by Reed Hill
Doyle scoffed and wondered if she was a mass communication student at the university with that cheesy grin at the end of the broadcast.
“What’s funny, Mr. Doyle?” Lopez said.
“Nothing,” Doyle said rapidly, “she just seemed a little amateurish. You’d think CNN could afford someone a bit more seasoned that that.”
“I can’t believe she made it,” Lopez had a look of astonishment.
“Well,” Doyle allowed an arched eyebrow, “they didn’t tell us that, exactly.”
A page wheeled around, “But why would they lie?”
“They didn’t lie.” Doyle looked at the young intern. “They let us think whatever we are disposed to think. They’re buying time.”
“For what?” the young woman asked.
“To think and plan.” Chase wandered over and leaned on the table. “To manage the story and find an angle that they can work the politics on.”
“That’s what we need to be doing,” Doyle said, gaining a nod from Chase. As Doyle paced away from the TV, he noticed the attention of the gal from Justice was focused on him, so he smiled broadly. To his surprise, she smiled in return.
“Doyle, Lopez,” Chase barked. “We need to huddle.” Chase stalked toward the pile of papers and files at the head of the dining room table, “We need to get out ahead of this thing.”
“Yeah,” said Doyle. “This is a game-changer.”
Chase turned from them and wandered back to his pile of papers, “And the clock is running.”
*****
Three Eagles Ranch
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 –8:10 am
Brodie took Kirk Thompson and Mark Simmons out to “the shed” to look over some of what Sara called Brodie’s “toys.” What he called the shed was in actuality more of a workshop, which was attached to the big stable that housed their horses. With its ten-foot high, twelve-inch thick concrete-stucco wall, it might as well have been Fort Knox. The shallow roofline matched the high Spanish red clay roof of the barn, and made for a nice getaway for Brodie when he needed a quiet moment. Like the house, the barn and the stable were made in the Spanish mission style and featured arches all along the edges that faced the house. On the summer days, you could see the reflection of the barn in the pool from the patio as the breeze cooled you with the scent of apples from the orchard and the marigolds and plumerias that ringed the large vegetable garden. Certain times of the year you would catch the scents of pineapple sage, lemon basil, jasmine and rosemary. Brodie felt truly blessed to have this place and wished his parents were still alive to visit them and the kids.
After breakfast, the group had decided to disperse and meet back here in a couple hours to give guys a chance to check in with their families, as well as get whatever supplies they might need – by supplies most of the crew meant guns and ammo. If these bands of thugs had made it to Del Rio by 6:30, who knew how close they were to their homes in the hill country, and Brodie meant to protect their homes and families, as well as those of their neighbors and communities if needed. Several in the club had been reserve deputies in the past, and Sheriff Bosco had been a guest at the club for a shooting event a few years ago.
Brodie opened the deadbolt lock on the red steel door and they walked. The right side of the twenty by sixteen room was dominated by huge workbench with three re-loading stations for rifle, pistol and shotgun. Behind was shelving which held various supplies and tools for a number of calibers and shot sizes. On the far wall, Brodie looked over his two large steel gun safes. Both of the black six-foot tall safes were ten-gauge steel with twelve 1.5” solid steel locking bolts. Each of the fire-rated safes had a combination lock and technically held forty-eight guns, but half that number was more realistic once the weapons were prepped and fully loaded. Next to this was a four-foot wide gray steel cabinet with double handles and a cheap key-lock. Brodie didn’t let many people in the shed, but Kirk and Mark were like brothers to him; in fact he was closer to them than he was his brother Duncan, who had moved to Virginia twenty years ago to attend Virginia Military Institute, married a belle and made Virginia his home.
The left wall was floor to ceiling shelving replete with all manner of camping and hunting gear, backpacks and range bags, gloves and hats, a myriad of holsters and nylon and plastic long gun cases. On the end was a horizontal closet pole with a wide variety of camouflage clothing, as well as several ghillie suits and shooting vests of different colors and textures. Brodie sighed, “I really need to spend an afternoon getting some of this junk organized.”
