by Joe Nobody
Despite a do-or-die work ethic and many years of barely scraping by, father and son made the journey month after month. Sometimes Silas justified the excursions for other, less logical reasons. Parental guilt topped that list.
Rebecca had died when Mikey was a baby, succumbing to phenomena before Silas realized just how sick his wife had become. That nightmarish episode had started with a simple, seemingly harmless cough that wouldn’t go away.
“It’s nothing, Silas,” he remembered her sweet voice declaring over and again. “It’s just a bug in my chest. I’ll be fine. Between my regular chores and taking care of a newborn, there’s no time to go to the doctor. Besides, what’s he going to prescribe? Rest? Stay off my feet? That just isn’t in the program!”
A week later, the normally industrious mother couldn’t get out of bed. By the time Silas carried her to the truck and drove like a madman for El Paso, she had progressed to the point of no return.
Like it was yesterday, Silas could still remember her last request. “Take care of little Michael,” she had ordered in a weak voice. “Promise me you’ll give him every chance at happiness.”
Silas McCann had never forgiven himself, and he had never broken a promise.
He had raised Michael the best he could. Silas read to his son every night, no matter how blistered or tired he was. He had demanded the rebellious teen attend school until graduation, ignoring the lad’s desire to stay home and help on the ranch. Homework was always a higher priority than tending to livestock. Later, a satellite dish brought the outside world a little closer, despite the crippling expense.
Then there were the monthly escapades for the father and son. No matter how critical the workload back home, regardless of how tight the money situation, Silas made sure to include some event or activity to expand Michael’s horizons.
Some efforts were meager, like a trip to the zoo or a few hours at a movie theater. Other weekends, Silas splurged on a side trip to Carlsbad Caverns or Big Bend National Park. Once they ventured to Houston and attended the rodeo. Another journey had them in Dallas where the wide-eyed youth cheered at a Cowboys’ football game.
As the years passed, Mike grew into a young man that made his father’s chest swell with pride. Silas often looked to the heavens, thankful he could give Becky a glowing report. “He’s strong and honest. He works hard. He’s becoming a man you would be proud to call your son.”
On the ranch, they toiled side by side, enduring the sweltering heat and unforgiving terrain. Mike pulled his weight, and over time, the McCann place began generating a modest profit.
Michael introduced the world wide web to his father and convinced the old man to keep costs low by having critical items delivered to the ranch. The son learned to monitor commodity trends, often triggering the sale of their cattle at peak pricing. Using a home computer, he purchased feed from regional suppliers and reduced their expenses even further. Before long, the kid had established banking relations and was managing a cash flow that promised expansion.
By the time Michael could legally buy a beer, the two men were as close as any father and son walking the earth.
Michael’s largest contribution, however, had been to organize their neighbors. All the ranchers west of the Pecos struggled from time to time, and given his success with his father’s operation, the tech-savvy son had soon formed the West Texas Cattlemen’s Co-op.
The new group purchased everything from fence posts to feed in bulk, rented their own warehouse, and coordinated deliveries to reduce costs. They purchased insurance collectively, developed preferential financial relationships due to their combined size, and most importantly, worked together politically so that the men in the state capital heard their voices loud and clear.
Now, the trips to El Paso were more for tradition and entertainment than any specific need for supplies. While the internet and rural delivery services might have eliminated the necessity of their travels, both men still looked forward to their monthly mini-vacations.
They had arrived just that morning, Silas pointing out the demonstration to his son as they navigated through the city streets. “Wonder what’s going on?”
Their mild curiosity was quickly pushed aside, however, Michael having had his eye on a new hat since their last visit to El Paso’s shopping district.
Once that purchase had been made, the duo decided to walk a few blocks and see what all the excitement was about. They had quickened their pace after hearing the shouts and screams generated by Bo’s shit-balloons.
Rounding a building at the corner of Kansas Avenue, Mike’s new hat blew off just as the first firecracker detonated less than a block away.
