Nike's Wings

by Valerie Douglas

  That his own government had been capable of this.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Niki looked up at the large office building that towered above her. For all that Texans liked things big, the state office building where the administrative side of the Attorney General’s offices was located was just another slightly modern office building and not all that large or that impressive.

  Her badge got her and her weapons through the metal detectors.

  The Recorder’s Office resembled offices like it everywhere, although being in the capital it was a little more modern than most county offices. Shelves of record books covered the walls, but the microfiche machines of old had been replaced by relatively modern computers with large screens.

  Jake had been as good as his word. A single phone call and two young women awaited her in the Recorder’s Office.

  Their names were Mary Beth and Rebecca. One was blonde – clearly bleached as that shade of platinum didn’t suit her at all and the dye had fried her hair – and brown-eyed, while the other was dark haired and dark-eyed, probably of Latin heritage. Both seemed like nice girls. It was strange to think there was probably fewer than five years difference in age between her and the other two women and yet it felt as if there was this huge gulf between them. By the time she’d been their age she’d already been in six hostile countries. And killed as many men.

  “Here’s what I need,” she said. “Try mortgages first, anything in the last two years using a foreign bank, especially Mexican banks, or paid for with cash. Look at the property descriptions. We’re probably looking for large parcels.”

  It would have been foolish to purchase the land with cash as it tended to draw attention and make people think. Make people wonder. Cash, though, was how the cartels did business in both Mexico and Colombia and they might not have realized that.

  Both women nodded, turned toward the computers, and set to work.

  Once Niki was certain they knew what she wanted, she was free to check out Jackson Cooper.

  His address was on the outskirts of the city, between one set of suburban tract housing and another, on one of the few undeveloped areas of land.

  The lot was large and mostly untended, except for the six-foot high security fences around it.

  As she drove through the open gate it was clear to see where the priorities were. The house needed a new coat of paint and the porch sagged badly. An old hound dog lounged in the dust bowl that was the yard.

  She parked.

  In sharp contrast, the workspace in the Quonset was clean and neat, the windows clean and clear. A door was open. Cooper had little to fear here.

  And she was expected. Cleared.

  Niki walked inside to bright fluorescent lights over pin-neat worktables, all with various weapons components strewn across them. The air was redolent of gun oil and machined metal.

  Jackson Cooper was undeniably a wizard. All she had to do was look around his workshop, at the weapons in various stages of modification, and she could see it. Customized guns and rifles hung everywhere, in every guise imaginable, even the old cliché – a Tommy Gun that doubled as a guitar.

  Looking around the workshop, she could see his talent. He was a legitimate gun dealer, but he also did custom work on the side. It was a good bet that if he did work for the cartels, he might also be one of their ‘dealers’, the straw men who bought guns for them.

  A majority of the guns used by the cartels were purchased in the United States.

  From behind her an upper-class British voice said, “I’m calling that one Guitar Hero after the video game. It actually works as both a weapon and guitar, but there’s a very interesting vibration from the strings when you shoot the fucking sonovabitch and you need to retune it every time you shoot it.”

  Niki laughed, as she’d been meant to, as she turned to face him. She could imagine the sound would be interesting. It would be like something out of the film Desperado with Antonio Banderas.

  The detail was so incredible that she almost didn’t dare touch it.

  She had to admire the machining. Cooper had turned automatic weapons into an art form. She studied him.

  Tall, he was attractive more for the force of his personality and character than for any arbitrary arrangement of facial characteristics. He had strong features and was one of those rare men who’d gone bald - or mostly bald - unashamedly, the remainder of his hair close-cropped to a well-shaped head. He had large, dark, intelligent eyes. His age was indeterminate, although he was definitely over fifty and possibly older, one of those people who defined the term ageless.

  His voice was mellifluous, trained. He seemed to amuse himself by speaking both well and crudely - using proper English while swearing. There had been a bit of a sparkle in his eye when he’d dropped the f-word. He certainly wasn’t a native of Texas by any means.

  “Well,” he said, studying her intently, with real and evident pleasure, “to what do I owe the honor?”

  There was as much sexual invitation as business inquiry in his voice.

  “I’m looking for a sniper rifle,” she said, spreading her fingers, “for someone with small hands.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, smiling, his eyes twinkling. He held out his hands. “Let me see.”

  Amused, she gave hers to him.

  He turned them this way and that while his thumbs stroked her palms thoughtfully and suggestively. It was an age-old gesture of sexual invitation.

  “I’m afraid I’m taken,” she said gently.

  “Ah,” he said, “Pity that.”

  Her lips twitched. “The rifle? Preferably untraceable.”

  Those dark eyes looked at her sharply, narrowing.

  “Chaco Dolan recommended me,” she said.

  “Ah, Chaco,” he said, nodding. “Bastard that he is. Yes. None of mine are traceable. And the money?”

  So he would and did do untraceable work.

  Niki looked at him. “Cash or wire transfer?”

  “Wire transfer. Not direct, of course, but to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

  She considered it, tapping her upper lip with one finger.

