Hawke's Fury

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  “Already have them.” He flashed a smile. “I’m older than I look.”

  “You’ve applied?”

  “Yessir.”

  “It’s a pretty competitive field, so stay sharp.”

  Sheriff Ortiz raised one eyebrow and flicked his eyes toward the little bungalow. “Get a date with Miss Harriet?”

  “Came close.” I laughed. “I guess I’m not the first guy she’s interrogated.”

  “Nor the last.” Detective Cordova reached under his jacket as if pulling a pistol to defend himself. “That’s dangerous business in there.”

  Officer Rodriguez jerked into a quick stance, as if waiting for Miss Harriet to come charging out like a fullback. It was a little odd for Rodriguez to be there, but in small towns, even the highway patrol is looking for a little variety and excitement. This attempted murder filled both bills.

  We laughed and quickly sobered in case someone with a cell phone was recording us. The whole world’s a news crew these days, and none of us wanted to give the wrong impression about how we felt. Six seconds taken from context could present problems for all of us and our departments as well.

  I posed the first question. “So what do y’all think?”

  The mood shifted into business mode. They’d been there longer, and had more time to work out their theories. When a Texas Ranger shows up on a scene, the dynamics of an investigation shifts. All information funnels to us, even though the local departments handle the cases.

  They took turns briefing me on what happened and their own suppositions. We traded information for a good long while, trying to understand why two elderly ladies were targeted by a cartel from across the river.

  Sheriff Ortiz shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of trouble come across that river, but never anything directed at old folks. It always involves people much younger, and mostly drugs, though there’s a lot of human trafficking going on. But this beats all I’ve ever seen, even the drugs coming over on drones.”

  I’d heard about that. Cartels were using technology to fly packages across the river, and directly into the hands of those who quickly made it disappear into the fabric of the country.

  “You seeing a lot of that?”

  “More than you’d think. The last few months, I’ve seen a lot of them buzzing around on the other side, but they ain’t carrying anything. Found one outside of town about two weeks ago that went down. Had about thirteen pounds of meth strapped to it. Street value around fifty grand. Now that’s money.”

  I whistled. “You ain’t a-woofin’. Won’t be long before the air’s thick with ’em.”

  “Yep. There’s no technology to stop them yet. We’re liable to be using shotguns to bring the damned things down. But this don’t have nothing to do with that. Why do you think two little old ladies had to help us clean up the gene pool?”

  I had the answer for them. “I’m sure y’all heard we lost a Border Patrol agent the other night. He was Miss Ruby’s foster son. Now, this is all supposition on my part, but I believe the individuals who popped him didn’t stop there. They intend to kill anyone related to him. A cleansing because Nelson was into something dirty.”

  They’d already heard what happened, but I gave them what the media didn’t have. Law enforcement officers can’t, and won’t, tell reporters everything. The public information officers keep certain facts back for a variety of reasons, one being that withholding certain specifics might help determining whether captured suspects are guilty. If a suspect’s knowledge of a crime is more detailed than what they release, then it’s a good bet they have the right individual.

  There’s a lot of screwballs out there who’ll fess up to anything, just for the attention.

  Sheriff Ortiz tilted his hat back when I wrapped it up. A red line on his forehead from the headband almost glowed in the bright sunshine. “I’ve heard of that across the river when someone gets sideways with the cartels, but not around here, and not with Americans targeted.”

  “Vengeance murder?” Detective Cordova held his pen over the tiny pad in his hand. “Did the surviving agent have any information?”

  I didn’t want to tell them about my visit with Agent Manual Trevino in the hospital or how he acted when I pressed him on what happened. I danced around the truth. “Everybody with a badge interviewed him, but he doesn’t remember anything.”

  They didn’t get to know my other suppositions right then, neither. It wasn’t the first time I had my suspicions about a strange incident involving an attack on Border Patrol agents in West Texas. Months earlier, two officers were ambushed on a similar dark highway. One died and the other could only tell investigators they were parked on a dark side road when someone opened fire on their vehicle.

