The Surge - 03

by Joe Nobody

  The still-shaky model tried to laugh, but it was a forced effort, “Lack of self-confidence? Now I know you’re pulling my leg, Zachariah Bass. Are you going to catch Vincent? Tell me you are. I need to hear that about now.”

  Zach hesitated, unsure that contacting her was such a great idea. The situation was, however, dire. “Actually, that’s why I called you. I was hoping you might be able to help me – just one last time.”

  “Is anybody going to try and kidnap me or start shooting?” she asked in a tone that made it clear she wasn’t joking this time.

  “No. I promise. I need you to think back to Mr. Carson’s office and your visits. Was there anything at all of a personal nature? Any pictures on his desk? Did he ever talk about his life away from the bank? Wife? Kids? Anything that might help me figure out where he is at the moment?”

  Chey paused, her mind whipping back in time to the two visits she’d made to the bank. Finally she answered, “Hmmm … yeah, I think so. He had some trophies in his office. Golf trophies. There was a picture of him standing with a bunch of other stuffy-looking, old men on a golf course.”

  Zach thought out loud, “It’s almost dark, so I don’t think he’s playing golf.”

  His comment made Cheyenne laugh. “Most country clubs have bars, Zach. Remember? One of my first jobs was driving around one of those little drink carts and letting strange men in terrible clothes flirt with me as I sold them expensive beer and peanuts. The bar inside the clubhouse was always packed, even after dark.”

  Smiling, the ranger commented, “You know, you might just be onto something. Thank you. I promise, as soon as the dust settles on this case, I owe you a nice dinner.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I do,” Zach replied. “You’ve done great, Chey. I’m extremely proud of you. Texas is in your debt.”

  The compliment seemed to bolster the lady’s mood. Zach chatted for a few more minutes as his pickup rolled away the miles. He felt better after they had talked.

  Next, he dialed Sam, a little surprised when his partner answered on the second ring. “Where are you?” she asked immediately.

  “I’m on my way to Abilene to question Mr. Carson. How are you feeling?”

  Sam was all business, “They say the bullet nicked my upper femur, but the bone isn’t broken. They also say I’m going to have a scar. There goes next year’s bikini season. They claim I’ll be walking with a limp in three weeks, and completely healed in three months.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Zach smiled. “I thought you were facing at least two months in a cast, and a lot of physical therapy. I was wondering how in the hell the medical staff was going to deal with your grumpy ass for that length of time.”

  “Grumpy? You’re damn right, I’m grumpy. I’m not happy about this, not at all. One of the most important manhunts in history is going down, and I’m sitting here in this hospital bed being poked, prodded, and questioned. Can you swing by and kidnap me?”

  “I’m already in enough trouble,” Zach replied with a chuckle. He was relieved, Sam’s temper indicating that she was feeling better. “And if we don’t find Mr. Carson soon, I think my hot water is going to get a little hotter.”

  The ranger went on to tell Sam about his conversation with Chey. The lady ranger’s response surprised him. “Hold on a second while I get my laptop booted up. They have pretty good Wi-Fi here at the medical torture facility.”

  A few moments went by before Sam’s voice sounded over the airwaves. “There are four private country clubs with golf courses in Abilene. Hold on a second.… I’m looking up which one is closest to his house.”

  Zach could hear her fingers pecking at the computer’s keyboard. “Oh, this is promising. He actually lives on the seventh hole of the Fairway Heights Country Club. That kind of narrows it down, don’t you think?”

  “Damn, Ranger Temple, good work. Give me the address. I’m rolling into Abilene now.”

  A minute later, Zach was punching the address into the pickup’s GPS. He was close.

  Back to Sam, he advised, “I’m not far away. Do me a favor and call the major. Let him know what you found. If you can’t reach him, call Abilene PD and have them send me some backup.”

  “Will do. Be careful, Zach. These assholes are playing for keeps. My leg and I will testify to that fact under oath.”

  “I will,” he promised. “I’ll call you later and keep you in the loop.”

