Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

by Cameron Curtis

  The cold bitch knows we wouldn’t.

  Stein gives herself five measured beats of silence.

  “I think Keller knew the man who shot him.”

  9

  Salem, 1230 Hrs Saturday

  The Ivy League lawyer stares at us.

  “I think Keller knew the man who shot him.”

  In Garrick’s ice-cold, air-conditioned office, my face flares with heat. I know exactly where Stein is going with this. Not once did I admit the possibility.

  “Go ahead,” I tell her. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Breed.” Stein’s voice is soft. “This brings me no pleasure.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “All right. Keller had no reason to be there at night. Not in the middle of ten thousand acres of barren land. He must have gone to meet someone he trusted. Otherwise, he would have carried a weapon.”

  Lenson balls his fists on the armrests of his chair. “You think he was involved in smuggling.”

  “Trafficking, yes.” Stein straightens and leans forward. Plants her forearms on Garrick’s desk. “People, or drugs.”

  “Not Keller,” I say firmly.

  “Ranching is a difficult business.” Stein adopts a soothing tone. “Especially here in the Trans-Pecos. The average ranch in Texas is fifteen hundred acres. Out here, it’s twenty thousand. By that standard, Keller’s ranch is small. This is the most arid land in the southwest. Grazing supports fewer cattle per acre than ranches to the east.”

  My throat is clotted with spit. “Was Keller in financial difficulty?”

  “My team is checking. I’ll know soon. Did he say anything to either of you?”

  “No.” Lenson shakes his head. “Not a word.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing one would speak to friends about,” Stein says. “Greater El Paso is the only part of the Trans-Pecos that is growing. Salem County and City governments have merged. In time, El Paso County will absorb Salem. Property values, including Keller’s land, are rising. But the value will be in development, not necessarily agriculture and ranching.

  “If I had to guess, I would say your friend’s business was tight on cash.”

  I take a deep breath, force myself to relax. First the muscles in my shoulders. Then my arms and the muscles in my stomach. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation for the facts,” Stein says. “If you think of something, tell me.”

  “We need to go.” I get to my feet. “We have a funeral to prepare for.”

  “I understand.” Stein rises and offers me her hand.

  Stein’s grip is firm and dry. Cold. I lead Lenson from the office.

  In the back lot, we get into Keller’s truck. Lenson sits behind the wheel and starts the engine. With a throaty roar, the V8 springs to life. We give the engine a couple of minutes to warm up.

  “Keller wasn’t dirty,” I say.

  “No, but she’s right about one thing.”

  “What’s that.”

  “Keller knew the person he met. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dismounted without a weapon.”

  Lenson taps the gas, and the engine settles into a low rumble. He throws the truck into gear and pulls out of the lot. Drives the short distance to the hotel. We go inside and find Hancock in the lounge.

  “Where’s Mary?”

  “She’s tired,” Hancock says. “We’ve arranged an honor guard unit for tomorrow. Command pulled a few strings.”

  “That’s good.” I settle into one of the deep leather chairs. Signal the waitress for three cold beers.

  Veterans are entitled to military funerals. Honor guards have to be available and booked in advance. Veterans in attendance are permitted to wear their uniforms. All three of us came prepared.

  Lenson throws himself down in one of the deep leather chairs.

  I tell Hancock about our morning, and that Stein thinks Keller was dirty.

  “I can see why she’s exploring the possibility.” I take a beer from the waitress. The mug is frosted. I pour the cold amber liquid down my parched throat. “You know how easy it would be for somebody from Delta to do serious damage here in the world.”

  Hancock pops an oxycodone. “Heard about a Special Forces medic at Bliss. CID busted him for stealing morphine.”

  “Uncle Sam spends two million dollars a head turning us into weapons,” Lenson says. “Sends us home with nothing to do.”

  “The point is,” I say, “Uncle Sam must be having trouble with operators going off the rails. Imagine the three of us deciding to rob a bank. Nobody could stop us. Stein figures Keller might have money problems, might be tempted.”