  The strange part was it seemed to be a targeted incident. Four rounds entered the passenger window, three of them hitting the officer sitting on that side. The terrified, quick thinking driver instinctively shifted into gear and sped away as rounds shattered the windshield on his side of the vehicle.

  When investigators arrived at the crime scene, they found nothing but scuffs in the hardpan and a dozen brass .223 hulls.

  “Call it what you want.” Sheriff Ortiz chewed the inside of his lip, thinking. “What these people didn’t figure on was a couple of armed ladies who’re tough old hides.”

  Detective Cordova flipped his notebook closed and tucked it into the inside pocket of his sport coat. “They won’t underestimate them next time.”

  I’d been thinking the same thing. “If they come back. I hope you plan to have someone watch the house for a while.”

  “It might be a short while.” Sheriff Ortiz flicked one hand for emphasis. “We can’t afford that forever.”

  “Miss Ruby’s worried they can’t protect themselves after y’all took their guns.”

  “We had to take them . . .”

  I held up a hand. “I know. Not being accusatory, just telling y’all what they told me.”

  “Maybe they can go stay with someone else for a while?”

  I tried not to argue against everything Ortiz said, but they needed all the facts I’d already gathered. “No other family, except a granddaughter in Hawaii. We’ve reached out to their local law to keep an eye on things. They’re not going anywhere.”

  Sheriff Ortiz caught Detective Cordova’s eye. Something passed between them, and I figured it was a personal thing regarding an out-of-town stranger getting into their business. The sheriff scuffed the pavement with his boot. “Well, that’ll cost a lot and take one of my men off the street. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying your idea isn’t without merit, but I’m not convinced this is a vengeance attack like you’re talking about. It might just be a gang initiation.”

  “Could be.” I knew he was only trying to work through what had happened in his town. “But even though I haven’t seen the DRT photos of the bad guys, I’d imagine they were full of prison gang tats, and they weren’t kids.”

  In our language, DRT stands for “dead right there.”

  Another exchange of glances. Detective Cordova grinned, telling me I was right. “I haven’t heard them called that in a long time.”

  “I’m an old soul.”

  Detective Cordova drew a deep breath. “We have a citizen’s patrol program. Maybe they could come by.”

  “I’ll come by ever’ now and then.” Arms and ankles crossed as he continued to lean against his car, Officer Rodriguez looked like a young James Dean. All he needed was the cigarette.

  “Won’t hurt.” I was facing south, toward Mexico. “I intend to stop this pretty quick.”

  Rodriguez tilted his head, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t flip a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and fire one up with an old-fashioned Zippo. “How’re you gonna do that?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea, yet.” The phone in my pocket buzzed with a blocked number. Figuring it was a robocall, I thumbed it off.

  The detective tilted his head. “Hope that wasn’t important.”


  “Sales call, I think. Blocked number. Look, I know this isn’t my town, but is there a chance you can assign someone to keep an eye on the place for a while longer than usual? I have a bad feeling about this one.”

  Rodriguez hooked both thumbs in his pockets. “You’re really worried they might come back.”

  “I have no reason to think they won’t.” The phone buzzed again in my hand, annoying the piss out of me. I answered that time. “What?” Nothing was there and when I looked at the screen, it showed I had a voice mail. I punched the Play icon and listened.

  Crackles filled my ear. “. . . hope . . . this . . . Ranger Hawke?” The static cleared for a moment. “I have to talk fast, so listen. I’m undercover. Calling from a drop phone in Ciudad Acuna. My partner was killed in the movie lot shooting. I know what’s happening with the Border Patrol agents. I . . .”

  More static.

  “. . . need to meet you . . . here. No place . . . safe, but go to the Caballo Diablo bar in Ciudad Acuna and see Fosfora. Tell her Flaco sent you.”

  The look on my face must have told the two lawmen beside me something was going on. They watched as I hung up from the call, taking care not to delete the recording.

  I pivoted to look south. “Someone on the other side has information we can use. Looks like I’m crossing.”

