My argument tipped the balance for Sheriff Bastrop, and he seemed to deflate.
“How are you explain finding this waystation, I think you called it, when Buddy and the rest of my deputies seemed to think they have fled the county. I mean, it seems too convenient.”
“Oh, that part is easy, and true,” Pat explained patiently. “After what happened this morning, Bryan, Wade, Wil and Ethan sat down and brainstormed all the places these highwaymen might have hidden out in the county. Bryan may not be a local, but he’s lived here awhile, and those three are not only lifelong residents, but they have worked construction all over these parts when they were teenagers, and Wade makes a living at it still. That’s where our list came from, after all.
“We just wanted to eliminate those most likely hiding spots, and Wil and Ethan made the initial survey, driving by to take a look without tipping anybody off, we hope,” my brother-in-law continued. “The building those two boys wanted to check out used to be part of a hog farm, and this was an old barn situated behind the house.”
”Seriously?” The Sheriff asked.
“Seriously,” I replied with a touch of humor. “Not everything is a big conspiracy, Sheriff. However, if we succeed, I think we will need to write this off as another falling out amongst the criminals. I don’t think any of us need to be acknowledged as being on the scene.”
“Uh, about that,” Bastrop started, then stopped. “Look, I know you guys aren’t going to admit to anything, and I can respect that. The thing is, I have a confession to make, as long as we can keep it between just the three of us. No telling the wives or girlfriends.”
“You’re working for the cartels,” I guessed, pitching my voice low so only the three of us could hear the words.
“What? No, no, that’s not it at all. Quite the opposite.” Bastrop paused for a second to think about how to phrase whatever it was he had to say. Pat and I, curious, gave him that time.
“I was asked to apply for the available position here in Albany County.”
“Major Carstairs?” I asked carefully, testing the waters. But things started to click into place as I thought about the events of the last few months.
“Yes, or as I grew up calling him, Uncle Andy,” the sheriff explained. “My dad was his training officer when he started with the Rangers, and they remained close all the way up until my father passed in 2014. When I graduated from college with a B.S. in Criminal Justice, he tried to get me to join the Highway Patrol, but I had no desire to start my career off writing tickets. So I went to Dallas P.D. instead.”
“Where your first job was writing tickets,” I guessed, and the joke served to relieve some of the tension that had accumulated.
“Exactly. Getting back to what I was talking about a second ago, Andy asked me to apply here because he knew there was going to be an investigation into the Sheriff’s office, and he wanted to have someone he could trust inside. I knew Landshire was a crook, just not the full extent.” Sheriff Bastrop gave a deep sigh, as if preparing himself for another chore he didn’t particularly want to perform. “I have a feeling you went after him to save those two girls that nobody seems to be able to find. Bryan, I wasn’t trying to cause you any heartburn, what I said about Landshire. I was trying to give you a head’s up.”
“What?” I retorted, not able to hide my shock at the unexpected turn.
“You’ve got a rat at your farm. Your nephew Charlie,” the sheriff explained, not trying to draw out the drama. He was looking down and refusing to meet me eyes again.
“He called in at the office a couple of days ago, saying he had information about what happened to the old sheriff. He talked to Dutton, the investigator that took over my old job. He brought it to me, shared what he had. I told him since I was dealing with you on the whole reserve deputy thing, anyway, I would see if I could puzzle anything new out of you.”
“Why?” Patrick asked, and we all knew what he meant. Why would someone we brought in and put under our protection decide to share what he knew with law enforcement? The idea seemed ludicrous, but I sensed Sheriff Bastrop was on the level. He knew too much to mess around.
“He thinks you guys are dangerous. Some of those ‘crazy survivalists out to overthrow the government’, I believe was the exact quote. Said you guys were training as a domestic terrorist cell. All he really had to offer was the sudden appearance of two young ladies at the farm. He said one was there the day those rogue deputies showed up, and she stayed after they left. Then that night, you all showed up with the other one, all beat up. He tried to get them, the girls, to talk, but he said they must have been too scared to tell him the truth.”
