and most smiled back. “And that campaign will be splendid. When we do, this country will fall like a house of cards. But first, I want to start with an operation to plant a seed of fear in the people and the government. What I propose is the takeover of a courthouse. I’ve chosen the one in Ballard, in far West Texas.”

  Several eyebrows rose. One gray-haired man who looked every bit the part of a television evangelist cocked his head. Chavez answered the unspoken question.