  Chapter 7

  Zach arrived at the golf course a few minutes later, well after the last light of dusk had faded.

  The grounds and clubhouse were fancy enough, well-manicured and plush just like he expected. There were a handful of expensive automobiles scattered around the parking lot. The Texan drove slowly up and down the rows, finding the Mercedes registered to Mr. Carson parked in the third row. “Gotcha,” the ranger whispered.

  Zach’s first instinct was to march right in, flash his badge and ask for Mr. Carson. As he rolled the pickup into a parking spot near the main entrance, he decided a more reserved tactic might be a better fit for the circumstances.

  Maybe he would saunter in, belly up to the bar and order a cold beer. He was sure the barkeep would be happy to point out the banker. It might be interesting to see who was a drinking buddy with Mr. Carson.

  The firefight on the River Walk, however, gave the ranger cause for reserve. While Zach was reasonably certain Carson was nothing more than a meek, mild-mannered financier, he’d already been surprised once. That wasn’t going to happen again.

  He would wait for the local officers to arrive, place a couple of Abilene’s finest in front, a couple more in back, and then step in and quietly ask for Mr. Carson to accompany him outside. From there, the next step would depend on the banker-pimp’s level of cooperation and overall attitude.

  As he sat waiting, two pairs of headlights entered the parking lot. The cars pulled into the row behind the ranger, and for a moment, Zach thought the local badges had finally arrived.

  Instead, several people began exiting the vehicles, the party including a gaggle of children accompanied by adults carrying bunches of helium balloons and wrapped gifts. Someone was going to have a birthday party at the club. Wonderful.

  Another, and then a fourth car moved in, all dislodging their contributions to the festivities. An oversized, chocolate sheet cake arrived shortly afterward.

  “Shit,” Zach mumbled, having counted a least a dozen youngsters and half that many adults. It was never good to have a bunch of little ones around. That was the worst-case scenario if someone got trigger-happy.

  The next arrival caught the ranger’s eye for a different reason. It was an expensive 4-door, Jaguar sedan that was clean as a whistle, including the brightly polished chrome wheels. Zach had always thought the brand produced extraordinarily good-looking cars. “Out of reach on a ranger’s salary,” he mumbled, admiring the sleek lines and fancy cat on the hood. “Maybe Mr. Carson would give me a loan,” he grunted.

  Unlike the previous arrivals, kids and presents didn’t come bounding out of the Jag. No one did. The British sedan parked, turned off its headlights, and just sat in an eerie silence. Given the low light and tinted windows, the ranger had no idea who, or how many, were inside.

  “This must be the hot spot in Abilene tonight,” Zach complained.

  Thinking to stretch his legs and run the Jag’s plates, Zach reached for the door handle. Movement from the high-end sedan stopped him cold.

  Two men exited, and they didn’t look like golfers. Or did they?

  In the lot’s overhead lights, Zach got the impression of Latino heritage. His mind went into analysis paralysis.

  Racial profiling was just wrong. Yet, cartel shooters were almost always Latino. Of course, there were wealthy individuals with darker complexions who could afford to join a country club. He was a ranger, not a racist.

  By the time the two young, stout-looking men were entering the front of the clubhouse, Zach had gathered enough details that
his threat alarms were screaming like air raid sirens. These two were displaying the same “gangsterisms” broadcast by the men who had just killed Gus and wounded Sam.

  There was no sign of the local backup. The ranger had to make a decision and do so right now.

  Reaching into the console, he palmed a handful of pistol magazines and dumped them in his jacket pocket. He had no proof of any wrongdoing or intent, so the M4 carbine, locked in the pickup’s bed, wouldn’t get an invitation to the party.

  Exiting the truck, Zach hustled for the front door, whispering, “I wonder if you are here to kill, kidnap, or help Carson escape?”

  He entered a large veranda with high ceilings and plush carpeting. A series of doorways lined the super-sized hall. Zach observed the broad shoulders of the two potential hitmen pacing toward the back of the building. They turned a corner and disappeared from his sight.