“What the hell,” I snarled, turning over the words on my head. “We took him in, gave him and his wife a place to stay. He’s no kin of ours. His wife is the daughter of my dad’s sister, so she’s my second cousin, even though we always called her our niece.”
“Well, you’re going to have to do something about him, about him running his mouth. Not planting him in the back forty,” the sheriff explained, then tacked on that last bit for cover.
“Anyway, that’s part of the reason why I mentioned what happened to the former sheriff. Andy performed his investigation, concluded the missing Sergeant Bailey and his two cohorts was responsible, and left the file open for the sake of appearances. For a lot of reasons, mostly political, nobody is looking to reopen that mess. Are those young ladies going to be a problem?”
“If we had any such residents at our place,” I replied, this time doing my best to pick my words carefully, “they would be free to come and go as they see fit. Just like the other family members sheltering there. I mean, let’s be real. Pat’s wife, my sister, is standing right over there.” I nodded in the appropriate direction. “And she’s standing next to my girlfriend. Both of whom are armed, and prepared to fight at our sides. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to us keeping women as slaves.”
“That’s about what I said to Detective Dutton when he brought it to me.”
“I wonder what prompted him to make those kinds of accusations?” Pat pondered aloud, and the sheriff seemed to hesitate before answering. He sounded pained by the next words he spoke.
“Dutton said his first question was whether there was a reward involved, so you can probably guess his motive.”
The three of us stood in a loose circle for a few quiet moments, then Sheriff Bastrop removed his ballcap, popped it with his hand in a familiar, almost ritualistic fashion, and replaced it on his head with a tug.
“Well, boys, wish I could say it’s been fun, but I’m going to leave you to it. Are you sure you’ve got enough bodies here to subdue those suspected miscreants?”
Again, almost like he was reciting a formula.
“We got this, sheriff. Go on ahead. We’ll let you know when you can come and pick up the trucks. Hopefully you will get that cargo on to the right destination,” I replied, again, ignoring the offer for assistance. If Pat was happy with his plan, far be it for me to interfere.
“There goes our hopes of remaining under the radar,” I muttered as we watched the sheriff drive away.
“Oh, he won’t say anything. Like he said, he’s known for quite a while, and he’s covered for us,” Pat replied calmly. He looked up, judging the overcast sky.
“I wish we hadn’t wasted so much time, but we can handle this.”
“You think we need more hands, don’t you?”
“It would make our job easier,” Pat admitted, then expanded on his answer. “I wish we had that crazy brother of yours, but we’ll make do. Honestly, Mike’s where we need him to be. Protecting our people, and our place.”
With that, Pat shifted gears once again.
“Okay, listen up and gather back around,” Pat announced, raising his voice.
“Now, can we get on with this planning?” Ethan said with a little huff. “Margie said they were making Mexican rice tonight, and I sure love Susanne’s recipe.”
“Now tha
t we’ve made dinner plans,” Pat grated out, “Let’s take a look and see if we can all make it home safely.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After all the buildup, the planning phase for the takedown went off with barely a hitch. Given their lack of real-world experience, Pat assigned Nikki and Nancy to take overwatch positions, with Nancy replacing Wil, and Nikki angling around to cover the approaches from the dilapidated farmhouse to the front of the barn. From where Pat placed them, the two ladies would have nearly total coverage of all four sides of the tin-sided structure, and Pat repeatedly cautioned them about taking shots that might penetrate the thin skinned barn, especially after the rest of us were inside.
Pat dispatched Nikki to the woods near the highway with instructions to find a shooting position in the trees and cover the front side of the barn as well as the house, which Wil had previously discovered lacked most of its roof. No one should be sheltering in the shell of the abandoned structure, but Pat made her promise to spare an occasional glance in that direction as she monitored both the barn and the infrequent traffic on the paved county road to her right. She would alert us if anyone was coming from the road to interrupt our hasty plans.