  Sheriff Ortiz nodded. “You know anyone over there? They don’t take to Americano lawmen poking around on their side of the river.”

  “Yeah, I’ve worked with a captain in the police department in Ciudad Acuna before. Guy I’ve known for years.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  “Always am.”

  Chapter 12

  A soft, warm wind pushed across the dry land around Tish Villarreal’s ten-year-old sprawling Spanish Colonial rancho in Coahuila, Mexico. The scrub desert beyond the low courtyard walls was covered with yucca, agave, and creosote. Only one long dirt road led to the house, guarded by a dozen men bearing automatic weapons.

  More cholos watched from the surrounding chest-high walls. Some loafed in outbuildings not far from the white stucco main house. Others, unseen, were close enough to call in the event of an emergency.

  From under a wide umbrella, the Devil Woman of Coahuila sat at a red tile table on an elevated teak deck, allowing her to see the distant mountains and desert shadows growing long with the setting sun. Low-growing tarbush, the dominant shrub, competed with white-thorn acacia and leggy ocotillo. Up close to the stucco walls, transplanted yuccas and agaves mixed with desert grasses and creosote bushes provided the expected characteristics of a well-established rancho.

  Despite the late afternoon heat, Villarreal enjoyed the lush courtyard created and landscaped under her exact specifications. Thick green grass watered three times a day was bright in the hot sun. Mature coconut palms trucked in at great expense stretched high above the structure, dwarfing a tree dahlia beside a cluster of juicy banana trees. Broadleaf plants and bromeliads mixed with flowering agave, aloe vera, hibiscus, and golden trumpet vines.

  Incencio Aguierre and Geronimo Manzano were at the table with her. Ranchera music filled the air. Their shirts were open, exposing the rough tattoos that covered much of their upper torsos. Unlike many of her men, their necks and faces were free from ink, allowing them to move freely in the Estados Unidos.

  It was a rare day when the bloodthirsty murderers were acting like the kids they had never been. Geronimo cocked a black and gray plastic Bug A Salt gun with orange barrels, aimed at a fly sitting on a bowl of sliced limes, and pulled the trigger. A shotgun spray of table salt blew the fly to bits. “I love this toy!”

  Sitting alone at another table, her youngest sicario, Esteban, sat motionless, watching. He was still reeling from what had happened in the Devil Woman’s “garden.”

  Drawn to the sugar in the limes they were using in their beer and tequila, the flies swarmed their table. One landed on Incencio’s arm and Geronimo shot it off with a laugh.

  Not a wrinkle creased Villarreal’s forehead, and her cheeks were smooth except for two small indentations at the corners of her mouth that deepened when she smiled. At the moment, her face was blank. “I am still not pleased with what happened in Del Rio.” Soft and low, her voice held more poison than a rattler.

  Incencio nodded and laid the gun on the table, as if the statement was deep and thoughtful. The fun was over. “I know, and I apologized, jefa. I should have taken care of it myself.”

  “You failed. You should have taken the task I assigned to you.”

  This was dangerous. She’d absolved Esteban, and now her eyes were dark and smoky, as if a cancerous fire burned inside her brain. Incencio took the high road. “Yes. I sent men who had proven their worth in the past. This time they underestimated the people they were to eliminate.”

  Villarreal took a tiny sip and placed the sweating bottle exactly on the wet ring in the middle of a blue-and-white Talavera tile. “So how will you rectify this problem? I have to keep my . . . promises to those who work for me. If they fail, everyone who shares the same blood will die.”

  The men’s eyes met. Neither looked over at Esteban. Incencio reached for the tequila, then stopped. “We have already sent a man to complete the job.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I said I wanted you to do it yourself.”

  “But you wanted me here today, so I sent El Cama-leon.” Incencio’s eyes flicked to Esteban, then back to the Devil Woman.

  The Chameleon had killed dozens of times in the past without fail.

  The tension that was in the air dissolved when she smiled as if they’d offered her a rare treat. “That is what I wanted to hear. And your new border agent. He will do as required?”