  “To do what.” There is violence in Hancock’s tone.

  “Smuggle drugs and illegals across his land,” I say. “She thinks he crossed the cartels, and they lopped his head off.”

  “Let’s war-game the scenario,” Lenson suggests.

  “Okay.” I stare at my beer and collect my thoughts. “First of all, he did not stumble on illegals. There were no personnel tracks arriving from the river, none leaving for the highway.”

  “The lady’s right,” Hancock says. “Keller didn’t belong out there at night.”

  “So it was an RV.” Lenson looks at me. “Who with?”

  “That,” I say, “is the question. Someone he trusted. We have to consider the possibility that Keller arrived with his murderer in the truck.”

  “Why take someone out to the middle of nowhere,” Hancock asks.

  “Privacy,” Lenson says. “To avoid being seen together.”

  I shift my gaze from one man to the other. “We can’t rule out the scenario. But then the murderer had to leave on foot. Or in another vehicle. And covered his tracks.”

  Lenson fixes me with a one-eyed stare. “There were only two vehicles at the scene. Keller’s pickup and the tow truck. The tracks of the police vehicles were outside the cordon, on the highway side. You spent a lot of time out there, Breed.”

  “We can’t rule out the presence of one or two more vehicles,” I say. “There was mesquite cut from a clump of brush two hundred yards north. The killer could have fastened the mesquite to the back of his truck. Retraced the route he took into the RV. The brush would have covered his tracks.”

  “Which direction?” Hancock asks.

  “No way to tell. The murderer left before everyone else arrived.”

  “Scenario number one.” Lenson frowns. “Keller went out there to meet someone he trusted, who murdered him.”

  “Scenario number two.” I meet Lenson’s gaze. “Keller was murdered somewhere else. The sheriff found neither the brass, nor the bullet.”

  “Murderer took the brass.” Lenson strokes his chin. “The bullet is a needle in a haystack.”

  “A clearly defined two hundred and fifty thousand square yards.” I drain my beer and signal the waitress for three more. “Garrick swept four hundred yards of a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc. Called up a hundred men, spent three days. From space, you can see the ground they trampled.”

  “That’s a big haystack,” Lenson says.

  I shake my head. “Not if you do a sector search for the bullet. With a hundred men.”

  “It might have shattered.”

  “Unlikely, given the exit wound.”

  “All right,” Lenson concedes. “Either way, there was a rendezvous.”

  “Yes. But—they should have found the bullet. Keller was killed somewhere else.”

  “What was the RV?” Hancock lifts his mug and stamps rings of condensation on the tabletop.

  “A payoff or a ripoff,” Lenson says.

  Hancock stretches his game leg. Takes a long draw of his beer. “None of us would ever get involved in that.”

  I think of my long, dreamless nights.

  My lack of purpose.

  10

  Fort Bliss, 1100 Hrs Sunday

  I have been to military funerals at a number of cemeteries, but none are sadder than those at Fort Bliss. The arm
y bowed to the environmental movement and budget pressure. Over the years, it replaced the green grass over the graves with crushed red stones. Fort Bliss National Cemetery looks and smells arid. Where other cemeteries smell of fresh-cut grass, Fort Bliss smells of heat and dust.

  The army takes care of the fallen. Transfers are dignified. All honors are rendered. For a soldier who fell in a foreign land, burial near his loved ones should bring comfort. If only a little more could be spent, to allow those who died in service to rest under fresh green grass.

  Fort Bliss National Cemetery is truly a garden of stone.

  The chaplain finishes his committal service, closes his Bible, and steps back. The honor guard stretches the flag taut across the casket. The seven-man firing party marches to the graveside.

  In full dress uniform, Lenson, Keller and I stand with other mourners. On our shoulders, we wear the Delta insignia. A red Airborne patch with a black Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife in the center.

  Mary and Donnie sit on folding chairs.

  I glance at Hancock. He was offered a chair because of his bad leg. Refused. Sweat glistening on his brow, he stands for the entire ceremony. The pain must be unbearable. Hancock is not the man I knew. His mind is warping from the pain.

