Hawke's Prey

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  “Because, Mr. Wicker, to date, to date . . . to date,” he tightened his jaw, “there hasn’t been an extended takeover of any kind in this country, and that single event will stun this nation into immobility.”

  Chavez sipped his scotch. “Our goal will be to inflict as much damage as possible, but not necessarily human, though I expect some to die. This damage will be psychological, and it’s our strongest weapon, the weapon of terrorism, because we’ll be striking at the heart of America.

  “Terrorism is such a disgusting word, but all the same, it works. We’ll build on the fears already in place courtesy of ISIS. My team . . . your team, will own the courthouse and the people, because though we aren’t taking a school, they have provided us with an opportunity.”

  A woman raised a tentative hand. Her face was stretched tight from many plastic surgeries. The false facade of youth was grotesque, cartoonish. Her mottled hands and wrinkled neck hidden by a scarf wrapped to her chin told the real story. She waited for Chavez to pause. “That’s no big deal. A courthouse?”

  The man sitting beside her agreed. “If you want an historical icon, why don’t we occupy something of state or national significance . . . like the Alamo, or a building at the Smithsonian Institution?”

  Chavez smiled, but his eyes failed to match the expression. “Eleanor, Alfred, those are good suggestions, but give me a moment and you’ll understand.”

  Chavez continued with the memorized presentation he’d practiced in front of a mirror. He concentrated hard to prevent repetition. “It isn’t the significance of the target. It’s the vulnerability of something so simple that will shock this country to the core. It’s the vulnerability of Main Street America. It’s the vulnerability of common, familiar areas.

  “Their electronic security hasn’t yet joined the twenty-first century. Much of their electronic data is backed up on-site and they haven’t yet moved it to a secure location, so property and tax records, and all city and county information will be deleted. Despite the fact that many of these documents have been placed on microfilm, computers and film burn well, so arrest records, fingerprint data, marriage, wills, probate, land records, and everything else will be lost forever. It’s nothing more than a single bite of a big apple, but that’s what it takes. My mother once told me the way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time, and that’s how we’ll do this. Of course, we sell what electronic data we download to as many people as possible both here and abroad. I don’t care if they speak English or not.”

  More chuckles from throughout the living room.

  “You think that’s funny?” Chavez’s expression was chilly. He spun the glass in the palm of his hand three times to calm himself. “That is minor. What will be most horrific is the class of students who have scheduled a visit to this location on the date I selected. In fact, it is that field trip they posted on their website that gave me the idea.

  “Children are this country’s Achilles’ heel. This will bring the county’s weaknesses to the forefront when they realize how easy it is to destroy what is precious and invaluable. The entire United States will realize nothing is safe on U.S. soil, and that frightens everyone.

  “Of course, we’ll reference Beslan in our demands. That singular noun will drive the media into a frenzy. They’ll fall on it like wolves. They want shock and attention, and they’ll get it.”

  A woman dripping with diamonds waved a hand full of big knuckles. “Why Ballard? Why not the courthouse in Dallas, or Austin?”

  Chavez bristled. He’d expected questions, but hated them just the same. His experience with fund-raising kicked in, and he flashed them a brilliant smile.

  Chavez worked the room like a cocaine dealer in a house full of rich teenagers. “Lucille, Ballard’s remote, close to the border, and miles from help. Hear me. Miles from help. They have a sheriff’s department like the one in Mayberry with the same kind of sheriff. I don’t expect much more defense than the shotguns in their cars.”

  Some cackled at the recollection.

  “Their fire department is manned by volunteers. Response will not be quick, and that’s what we want . . . the time to wreak as much havoc as possible, and to instill terror throughout this country. Other than Laredo, which is isolated but with a much larger law-enforcement presence, there’s no better location.”

  “Why not Laredo, then?”

  Chavez’s smile slipped. “I have my reasons.”

  They didn’t need to know the reasons included another branch of the operation in Ballard that would remain between him and DeVaca, specifically a young woman named Katie Bright. Holding her hostage would put pressure on her dad, Congressman Don Bright, who chaired the House Committee on Homeland Security that was a thorn in Chavez’s side.

  With the congressman in Chavez’s pocket or out of play, the military presence along the river would relax until the government could muster a response plan. During that time, thousands of adults could cross en masse, creating confusion and distraction.

  Chavez and his supporters already had a political chess piece in place, funded by millions of dollars from the cartels, and ready for his appointment. That congressman, Calixto Diaz, was already the president’s next golden boy, and wanted nothing more than to relax Texas’s efforts at damming the tide of immigrants.

  “Will it be difficult for your team to get inside and take over?”

  Chavez snorted. “You’ve never been to that region of the state. They’re what my parents used to call sitting ducks. There are no metal detectors on this courthouse. The sheriff and a couple of deputies are in the station across the street. The highway patrol officers are far away, writing tickets, and the Border Patrol agents are manning the check stations. I’m surprised they have doors at all in this backwater place.”