  “Yes. He has already repeated the story.”

  “So the road is now clear to move all of our products?”

  “Sí, señorita. We already have one agent in place who is still clearing the way, and when Manual Trevino returns to work, we will have two northern pipelines open. That will double what we have in place now. Our men outside of Del Rio are working out very well. We moved one hundred kilos of cocaine over to San Antonio last week without a problem, now that the new man is in place.”

  Still cotton-mouthed from his near-death experience, Esteban filed that statement away for future use. He wanted to know the new man’s name, and the others, but asking would raise eyebrows. It was none of his business.

  “Bueno.” She tilted the bottle again, doing nothing more than wetting her lips. “There is still one life in Hawaii connected to Agent Nelson.”

  “Yes. We sent someone to the house, but they weren’t there. He is looking for them now.”

  “Do you have more contacts in the islands than just one hombre?”

  “We do.”

  “Assign them.”

  Geronimo’s lips tightened. “Con permiso, as we just discussed. If they fail, it will be our fault, even if they are so far away.”

  Eyes narrowed, she inclined her head to study a wide mesquite near the far corner of rancho wall. The beauty of a lush stone-lined pond and cascading fountain beside two decorative wrought-iron gates was offset by half a dozen spines and skulls dangling like horrific Christmas ornaments. Two more of what she considered decoraciones, or decorations, had fallen apart and dropped to the dusty ground beneath the mesquite, the vertebrae and skulls separate and scattered. When the wind was right, the smell of carrion from the newer additions wafted past. Lucky for them at that time, the south breeze took the odor over the wall and away from where they sat.

  The corners of her eyes crinkled in soft amusement. “Then choose well. There is another concern. You know I have two computer technicians who monitor the security system here.”

  Incencio nodded. “Sí. Carlos and Hector. They are the ones who came up with the idea of low-tech walkie-talkies and repeaters.”

  “They are geniuses in the world of electronics. Carlos came to me recently and told me the computer here on the ranchero has been used to look for
my name. He found the search for it in what he called a ‘history’ file.”

  “I know nothing about computers.” Incencio spread his hands to prove his innocence. Eyes wide, Geronimo only shook his head to confirm the same.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If I find someone is using my office for any reason, and especially for researching my name, they will be dealt with.”

  “Sí, jefa.”

  “In fact, no one can use my office and television in the main house again. Understood?”

  Up until that moment, her most trusted men availed themselves of the huge flat-panel on the wall. She often found them there, lounging on the leather sofas whenever they had a few minutes.

  Villarreal twisted in her chair to catch Esteban’s eyes. “No one. Comprende?”

  Heart pounding, he lowered his chin slowly in acknowledgment.

  She picked up the Bug A Salt gun and shot at a fly buzzing past. She missed, spraying Geronimo in the eyes. He howled at the sting of the salt as Incencio laughed and Villarreal’s dimples deepened, her point well made.

  Esteban worked up enough spit to swallow and joined with a smile.

  Chapter 13

  Sitting in my truck parked in a busy lot near the Texas side of the Del Rio-Piedras Negra International Bridge, the air conditioner fought to overcome the heat. I was talking with Perry Hale back in Ballard. He and Yolanda Rodriguez were the Shadow Response Team I’d put together after Major Parker gave me the new assignment as the only Texas Ranger in decades to cover the entire Lone Star State.

  The other 166 Rangers are assigned to specific Companies, ranging from Company A through F. A memorized paragraph ran through my mind as perfectly as the Pledge of Allegiance, because I’d taught my wife’s high school class one day and had memorized the details directly from the Texas Ranger website.

  Rangers are supervised by a Division Director, Assistant Division Director, two Headquarters Majors, three Headquarters Captains, six field Majors and sixteen field Lieutenants. The force is organized through six companies. A Major, Lieutenant, and from two to five Rangers are located at each of the Company Headquarters. Additional Rangers are stationed in various towns and cities throughout the state, with each Ranger having responsibility for a minimum of two to three counties, with some even larger areas.