  Ready.

  Rifles at high port, the firing party work the actions of their ceremonial M14s.

  Aim.

  The soldiers hold the rifles at a forty-five-degree angle, muzzles pointed skyward.

  Fire.

  Seven rifles crash as one. Mary flinches at the first volley. Mercifully, the next two volleys are fired in rapid succession.

  The squad leader bends sharply and retrieves a spent shell casing.

  A bugler plays “Taps.” A forlorn, lonely sound. When he finishes, he lowers the bugle and the honor guard fold the flag. The leader of the firing party steps to the leader of the honor guard, hands him the shell casing, and withdraws.

  The honor guard pass the flag to the sergeant at the head of the casket. He takes the flag in his white-gloved hands and inserts the spent cartridge into its folds. He marches to Mary, kneels before her, and presents the flag.

  On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one has rendered.

  The sergeant rises to his feet and salutes Mary. The white-gloved salute is delivered in slow motion. Mary looks numb.

  The ritual is over. We walk back to the drive where our vehicles are parked and waiting. I look back at the cemetery. It is a forest of white headstones in a red field. Eighty acres that look like they have been corralled from the desert. Aching, I say goodbye to my best friend.

  Mary, Donnie, and Hancock get into a polished black Lincoln. I watch Hancock get into the car, his leg extended. He folds himself into the leather passenger seat. Once inside, his whole body sags with relief. Mary lays her hand on his forearm.

  Lenson and I get into his SUV.

  “Feels good to wear the uniform, don’t it,” Lenson says.

  “Yes, it does,” I tell him, “but I’m sick to death about the reason.”

  We follow the Lincoln down Texas 20 to Salem. The big limo lets Mary, Donnie and Hancock off in front of the hotel, and Lenson parks the SUV.

  Hancock ushers Mary and Donnie inside. I scan the 7-Eleven across the street. I notice a pair of Latinos sitting in a blue Impala sedan. I wonder if they are watching the hotel. They start the car, back around to the gas pump, and the driver gets out. He twists off the gas cap and fills the tank. His friend studies a map.

  Hard-looking guys. The driver is older than his friend. Long greasy hair over a pockmarked face and a thick mustache. Jailhouse tattoos cover his arms like sleeves.

  “What’s up?” Lenson asks.

  Wearing our green berets and dress uniforms, we stand in the parking lot. The Latino filling the tank checks us out, looks away.

  I shake off the paranoia. “Nothing. Let’s get out of this heat.”

  The sun has climbed to the vertical. I’ve lost my shadow. We go inside, agree to meet at the restaurant for lunch.

  Upstairs, I take off my uniform and fold it carefully into my garment bag. Change into jeans and a loose shirt. Pack the jump boots into the bottom of my duffel and pull on my Oakleys.

  I go to the window and look down at the 7-Eleven. The Latinos in the Impala have gone. My room is above the foyer and front desk. Looking down, I see Anya Stein walk across the parking lot and unlock her Civic. She drives down main street in the direction of the sheriff’s station. DOJ lawyers don’t carry SIGs. And if Stein were FBI or Marshal’s Service, she would have said so.

  Stein must be CIA, attached to the DOJ.

  But why.

  This situation is all wrong. Keller wasn’t killed where he was found. Why would a killer move his body. Because there was something incriminating about where he was killed.

  I go down to the restaurant. The table is subdued. No one wants to talk about the investigation. It is too uncomfortable, and Donnie is not supposed to know. Mary is making a mistake. Sooner or later, she will have to address the issue with the boy. Older than his years, he is being kind.

  Donnie is dealing with his pain alone. No eight-year-old should go through this without support. Later this week, I will have a word with Mary. She cannot continue to lie to the boy.

  “Are you sure you want to go back to the Lazy K?” Hancock asks Mary.

  “We have to go back sometime,” Mary says.

  I meet her eyes over the table. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  Lenson leans forward. “Ask Larry and Bo to move back into the bunk house.”