He paced over to the double-door steel cabinet, put his key in and turned the handle, revealing a huge inventory of boxed shells and pistol and rifle cartridges. Kirk Thompson grabbed the twelve -gauge pump shotgun above the door and checked to see if it was unloaded. Brodie said, “Go ahead and take a couple of boxes of twelve-gauge slugs and double-aught buck.” Grabbing the black range bag and flipping it to Kirk, Brodie unlocked the left hand side safe and opened the door as Simmons came over. “Kirk, throw in a couple boxes of 9mm and a couple boxes of .45 ACP,” Brodie said, grabbing his Glock 19 from the door prong on which it was hanging with a dozen friends of different makes and models. “What do you want, Mark? You know what I have and have shot most of them.”
“Give me the XDM .45 and any of the twelve-gauges,” Simmons said dryly. Brodie handed over the weapons and an extra stainless steel magazine for the Springfield semi-auto handgun.
“How about you Kirk?” Brodie said.
“I’ll take a 1911, either the Kimber or the Colt – doesn’t matter,” Kirk rifled through one of the shelves which held the knives and brush-whackers.
Brodie handed over the Colt 1911 and an extra mag for it. Kirk was a very good shot with a rifle, so Brodie handed one over as well, “Here, Kirk. You take the Tikka with the big Redfield scope, just in case we need to throw lead a long way.” Kirk admired the bolt-action with the matching matte black illuminated 40mm scope, as Brodie closed up the safe and cabinet.
“You think we’re going to need this stuff?” Simmons said.
“Pray we don’t,” said Brodie, “Take it in case we do. Better to have it and not need it, than the reverse.” I can’t believe it. Feels like we’re getting geared up for war. That concerned Brodie. He had gotten out the Army because he had become a reluctant warrior. Reluctant warriors got men killed. He had started off as one of the few gladiators who could strap on the modern day equivalent of bronze breastplates and greaves, hefting a short sword and spear to wade into the waves of blood and death. Somewhere along way – during the second Afghan deployment – Brodie had begun to feel that his humanity was slipping away, his conscience seeping out like a puncture in a life raft. Very much longer and he would have sunk into an abyss of self-destruction where courage, honor and duty began to give way to objectives, survival and killing. He didn’t want to turn into what he was becoming, so he’d punched out almost ten years ago and hadn’t looked back. I don’t want that stone-faced destroyer to come back. I fought hard to get him out of my life and he’s not welcome to return.
“Damn straight,” Kirk smiled big. “Throw in a box of .30-06, Mark.”
When Brodie turned and headed for the door, he grabbed a tan backpack from the wall pegs, and Kirk followed suit. He stopped and reached back, grabbing a decent set of hunting binoculars and motioned for Kirk to do the same. Mark was rifling through a box of holsters and found one, a cheap nylon Uncle Fred’s that looked like it would work.
“Go grab us a couple of waters from the garage fridge before we head out, while I lock up,” Brodie said fumbling for his keys. Kirk walked out holding a sixteen-inch sheathed kukri knife as well as a marine hunting knife with the six-inch straight blade. Brodie eyed the blades, “Good thinking.”
By the time Brodie locked up the shed and headed toward the garage, a couple of the guys were coming up the drive. He saw John Finnegan’s Ford F250 4x4 as well as Mac Harris’ lifted green Tahoe with the big brush guard. Behind them w
ere Charlie Duggan in his small SUV and Dennis Evans in his white Ford Expedition. Joe Calderon came rumbling in a moment later on his Harley Sportster and parked it in the shade of the big building.
Kirk emerged from the back of the garage just as a red Toyota Tacoma rolled down the gravel lane to the house. The guys got out of their vehicles and gathered around the front of the garage, and Mac Harris marched forward and extended his hand.