  Walking briskly to close the distance, the ranger passed restrooms, an unmarked closet, the closed pro shop, and a banquet room full of singing children and birthday gifts. A sign with an arrow pointed toward Mulligan’s Bar and Grill. Soft music and the sound of a woman laughing drifted down the main corridor.

  As he surged to catch up, Zach pulled his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. When the dispatcher asked about his emergency, the ranger’s response was hushed, but urgent. “This is Texas Ranger Bass at the Fairway Heights Country Club. Please inform the patrol officers on their way to my location that I am inside the facility. Ask them to station officers at the front and back. Additional suspects in a late model Jaguar sedan have arrived on scene. I can’t wait any longer.”

  Zach disconnected the call before the dispatcher could ask any questions or to confirm his identify. There just wasn’t time.

  The sounds of people eating, having fun, and enjoying a few libations grew louder as Zach made his way to the back of the facility. Another sign, identical to the first, pointed toward the watering hole. The ranger also learned it was happy hour, and that there was a special on pork chops with a side of mashed potatoes and a nice looking dinner salad.

  Zach approached a wide, arched entrance. The opening was decorated with a small wooden sign that confirmed he had indeed arrived at Mulligans. The smiling young lady at the counter, next to the stack of menus and bowl of breath mints, confirmed that fact.

  “How many, sir?” the hostess greeted with a warm voice.

  “I was supposed to meet Mr. Carson here this evening. Could you show me to his table?”

  “Sure,” the young woman responded with the prerequisite smile. “You just missed the other gentlemen.”

  The hairs on the back of Zach’s neck stood straight up. “The two men who were immediately in front of me?”

  “Yes, I just seated them,” she grinned. “Right this way, please.”

  Zach flashed his badge while dragging the girl out of the doorway. “I’m a Texas Ranger. How many people are in the bar?”

  The hostess was stunned, her eyes darting between Zach’s badge and his eyes. “Ummm … I … err….”

  Zach didn’t have time, “How many?”

  She looked like a scream was forming in her throat, but then she got herself under control. In a voice three octaves higher than normal, she squeaked, “About 15 … plus the bartender and waitress … I think … I’m … that’s it, I think.”

  Zach tried to make his face friendly, yet confident. “There are some Abilene police officers arriving out front. Tell them to get everyone out of this building right now, and do so quietly – especially those children. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go! Hurry!” the ranger hissed.

  “Okay.”

  Zach drew his weapon and entered the darkened interior. He popped his head around the corner, taking a mental picture of the main dining room.

  After a second, quick snapshot, he not only knew the layout but also had identified Mr. Carson and his two guests. From the look on the banker’s face, his visitors hadn’t been expected.

  Holstering his weapon, Zach stepped calmly to a nearby table that was close to the entrance, gave him a good angle of observation, and provided a clear field of fire.

  One of the Latino men was seated beside the pale financier, the other directly across. The man closest to Carson was tight in the banker’s face, and his expression wasn’t friendly. The other guest kept his hands beneath the table. Zach was pretty sure the second man was holding a gun.

  On a table next to the ranger was a nearly empty mug of beer. Zach noted it was a hefty container, built of solid-looking, thick glass. After casting another glance at the Carson party, he extended his arm and retrieved the heavy vessel.

  With his pistol in one hand and his beer in the other, Zach rose slowly and walked toward the banker’s little powwow. He was careful not to make eye contact, and even managed to pause half way there and look around as if he was trying to locate the restroom.

  That was when he spied the gun pointed at the banker’s stomach.

  After two more steps, it was obvious Mr. Carson was being interrogated. Vincent, no doubt, was as nervous as a whore in the front pew. He probably wanted to know how the rangers had picked up his trail, and since it had been Carson’s idea to hook up with Chey, the matchmaker was a logical place to start.

  Three steps away, Zach could hear the frightened banker’s voice whine, “But I said nothing.… I swear it.”

  Two steps away, and he heard the Latino say, “It had to be you! Admit it, and we will show mercy.”