The explosion’s boom, modified by the metal garbage container and bouncing off the surrounding buildings, caused both the police and the protestors to believe someone was discharging a firearm. Dozens of cops drew their weapons, some diving to the pavement, others rushing for the nearest cover.
As he dashed back toward his van, Bo felt a deep sense of satisfaction in the result of his efforts. With everyone trying to escape his make-believe shooter, the brewing riot would escalate into a frenzy. What he hadn’t counted on was the fact that the hornet’s nest he’d just kicked was in West Texas.
Men and women on both sides of the protest were armed; and given the violence-induced adrenaline surging through their systems, concealed weapons appeared from purses and belt holsters all over the area. The police, already feeling as though they were under attack, were on edge.
A mere 30 feet separated the visiting father and son from the trash can housing Bo’s noisemakers. The firecracker’s first pop echoed inside the metal container, exaggerating the sound of the blast. Silas’ first thought was that he and his son were the targets of some brash, city-slicker criminal.
The McCanns, well aware of El Paso’s violent crime rate, carried pistols during their visits. Like so many rural residents, venturing to the big city invoked a heightened sense of caution as compared to their quietly rural, sparsely populated environment.
Silas immediately dove for cover, rolling into the street behind a parked car. A moment later, Mike joined his dad, both ranchers drawing their firearms.
At that same moment, a police officer spotted both men palming iron and ducking under a vehicle. Given the angle, confusion, smoke, and reverberating noise, the cop thought he’d identified the shooters. He shouted for them to drop their weapons.
Terrified protestors darted in every direction, many of them screaming and yelling, panic quickly escalating to hysteria. Before Bo’s fireworks had sounded their last report, chaos and confusion were in control of Kansas Avenue. Neither father, nor son, heard the officer’s commands.
Silas saw the first 9mm bullet tear into Mike’s shoulder, a look of surprise and pain flashing across the younger McCann’s face. Overwhelming, rage-fueled thoughts instantly filled the father’s head, the image of his son’s blood sending the tough rancher’s brain into survival mode. On pure instinct, he spun and fired three shots at the fuzzy outline of a man with a gun.
The El Paso officer’s Kevlar vest stopped the first round.
The second missed its target by less than an inch.
The third shot hit the cop in the neck, expanded, and destroyed two vertebrae as it exited the already-dead officer’s body.
Before Mr. McCann could even blink, two more men fired in his direction. It was all too quick for his brain to identify good guys and bad guys, uniforms and badges, right from wrong. All that both ranchers understood was that someone was trying to assassinate them. They were freeborn Americans. They would fight.
Mike, despite his oozing shoulder and searing pain, did what he had always done – pitched in to help his father without pause or doubt. There, prone on a dirty street, utterly confused and outraged, the two ranchers returned fire.
The police weren’t stupid. After watching one of their own go down in a hail of bullets, most of the officers remained behind cover, exposing on
ly their arms while chancing the occasional shot toward the men who had killed a cop. Relatively concealed as they were, there was no way the McCann men could see their uniforms.
More and more officers arrived, swelling the blue ranks and increasing the number of rounds now impacting in and around the McCann’s cover. Serious amounts of lead rained down on the two ranchers, biting splinters of sheet metal flying off the car they were trying to use as protection. Stinging chunks of pavement created a blinding haze, reducing their visibility even further.
The maelstrom of bullets forced them deeper under the rear bumper of car, the gas tank now above their heads. Silas was hit in the foot. A second later, Mike took another gunshot in the leg.
Both McCanns carried the same weapon, a 9mm Glock that housed 15 rounds of hollow-point lead. Thinking the pistols would never be used for more than to scare off potential muggers, neither cattleman carried a spare magazine.
Silas began shooting randomly, his tortured, overwhelmed brainpower consumed with nothing more than keeping the killers away from his wounded son until help could arrive. It seemed like only a few seconds passed before Silas’ weapon locked back empty. Thinking to warn Mike, he rolled toward his son just as another round tore through the younger rancher’s body.