“Glad you could make it.” Brodie scanned the rest of the crew as Mac Harris fell in with Dennis Evans. John Finnegan and his buddy Frank Martin had made it back. Joe Calderon sat on the seat of his Harley with his twelve-gauge riot gun resting on his shoulder. Kirk Thompson and Mark Simmons stood with Brody. “Who are we expecting that isn’t here?”
“Ben Murkowski wasn’t here for breakfast, but I don’t know if he said he was coming for sure,” Dennis said.
“Okay, right. I thought he was coming. Has anyone talked with him since we left the club?” Brodie asked.
Dennis cleared his throat, “I called him and left a voicemail that we were re-grouping here at about 8:00 or 8:15.”
“All right, then. Everyone okay with this?” Brodie raised an eyebrow looking over the motley bunch.
“Yeah, I called in sick,” Calderon smiled and lowered his shotgun.
“Same here,” Kirk Thompson and Mark Simmons repeated in stereo. Everyone else nodded or gave a thumbs-up. Charlie Duggan pushed around a rock at his feet – Brodie remembered that he was unemployed, as happened fairly often.
“All right then. Everybody get saddled up and when they get here, we’ll head out.”
“What’s the plan?” Frank Martin spit some snuff juice into the dust.
“I don’t want us to turn into another Del Rio,” Brodie hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Sheriff Bosco can’t be everywhere at all times, so I figure we should do something to help out, even if it’s just looking around and relaying to him and the deputies what we see.”
“Or what we don’t see,” Finnegan countered, putting his hand in his pocket.
“Yes, and I hope it is that.” Brodie shifted his feet, looking at the tall redhead. “I hope we find there’s nothing going on out there.”
“That’s right,” Mark Simmons said, scratching his face, “I’m a reserve deputy for Sheriff Bosco, and I can tell you he and his guys would be overwhelmed if anything big happened here.”
“Well, let’s hope and pray nothing happens,” Brodie replied.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Charlie Duggan waved his hands around a bit too animated. “This is big – I’m telling ya, it’s the real deal.”
*****
Reston, Virginia – July 5th, 2017 – 8:20 am
Margolis sat in the outer office, thumbing through an issue of Popular Mechanics he had taken from the coffee table at his feet. The phone buzzed in front of the old gray bird who sat perched at the 18th century dark wood desk. As she grabbed it, Margolis leaned from the brown leather sofa and gathered up his files. The Director’s parlor was tastefully decorated in a rustic nautical theme. It was very odd coming to the home of the Director of the FBI to brief him on what Margolis felt was a growing emergency.
“He’ll see you now,” the old secretary said, motioning to him with a raised palm and pointing him down the short hallway. The ancient assistant escorted Margolis down the short passageway lined alcoves of tall oak file cabinets. Margolis wondered, as he paced behind the very slow-moving secretary, what manner of secrets those files held. She led Margolis through the open doorway and stopped there allowing him to enter the very long room, “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Margolis?”
“No thank you,” Margolis, said making the long walk across the massive office, his feet sinking into the springy cream-colored carpet. Behind the large oak desk was Arthur Burke, his seventy years of age showing in the countless wrinkles on his face and shaven head. He leaned back in the black leather office chair, where his blue blazer was draped, rubbing the upturned collar corner of his white polo shirt. Margolis had not completely crossed the length of the room when Burke began speaking, “You seem to think we have a pretty serious situation in Texas, do you not Mr. Margolis?”
Margolis quickened his pace the last couple of steps and stopped to stand very straight before the Director, “Yes sir, very serious I would say.”
“Have a seat Mr. Margolis and let’s talk about just how serious it is.” Burke was stoic and talked at a snail’s pace, with a hint of annoyed professor just below the surface of his Boston accent. Margolis recalled that Burke had held professorships at Stanford and Princeton, prior to becoming Vice Chairman of the International Monetary Fund back in the late 1980s. He had also been Deputy Director of the Bureau for a number of years in the 1990s. “I trust you had no trouble getting here?”