  One step away, and the man in charge of Vincent’s team nodded to his partner, “Kill this swine.”

  Zach lunged, swinging the mug with all of his considerable strength, aiming for the back of the gunman’s head.

  There was a sickening thud of impact, and then shards of glass were flying through the air. Zach knocked the man completely out of his chair, the gun rattling across the floor.

  The man next to Carson was quick … damn quick. Before Zach could recover his balance, Mr. Mercy was drawing what appeared to be another of those fucking Glock 18s.

  Still off balance and surprised by the speed of the henchman’s reaction, Zach snap fired his .45 sending an ear-shattering wave of audible pain throughout the enclosed space. People began screaming, but no one could hear them.

  The ranger’s slug hit Mr. Mercy in the arm, just above the elbow. Before Zach could regroup, the target ducked behind Mr. Carson, spoiling the follow on shot.

  The Latino enforcer rolled across the dark floor, coming up in the perfect shooting position. Zach was moving as well, trying to get an angle. A blistering stream of hot lead came pouring out of the Glock, six or more shots tearing into the restaurant’s wall right where the ranger had been a tenth of a second before.

  The sub-machine gun’s rate of fire caused the cartel henchman’s barrel to rise, giving Zach a blink of an opening to center the post and squeeze off two rounds.

  A pair of dark spots appeared on the chest of the thug’s white shirt, but he didn’t go down. Zach, stunned, dove hard for the ground as another burst ripped through the air so close the ranger could feel the concussion of each 120-grain hunk of death.

  “Body Armor!” Zach thought, rolling across the floor, chased by the incoming hailstorm of lead.

  The gunman’s burst missed Zach, but Carson wasn’t so lucky. Caught in the line of fire, the banker fell, clutching his gut and howling like he was being eaten alive.

  Zach finished his roll behind a table that had been overturned as the grill’s patrons fled in panic. The ranger doubted the inch-thick surface material would stop the Glock’s projectiles, and wasn’t going to wait around to find out. No sooner than he had righted himself, he reared like a striking rattlesnake and fired two rounds at Mr. Mercy’s head. Both missed. The ranger wasn’t the only one who understood that constant motion was critical to surviving a gunfight.

  Down to one round, Zach reached for a fresh mag, cringing in anticipation of the Glock’s next outburst. Several
shots rang out as Zach slammed home a fresh box of lead pills, but there was something different about the discharges.

  Again, Zach rose from behind the table, sweeping for a target. The cartel assassin was down, jerking in sharp spasms of agony. Two of the bar’s patrons stood nearby, both pointing smoking pistols at the dying man.

  “Texas Ranger!” Zach shouted as both of the strangers moved their weapons in his direction. “Texas Ranger!” he screamed again, waving his badge above the table.

  “Okay, Ranger,” one of them answered. “We won’t shoot you.”

  Not sure what was going on, Zach peeked and then ducked immediately. When no one fired, he rose quickly and moved to kick the dead Latino’s weapon out of reach – just in case.

  “Freeze! Police! Drop the Weapon!” came other voices, several uniformed officers rushing up with guns drawn, covering the two bar patrons as well as Zach.

  It took a moment before the cops acknowledged Zach’s badge. The two civilians set down their pistols and raised their hands, “We were helping the ranger,” both of them started babbling as the cops moved in, screaming for them to get on the ground.

  “They’re okay,” Zach shouted over the ruckus, moving to stop the Abilene PD. “They saved my ass,” he continued, waving his badge for all to see.

  After making sure no one else was going to get shot or arrested, Zach moved toward Carson. It was clear the man was close to his final breath.

  “Who are you?” the banker managed between labored breaths.

  “I’m Ranger Bass, Mr. Carson. I tried to stop them.”

  “I know,” the dying man whispered. “I saw that.”

  Zach had to wait as a spasm of painful coughs racked the wounded man’s frame, a small mist of red now staining his lips and chin. “College Station,” the banker moaned. “It’s all about College Station.”

  “What?” Zach frowned, not sure what Carson was trying to tell him.