A look of horror appeared on Michael’s face, his body convulsing in a series of uncontrollable jerks. “Oh, damn,” he grunted as he met his dad’s gaze.
Dropping his pistol, Silas reached for his only son. “How bad?” was all the father could think to say.
“I know what you did for me, Dad,” gasped the wounded man. “I love you,” Mike managed weakly, just as the light faded from his eyes.
Not since his wife had passed away in a nearby hospital had Silas’ eyes filled with tears. Pulling his son close for the final time, he glanced toward the heavens and cried, “What have I done, Rebecca? Oh, God…. What have I done?”
Despite the annoying discomfort, Griffin’s new Bluetooth police radio was paying dividends. Monitoring the local law enforcement frequencies, the marshal listened intently as the protest erupted into a riot. The continuing stream of near-panicked reports blasting through his earbud, combined with the chorus of sirens outside, made it easy to convince Kit that riding out the storm in the courthouse was the smart move.
Huddling in the breakroom, the duo had spent nearly 45 minutes over bitter coffee when Griffin’s finger sought the speaker in his ear.
Carson watched as a pained expression fell over her friend’s face. “An officer has been shot,” he began, repeating the foul news shared across the airwaves. “And he didn’t make it.”
“As part of the demonstration? Did they catch the shooter?” the DOJ Attorney asked with concern.
“Yes, one in custody, one on the way to the morgue,” Griffin answered dejectedly. Carson rose from the table, her eyes immediately darting to the door.
“You are not in the FBI anymore,” the marshal warned, reaching to intercept his friend. “The locals can handle this.”
Smiling sheepishly, she nodded and replied, “Sorry. There is a lot of truth to that old saying, ‘Once a cop, always a cop.’”
Given she was no longer about to rush headlong into the fray, Griffin relaxed, his attention returning to the relentless torrent of police radio traffic. Less than 30 seconds later, he glanced up to find the attorney’s curious expression waiting for more information.
“What? Do I look like a newscaster?” Griffin teased.
“Hell, no! Your ugly mug would never make it on TV. Now, give me an update, or give me the radio,” Carson retorted.
“Not much to report… I’m listening to some El Paso lieutenant berate his men. Sounds like someone might have compromised the crime scene. Other than that, there is not much going on. They are waiting for the bomb squad.”
“Bomb squad?” Carson snapped. “There are explosives involved?”
Shaking his head, the marshal responded, “Not really. They think someone just set off some firecrackers in a trash can, near the vicinity of the shooting. The lieutenant wants the explosives team to handle the forensics.”
It was all too much for Carson, the Assistant US attorney bolting for the door, her face making it clear that the crime scene outside was her intended destination.
“Where are you going?” Griffin protested, rising to his feet in a flash and moving to cut her off.
“There is a good chance this case will end up on my desk,” Carson countered. “Capital murder is a federal matter. I want to get down there before some pissed off cop compromises my evidence.”
Griffin started to protest but then shrugged and moved out of the way to let his friend pass. He had known Carson since her rookie year at the FBI and realized that trying to stop the determined woman would be a waste of time and energy. Still, he couldn’t help but rattle her chain. “I thought by now that righteous, super-cop attitude of yours would have worn off. Most people realize after a couple of years that they can’t save the world,” Griffin mumbled as he hustled to keep up with the prosecutor.
The pair exited the elevator on the first floor before Griffin tried again to stop her. “The El Paso PD probably isn’t going to appreciate your sticking your federal nose in their local business.”
“We had two demonstrations, one supporting undocumented criminals, the other directly opposed to that position. No matter who fired the first shot, this tragedy will no doubt be prosecuted as a federal case, either as a hate crime or a matter involving illegals. Add in capital murder, and I think I am fully justified sticking my nose or my foot anywhere I want.”