  “Of course. Half up front?” she asked.

  It was the standard arrangement.

  “Very well,” he said, “I’ll have to take some measurements.”

  “That’s fine,” she said with a smile, “, but if you try to cop a feel, I’ll have to hurt you.” At his look she added, “Flirting is allowed.”

  He eyed her, arching a brow, amused. “Both could be entertaining.”

  “You might think,” she said and drew both her guns, set them on the counter.

  “Small, but efficient. Ambidextrous?”

  She nodded.

  “Let me get my tape,” he said, his dark eyes twinkling.

  “Good thought,” she said and put her guns away.

  He laughed.

  As he measured her hands and the length of her arms, she said, “Have you done another rifle like this lately?” On impulse, she added. “For Daniel Garcia?”

  He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough and she could tell he knew it.

  She could almost feel the tension gather in him.

  “Don’t,” she said softly. “I’m faster.”

  “Fucking Chaco,” he said, yet he didn’t seem that upset.

  “By the way, did I mention I’m a cop?” she said. “Federal Agent, actually. They know where I am.”

  It felt strange to say it after all that she’d done in her life. All of it sanctioned by the government, but still, not like this.

  “Chaco didn’t know, by the way, but a Texas Ranger by the name of Jake Aragon does. I walk away, and you might have time to clear the evidence. If you tell me the truth. Or… We go toe to toe for a few rounds, which might be entertaining, but would be painful and messy in the end. You might win, but I have my hand on my voice dial button. All I have to do is say a name and whatever happens here, you’ll go to jail.”

&nbs
p; The truth of that was suddenly piercing. It was a different magnitude of reality for her entirely. If she called, for the first time help would come.

  She waited, made no sudden moves and watched his eyes.

  He had height, strength and a lifetime of experience on his side. On the other hand, she was quicker, with training he wouldn’t expect. It wouldn’t be an easy fight.

  “Yes,” Cooper said. “I made a gun like that for Daniel Garcia. A dangerous man, Daniel. A dangerous enemy.”

  “He is,” she agreed. “I’m only asking questions. There’s no need for him to know I was here.”

  “Do you really need the rifle?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. How long ago did he pick his up?”

  Garcia was far too careful. He wouldn’t have had it delivered.

  “Two days ago,” Cooper said.

  If Garcia had already picked the gun up the timing was closer than they thought.

  “Would you walk me to my car?” she asked.

  For a moment, their eyes met.

  “You don’t trust me not to shoot you as you leave with one of my own guns,” he said.

  She looked at him. “Nope. Not as far as I can throw you.”

  “Wise,” he said. “Still, we could’ve had some fun.”

  “It depends on your definition,” she said as she gestured him out to the yard with one of her own weapons.

  “Nice work,” he said, looking at the gun. “Bustamante?”

  They’d been custom made to accommodate her small hands. She nodded. She’d wanted the best and gotten the best.

  “They shoot well too,” she said.

  “No doubt,” he replied.

  Niki backed the car out of the yard in a hurry and glanced into the rear view mirror. Cooper watched her, clearly debating his choices, then turned and ran for his shop. She floored it, going for as much speed as she could risk to gain as much distance as she could, keeping her head centered in the headrest – little protection, but all she had. Even so she wasn’t truly comfortable until there was solid ground between her and Jackson Cooper. The man designed long-range sniper rifles. It would be hard to hit a moving vehicle, but not impossible.

  He wasn’t, however, the sniper she was. Or Daniel Garcia.

  Tapping her speed-dial, she said, “Ty.”

  The sound of his voice when he answered sent a rush of relief through her.

  If Niki hadn’t been driving, she’d have closed her eyes in gratitude. It had been a hairy few moments there.

  As with most of the others at the table, Ty had set his cell phone to vibrate in case he was needed. He glanced at the display. Niki. She wouldn’t call without a reason.

  “Excuse me, I have to take this,” he said. “Niki?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Ty,” she said.

  “Not a problem,” he said, and warmed at the sound of her voice despite himself. “What do you need?”

  “The DPS needs to get a warrant to search the premises of one Jackson Cooper. Fast.”

  “Hold on,” Ty said. “I’m in a meeting with them now. Tell them yourself. You’re on speaker.”

  “A warrant needs to be issued to search the premises of Jackson Cooper for illegal arms. He’s admitted to customizing a sniper rifle for a man designated as a known terrorist – Daniel Garcia. He offered to make a gun like it for me. That and his background should be enough for probable cause. They shouldn’t be surprised if they find a cache of other illegal arms, particularly under the floorboards of his workshop. No other place was available or visible.”

  “We’ve had suspicions,” Blanchard said. “Thank you, Ms. Tallent.”

  “You should move on that ASAP,” she said, “or he’ll rabbit. I was just there.”

  It wasn’t important to the investigation, but if Cooper was dealing arms for the cartels, shutting down that pipeline would save lives, Ty knew.

  Ty watched as calls were made.