“No sir, your car service is quite efficient and much appreciated.” Margolis sat down in one of two dark wood, padded chairs opposite the Director and found that he was instinctively sitting taller. Burke scanned the contents of a file that sat before him on the wide leather blotter with only an occasional wince or momentary furrowed brow. Burke took a draw from the gold-rimmed, porcelain coffee cup and tucked his chin, looking over his reading glasses at Margolis.
The phone on his desk rang and he glowered at it before picking it up, “Yes…yes…All right, thank you.” He removed the readers from the tip of his pointed nose, “Well, Mr. Margolis, I would say that if the situation in Texas is serious, then it has become even more so at this point.”
“Can you elaborate, sir?”
“I have your report, and one a lot like it from the Phoenix field office, and another from the Albuquerque field office.” He lifted the stack of manila folders. “And if that weren’t enough, the Attorney General has been murdered in Austin.” Burke gathered up the file and rose from his leather chair. “And all of that means you and I had better go for a car ride.”
*****
Department of Homeland Security – Homeland Special Investigations
San Antonio, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 8:25 am
“Come on Sergeant Schmidt,” the young DHS Commando held out a table tennis racket. “A little ping pong isn’t going to kill you.”
Darren Schmidt crossed his feet on the table top as he sat in the HSI Op Center lounge, trying to stay awake, “You guys go ahead. I’m good.” The young agent shrugged and went back to the game.
While Schmidt scratched his blond buzz-cut and thumbed over a page in the Guns and Ammo he was reading, he grinned at the sight of all his guys clowning around and playing games. The huge non-descript lounge was hospital-like in its sterility from the flat gray walls, tan linoleum and grid drop ceiling, which made the billiards, ping pong, and foosball tables seem quite out of place. The dozen men in navy blue BDUs and black paratrooper boots acted more like kids in an after-school program playing, as they were, on the video game controllers in front of the big screen TVs and lazing on half a dozen couches and recliners, joking and eating snacks.
He didn’t much like the overly relaxed atmosphere, but the guys were giving up their holiday, and some of them were pulling a double-shift so the married guys could be with their families on the 4th. Of course, that didn’t help him much. Jenna would still be mad at him for getting stuck with a holiday detail. He didn’t like it either, in spite of the guys running around saying “Double-time a half. Show me the money, baby!” It was nice that the bosses in Washington extended the wage increase for the days before and after the actual holiday, but Schmidt wasn’t focused on it. The rough and tumble life of a field operative was becoming more difficult. A wife and now with his one year-old daughter Maddy, he didn’t care about the pay as much anymore. He just wanted to make sure he went home at the end of the day and was able to kiss his girls goodnight. He took a photo from his breast pocket and looked at them; Jenna holding Maddy on her lap as they sat on the porch.
Schmidt was a ten year veteran of the HSI Special Response Team and was proud to have b
ecome the lead for the vaunted Bravo Team, but he was torn. He had been thinking that maybe it was his time to punch out. This is was the best bunch of guys he had been around since his days as a Ranger in the U.S. Army. They were as close a unit as you would find. Most of them were prior military Special Forces, and those few on Bravo Team who weren’t ex-SF were former SWAT from Houston or San Antonio. He couldn’t shake the sense that the last few years they had become more of a goon squad than peace-keepers.
Everyone had told him he was nuts to take a spot with San Antonio after he finished 2nd in his DHS SRT commando school at Fort Bragg – the top guys always took Chicago or New York, because that’s where the real action was. Maybe Los Angeles if the guy was a surfer fruit or something. Schmidt wanted San Antonio. He and Jenna were from Uvalde, and this was God’s country, not some forsaken hell hole like those other places. He had seen enough action in the Sandbox and had been looking forward to protecting a place he actually cared about for once. It was a slower pace than Chicago or New York, but he was home. That was ten years ago, and now he was Bravo Team leader of the best damn SRT unit in the country. At least, he liked to think so. Home nights with the wife and daughter, getting three squares a day, three out of four weekends off a month. The mortgage, doctor bills and gas prices were what he thought about now, not IEDs. Schmidt laughed.