  The group exchanged glances. Chavez was a regular Red Skelton, but the time had come to get back to the plan. “Have I answered your question, Lucille?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” Chavez adjusted his tie. “It will be a piece of cake for our people to take control of the Ballard courthouse. When there’s nothing else on the news channels, and while the live cameras roll outside, this event will explode into public consciousness. We’ll announce our intentions to take over governmental buildings and entire schools in more populated areas and much closer to people’s homes. By then, parents won’t let their children leave the house. No one will go to work. Bill, tell them what happens after that.”

  They waited as the wiry man cleared his throat.

  Chapter 31

  I dropped to the floor and raised the trapdoor about an inch, half expecting to get shot as soon I did. The steps were as steep as those from the round room to the dome, but this time the wooden balusters were ornate instead of solid and I could see through them. A man sat on the bottom step, having a smoke.

  The heat kicked on with a rusty squeak and warm air rushed through the ducts. A ton of noise came up through the rotunda from people working, talking, and of all things, running a chainsaw. I identified the snarl as the operator revved the engine a couple of times. It changed pitch when he put it to use for the second time that day. It sounded to me like he was cutting cordwood. The smell of exhaust was strong.

  The chainsaw died and the man on smoke break sounded like he was right there with me. I angled my head to see he was talking through a comm unit in Spanish.

  “Todo seguro.”

  My Spanish was good enough to know he was telling someone his floor or post was secure.

  “Sí, fuera de la gran sala del jurado en el tercer piso.”

  That one gave me a little trouble, but I for sure picked out, sala del jurado, Grand Jury, and that was on his floor. Boots thundered and two more guys with what looked like AR-15s came up the staircase. They jabbered at each other while I lowered the trapdoor, careful not to let it make any noise.

  In an odd way, their activity seemed ordinary, as if they had real business in our courthouse. Had they not been dressed in ass
ault gear and carrying guns, the ringing phones, talking, and activity would have appeared normal.

  It sounded like they had my family and the hostages in the Grand Jury room on the third floor. I could see no way down without getting shot. I needed another way, but not the steps.

  Think out of the box, is what the Old Man used to say.

  Shoot my way down, or find a back door.

  An idea popped into my head, and it scared the daylights out of me. I slipped past the attic access and up the staircase and into the lantern dome. The room was even darker than before. The storm had intensified. Snow piled against the uninsulated glass.

  I wouldn’t have been able to see the Roman towers at the corners if the sensors hadn’t activated the floodlights that lit all four turrets with a soft, cotton glow.

  I tried to call Ethan again to let him know what I’d found out, but the phone made an irritating noise, telling me the lines were jammed. I stood there, indecisive. One solution would have been to get back into the attic and wait to hear from Ethan, but I’d eliminated that idea when I locked Arturo in.

  I couldn’t stay where I was for very long. Someone was bound to come up looking for the terrorist I’d killed, or at least they’d send another man up to the tower at some point. I was surprised they hadn’t done so already.

  That dumb idea surfaced again, itching like a fire-ant bite. I stared into the snow, trying not to be as impulsive as my son . . . who took after me.

  The layout of the building was the same on all floors, and I’d been in it enough to remember that there were conference rooms at every level in each of the four towers. If I could get into the one off the courtroom, I could come up behind the guards who would be watching the outside doors.

  Warm weather would’ve made it a simple matter to open the wooden casement window, lower myself to the roof’s ridgeline, work my way outward to a short intersecting ridge, then slide down the steep pitch to the turret’s window twenty feet away.

  But the weather was far from warm.

  Taking a deep breath, I put both hands on the window frame and pushed up.

  The intense cold poured inside like I’d opened a deep freeze. I stuck one leg outside and the frigid wind burned my exposed skin. I hoped the window on the turret above the Grand Jury room was unlocked.

  I’d been thinking about it long enough to change my mind.

  But I didn’t.

  “Well, hell.”

  The truth was that I didn’t know what I was doing, but at least I was doing something.

  Chapter 32

  Dale Marshall, a former college professor with a Ph.D. in Economics, addressed the assemblage in Chavez’s expansive living room. “This country operates on a tiny margin. Food stocks were once delivered every day to grocery stores, markets, and the big-box stores. Today, cutbacks due to roller-coastering gas prices have forced most carriers down to two deliveries per week in many cases. Some only once a week, excluding perishables.

  “Within days after the Ballard takeover, Mr. Chavez will announce the next target, which will be schools across the United States. Parents will panic at the threat of coordinated attacks on schools. They’ll pull their kids out and stay home.

  “People won’t go to work, and businesses will struggle to stay afloat. Planes won’t fly, product deliveries won’t be made, and that will include medicines. The American machine will grind to a halt. The stock market will reflect the fear, and the results will be total economic collapse. With that, the country’ll turn on those who are in charge.”

  “Thank you, Dale.” Marc Chavez set the empty glass on a napkin, being sure to square it with the edge of the table. “The first part of our plan was implemented when thousands of children and adults crossed the Rio Grande. That brought a great number of other . . . supporters. . . into this country, prepared to act when the time comes to wrest control from those who are failing us. It was because of your generosity that this has occurred.”

  Everyone in the room understood the reference. The first part of the plan was brilliant, because a bloodless invasion was happening right under the noses of the American public.