  “I have,” Mary admits. “They’ll move in tomorrow night.”

  “Stay at the hotel tonight, then,” Hancock says.

  Mary looks at Donnie. “What do you think, Donnie? You’re the man of the family now.”

  Donnie frowns. “I want to go home.”

  “That settles it,” Mary says. “We’ll leave after lunch.”

  I should go with them, but inviting myself to the Lazy K would be inappropriate. I say nothing.

  11

  Lazy K, 0900 Hrs Monday

  The hotel feels oddly empty with Mary and Donnie gone. We watched them drive off last night. Sat in the lounge, beat back our apprehension with Bourbon. I couldn’t sleep. Exhausted, I rose from bed and went down to breakfast.

  Parked in front of the hotel, the hatchback of Lenson’s SUV stands open. I swing Hancock’s garment bag aboard. It’s the last of the pair’s luggage. I reach up with both hands and swing the hatchback shut.

  “Let us know how Mary gets on,” Lenson says. “One of us will come down next week.”

  The sun is climbing in the sky. Its rays bathe the white wooden walls of the hotel in a golden glow.

  “She’s thinking of making a go of it,” Hancock says.

  I grunt. “Not much choice. She’s got two ranch hands. If she can hire one more and appoint a foreman, she might have a chance.”

  “Someone to do the work,” Lenson says, “and someone to do the books.”

  “That’s the easy part,” I tell him. “The hard part is understanding the markets for cattle and grazing rights. Keller grew up on a ranch, Mary didn’t. I don’t know if she’ll take to it.”

  Silent, we stare at each other. Ranching is a hard life, a challenging business for a strong man. West Texas is an unforgiving environment. Alone, a woman raising a young boy will struggle to survive.

  “She’s a strong woman,” Lenson says. “She might surprise us.”

  It’s oh-nine-hundred, ninety-eight degrees. Our shirts are stained with sweat. Skin exposed to the sun burns. Hancock glances at the SUV, longing for its air-conditioned interior.

  “I won’t keep you gents,” I say. “Let’s stay in touch.”

  We shake hands and the pair drive away. Feeling hollow and alone, I watch them head down main street t
oward Texas 20.

  I decide to drive to the Lazy K. For the duration of my stay, Mary has loaned me Keller’s truck. I walk the length of the hotel parking lot, get in the cab, and start the engine. The air-conditioning vents blast hot air in my face, and I wait for the cool to kick in. I throw the truck in gear, back out of the parking slot, and roar toward the highway.

  On Saturday, we drove past the ranch access road. I have no trouble finding it—a wide, open gate. “Lazy K” worked in wrought iron across the top.

  I turn onto the dirt road and race toward the ranch house. The truck throws up a plume of dust, visible in the rearview mirror. On either side of the road lie brown, rolling hills covered with mesquite and creosote. The terrain looks earthier than the rocky land fifteen miles south. The mesquite grows taller.

  Movement atop a hill catches my eye. A pack of wild dogs are fighting over something. I take my foot off the gas, and the speedometer drops to twenty miles an hour.

  The dogs are worrying an object. Like a soccer ball, their plaything rolls this way and that.

  I allow the truck to roll to a stop. Pop open the glove compartment and fish out Keller’s sixteen-power binoculars. I twist in my seat and raise the optics to my eyes. Looking through the side window, I focus and adjust the diopter. Survey the strange competition.

  The dogs snarl and snap at each other. The animals are frothing at the mouth. My stomach flutters.

  I lay the binoculars on the seat next to me and take a five-shot stripper clip from the glove compartment. I get out of the truck and reach for Keller’s Mauser. I unlock the Ernst Apel and swing the scope ninety degrees. Lift the handle and draw back the bolt. I squeeze five rounds into the magazine, pocket the stripper clip, and lock the scope in place. In the heat, the smell of gun oil floods my nose. In my hands, the rifle feels heavy and familiar. I close the bolt, chamber a round, and turn to the hill.