Griffin didn’t bother to debate any further. Carson had earned a reputation, both at the FBI and the Department of Justice for being tenacious, unrelenting, and pig-headed.
As they hurried out the front doors of the courthouse, Storm recalled the first time he had met the young FBI agent. It had been a high-profile case in which the chairman of a large, Midland, Texas oil company had come home early and surprised three, armed kidnappers who were in the process of abducting the wealthy executive’s daughter. Being chased from his own home by gunfire, the father fled, taking cover behind the felons’ vehicle idling in the driveway. Opening their driver’s door so he could better shield his body, he extracted his phone to dial 9-1-1. The call with the dispatcher had just connected when he noticed the SUV’s keys dangling in the ignition. This ought to slow you down, he mused, pocketing the ring.
Griffin had arrived in Midland early for a routine prisoner transfer, opting to share a beer with an old Marine buddy who now served with the local sheriff’s department. Kidnappings weren’t an everyday occurrence in the small Texas community, so the local authorities quickly called in every available peace officer. Arriving at the scene, Griffin joined a mixed-bag of state troopers, deputies, and Midland officers securing a perimeter.
“Hey, lady! Get the hell out of here! This is a police matter, and you need to move to a secure area,” a deputy had scolded after noticing Carson hurrying toward the location.
Griff had glanced over his shoulder to see a young woman exiting a lemon-yellow jeep, the vehicle’s blinding paint job the same hue as her blonde hair. Adorned in workout clothing, she appeared to be a pubescent gym rat, probably a curious spectator attracted by the flashing cruiser lights.
To say the veteran marshal was surprised when the young woman produced an FBI shield would be an understatement. “J. Edgar is rolling over in his grave,” Griffin remembered whispering.
What made things worse on that sweltering day just over six years ago, was that Carson topped the law enforcement food chain, and soon took charge of the entire scene.
What happened next would be federal law enforcement lore, FBI urban legend retold at every academy graduation, Medal of Honor presentation, and retirement celebration forever more.
Carson acquired a bullhorn and convinced the kidnappers to let her drop a cell phone on the front porch. “If you are going to
get out of this alive, we need to talk,” she informed the three desperate men inside.
Against everyone’s advice, the FBI agent approached the front of the home unarmed and with only a T-shirt protecting her vital organs. After depositing her own mobile device on the porch, Carson walked back to the police perimeter like she was strolling through the park on a sunny day. “She’s either as stupid as an Army mule, or she has a pair of balls the size of Vermont,” one of the state troopers had commented.
Now able to converse with the kidnappers, Carson wasted no time beginning negotiations. Griffin was instantly impressed.
“So, you’re afraid that we are going to shoot you no matter what?” Carson quipped to the criminal on the other end of the call. “I don’t blame you for that. There are a lot of very pissed-off cops out here, including a bunch of Texas Rangers who look like they have itchy trigger fingers to me. There’s only one way I can see you walking out of that house and living more than a few seconds… you need a cop for a hostage, not that skinny, little, rich girl. Nobody out here likes her dad much anyway. He’s a bit of an ass from what I hear.”
For over an hour, the conversation continued, Carson’s logic and youthful, honest voice maintaining its smooth, unwavering tone. “Trade a cop for the girl. We won’t shoot another cop. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out and still draw breath.”
Finally, the kidnappers agreed, but with demands of their own. They would swap an officer for their hostage, but the cop had to come to them stripped down to his underwear. “No problem,” Carson replied. “I’ll be right there.”
Again, the older officers surrounding the FBI “kid” protested, pointing out how dangerous such a move was. “What if they keep the new hostage and the girl? What if they kill you both? What if….”
“The absolute, worst case scenario is leaving that scared, helpless child alone in there to die,” Carson replied, unbuttoning her shirt. “If anybody has a better idea, now is the time to speak up.”
No one offered a better plan, and a moment later, Carson removed her workout sweats. The maneuver produced the third major surprise of the afternoon.