  “We’re on it, Niki,” Ty said. “Good work…”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  The relief in her voice was audible even through the cell phone.

  What had happened? he wondered.

  Walking into the hushed quiet of the Recorder’s Office was almost a shock. Niki shook her head. The normalcy of it, Mary Beth and Rebecca chatting and giggling quietly with each other as they scanned the documents while various other people looked through the ancient books or settled by computers to search scanned documents, was almost startling.

  Most county offices weren’t this organized.

  One look at the pile of documents they’d generated, and Nike knew the search was going to take too long.

  Like many such state offices, on the wall hung a large map of the state with all the counties, cities, towns and major roads marked. Like a lot of large states, some roads marked as major thoroughfares were little more than long stretches of two-lane highway. She looked at some of them and thought about the dead cops. To most people they were only narrow two-lane highways, but if they were like the highways at home, they wouldn’t be as heavily patrolled as the interstates.

  She looked at the long Texas border. Where had the two sheriffs been killed?

  Both had been from small towns not far from each other.

  At one time in her life she’d lived in a small town. She’d grown up there until her father had been sent overseas. Her mother still lived there. Niki hadn’t seen her mother since the day she’d been kidnapped. Her mother still didn’t know she was alive.

  She shook the thought off.

  Good sheriffs in towns like that, though, honest ones, would be aware of big land purchases or something odd or unusual going on in or around their counties, their jurisdictions. If nothing else, the rumor mill would be churning. Word would get around.

  Looking at the map she now understood why those particular cops had been targeted.

  Something had alerted them and, unconsciously or consciously, they’d followed their instincts, and started investigating.

  Which gave her another thought…

  She had Jake Aragon’s phone number. She dialed it.

  “Aragon.”

  “Jake, it’s Niki. Is there a way I can get contact names and numbers for the sheriffs along the border?” Niki asked.

  “There’s a website,” Jake said, “but we can send out an alert if we need to.”

  “I don’t think it’s that pressing. Yet. I know you’re busy with Buck, but is there someone who can get me a couple of names? Especially of sheriffs or Rangers in the bigger counties? Ones with a lot of open acreage. I’d like to talk to the people on the ground if I possible so I can explain what I need.”

  “Sure, let me make a few calls,” he said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  A moment later Jake came back on her line. “Where can we reach you?”

  “Send it to me,” she said, and gave him her e-mail address.

  It was a long list.

  Frowning, she gave it some thought, then drafted out what she wanted to say on paper. She looked at the map on the wall, studied the most likely counties and started dialing.

  They would be big, with lots of empty, seemingly useless land.

  When the first call was answered, it felt strange to identify herself as a Federal Agent for the second time that day. She’d spent years being invisible.

  She had a target, though, those areas near where the Sheriffs and that deputy had been killed. There had to be a reason they were targeted. None were from contiguous locations. Looked at in context with the highways, though? There were a couple of likely possibilities, if someone was looking for an out of the way location near one of those two-lane roads that connected with better four lane highways.

  “Hello, this is Federal Agent Nike Tallent.”

  More than one seemed less than happy to talk to her – she was a ‘fed’ after all
– but there were one or two…

  Maybe it was a long shot after all.

  “Manuel Ramirez,” a voice answered.

  “Sheriff Ramirez, this is Federal Agent Nike Tallent calling,” she said, “I need to ask you a favor. Do you remember or have you heard anything about a large purchase of land in or around your area sometime in the last year or so? Maybe by a foreign bank or in cash?”

  Locals rarely liked outsiders and even less interlopers, especially ones that threw money around. They tended to talk about it among themselves.

  Manuel Ramirez sat frozen, staring out the window of his office.

  “Hell, yes,” he said.

  It had been odd at the time. It was still odd. The place employed a lot of illegals. As the son of illegal immigrants, he had nothing against the practice. He understood the need of people to try to make a better life for themselves and their children, but something about that place…

  “Sheriff Ramirez…”

  “Manuel,” he responded automatically. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Federal Agent Nike Tallent. You may have heard there’s a new branch of Homeland Security? The NIO, National Intelligence Organization?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “We’ve become aware the gulf cartels might be moving into South Texas, that they might be trying to set up a base of operations in the States.”

  Silence again.

  “Damn,” he said, quietly.

  “You have something like what I’m looking for?” Niki said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. Could it be that easy?

  “Yeah, I do,” Manuel said, lifting his booted feet from his desk as he swung around to look out the window.

  “Manuel,” said the voice on the other end, “what can you tell me about that property?”

  “It’s big, a couple hundred acres. I suspect they employ a lot of illegals,” Manny answered, quietly, as he got to his feet, walked to look outside.

  Niki sat back in her chair in the musty records room. It might be relatively new and modern, but until all the records were scanned there would still be that distinctive odor.

  They would. Those people were vulnerable, and with what was happening in Arizona and elsewhere they had nowhere else to turn. The authorities would hardly sympathize. They’d just get arrested and deported if they complained. No one would listen.