  Chavez sent people to Guatemala and El Salvador to pass the word that the United States would give amnesty to anyone under eighteen years of age. Amnistía became the key to admission, and soon thousands of young people materialized on the banks of the Rio Grande and crossed, seeking out and surrendering to Border Patrol agents using the magic word they’d been taught.

  “Amnistía!”

  The numbers soon overwhelmed the limited resources along the U.S.–Mexico border. While the agents were busy collecting and housing the children ranging in age from infants to nineteen-year-old gangsters, thousands of adults slipped through the net and into the country.

  As many as 10 percent were terrorists. Some of those “teenagers” were in fact hardened criminals who looked young, but were much, much older. “Relatives” picked them up, and they soon disappeared into the American fabric, formed into teams, and waited for orders.

  Chavez resisted the urge to spin his glass three more times. “Then, the people will be in charge, as outlined by our Constitution. We will return to a government led by the people and for the people, the people, the people . . .”

  Carlton Hayes, electrician by trade and the owner of the massive Hayes Electric Company, held up his Coors Light. “Casualties?” He was a strong believer in the Cause.

  “There will be casualties on both sides.” Chavez shrugged and with an effort, restrained himself from repeating the action twice more. “Collateral damage is always a price to be paid. The teams I have assembled are highly trained, but plans always change after the outset of an operation. Unforeseen circumstances might result in casualties, and we can’t help that. If you’re talking about our people, they are prepared to sacrifice themselves, if necessary, for the Cause.”

  Chavez had no intention of telling them the plan in its entirety. His hand-chosen leader’s sanity was questionable at best. Chavez suspected that Lorenzo DeVaca was a sociopathic serial killer looking for a unique opportunity to satisfy his needs. Chavez planned to fund DeVaca’s bloodlust with a guarantee that the next assignment would have a wider sweep with deadlier results.

  He watched DeVaca, knees together to support the plate, wipe his mouth with a linen napkin. Their eyes met, and DeVaca gave an infinitesimal nod.

  Chapter 33

  My breath fogged as the heavy snow stuck to my clothes. I straddled the windowsill above the ridge on the mansard-style pitched roof several feet below. If I lost my balance and fell the wrong direction, the sharp slant would result in a long, long drop with a very sudden stop. There weren’t even any shrubs along the foundation to break my fall.

  I’m gonna be white-headed before this is over.

  There wasn’t much choice. I adjusted the H&K under my arm and the strap on the pack full of ammo. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I wriggled outside. The ridge was farther than I imagined, so I shortened the distance by hanging by my hands from the sill. I dug into the deep seam between the stone blocks with the edge of my boots. Leather soles aren’t designed for climbing, and the slick bottom added to the problems.

  Everything went haywire from the minute I turned loose. An explosion somewhere in the building startled me, causing my foot to slip when I shoved off. Twisting in the air, I hoped to straddle the ridgeline like the Lone Ranger dropping onto Silver.

  I missed like a big dog.

  I bet my midair twist looked more like a rag doll falling from the window. Landing hard on my chest, I folded over the frozen ridgeline like a sock over a bedstead. It sounded to me like somebody had dropped a calf on the roof.

  The air was thick with snow crystals. My lungs burned, making me cough. The wind howled, and snow blew down my neck. I couldn’t get any traction with my leather soles, and ran in place on the metal roof like a cartoon character.

  Gripping with my arms and grunting and cussing, I gained enough purchase to swing o
ne leg over the ridgeline.

  I didn’t have time to rest and congratulate myself on still being alive. I couldn’t stay there much longer. The wind cut right through my shirt and khakis. My hands were numb, and my face prickled as the icy crystals hit bare skin. I regretted not remembering the gloves in the coat I’d left with Arturo. I scooted a few inches at a time toward the edge of the roof like a tenderfoot adjusting himself in a saddle. Holding all my weight like a gymnast on a pommel horse, I twisted, threw my leg over, and settled again to ooch and scooch along the ridgeline to its terminus.

  The turret was as close as it was gonna get when I pulled myself into position. Freezing, I swung the off leg over and let go. The slide was short and fast. I hit the turret wall with both feet at the same time. I grunted upright and stood, bracing one boot on the icy roof and the other in the valley.

  The sill on the turrets’ double-hung window was thick with snow. I started to knock the glass in with the butt of the telescoping stock but stopped when my old daddy’s voice spoke up in my head.

  Keep it simple, stupid. Check the obvious first.

  When I rubbed the pane clean, I saw the window was unlocked. I thumped the frame with the heel of my hands a couple of times to break it loose. When I pushed upward, my right foot slipped and I fell, cussin’ a blue streak.

  I clawed back upright, heart pounding like the first time Kelly asked me to go out with her. Steady once again, I lodged the heels of my unfeeling hands against the top rail of the lower sash and pushed upward. Nothing moved but my feet on the slippery roof. I was afraid the window was painted shut from the inside. If that were the case, I’d have to break the window after all. I didn’t want to do that because it would make too much noise.

  Like I’d been quiet as a church mouse up until then.

  Whimpering with frustration, I slapped the sash upward. Ice flaked away, but it moved about an eighth of an inch. I popped it again, planted my numb feet best I could, and pushed hard.