We approached Wil’s overwatch position at a crawl, spread out like fingers on a hand as we burrowed through the freezing layer of leaves and fallen branches in a low crawl. Not exactly a quiet approach, but the roar of the generator set up outside the old barn managed to drown out any noise associated with our passage. Wil, having received a text warning of our approach, abandoned his Ghillie suit to a grateful Nancy and joined us as we wormed our way closer to the rear-facing side of the building.
Nancy’s new position was a good three hundred yards from the back of the building, and Pat placed her there with the hope that she would never have to fire a shot. He didn’t say that to her, exactly, and I appreciated his handling of the situation. She was willing to be here to have our backs, and that was enough. Nikki, given her more exposed position and proximity to the road, would be more likely to need the use of her rifle. Unsaid was the fact that Nikki had already taken lives, and at close range. I had no doubts my sister would pull the trigger if necessary.
We knew from the previous reconnaissance by Wil and Ethan that the highwaymen had two guards watching the front and back of the driveway. Their positioning, too close to the barn, stationary and without clear sightlines to all four sides of the barn like we had, allowed us a small window of opportunity. From Pat’s plan, we were willing to take advantage. Of course, the fact the rear guard was sitting in a lawn chair with a cooler half-full of beer cans made my job that much easier. And that job was to kill the sentry on duty without getting caught.
Pat had wanted to use knives, but I cautioned him about other eyes on the scene after we were done here, and he opted for pistols instead. He at least thought to carry his suppressed Ruger .22, while I was stuck with a soda bottle hastily duct-taped to the barrel of my Sig Sauer. He did have the more distant target, while I only needed to tiger crawl a few hundred yards under the not-so-broad daylight and shoot my target in the head. Because of the twelve ounce Coke bottle taped to the end of my pistol, I ended up using a piece of string, with loops tied around the barrel and the butt, fashioning a sling of sorts that hung loose around my neck so I could carry the weapon with me. It worked, but the rough collar left me feeling like I had a noose around my neck before the operation even started.
Despite being in the best physical condition of my adult life, I found the crawl challenged my body greatly as I moved on knee pads and the reinforced elbows of my jacket as each limb made contact with the frozen grass and leaves that covered the ground. I felt a swell of gratitude to Pat for making us add the knee pads and elbow pads to our usual assault kit. The man’s experience came to bear once again in making our lives easier.
Under this strain of synchronizing my movements, I found my brain straying for a few seconds. From this angle, I could see the sickly yellowish-green tint to the frost-bitten Bermuda grass, and I thought briefly about the explanation I’d just received from what I privately thought of as my Ag girls. My God, I thought, how are we going to survive this?
Sweating through my clothes despite the cold, I finally reached what I thought of as my optimal range for the pistol work I had in mind. This was murder, pure and simple, and if Wil and Ethan hadn’t confirmed the presence of the stolen trucks and trailers, I might have allowed myself a second of hesitation. The guard was just sitting there, rifle in his lap and drinking his beer, staring in the wrong direction, after all. I did note the presence of the earbud in one ear, the slender plastic cord disappearing down the neck of his woodland camo jacket. He wore a matching set of waterproof hunting pants and boots that I was willing to bet would match some of the footprints Pat had identified back at the ambush site.
No sense in delaying this thing, I told myself as I unslung the awkwardly modified pistol from around my neck. Pat and I didn’t have a signal, since we hadn’t wanted to risk using our short-range encrypted radios, so the plan was to make our shots independently and work from there. The rest of our team waited in the woods, poised for my action and covering my back from any hostile who might emerge from the barn.
I knew from practice, the plastic bottle would only serve to effectively muffle one shot, but I needed to make sure. Reminding myself that this was no different that killing a chicken, just like I did when I executed the sleepers in Landshire’s bunkhouse. I aimed from ten feet away and squeezed the trigger twice in rapid succession.
Pop, POP.
The second shot was nearly twice as loud as the first, still barely audible over the hearing protection in my ears, but I saw the red blossom of two hits high in the back as I bracketed the spine. I was aiming for twin lung shots, with my first target centered where I thought his heart was located. Whatever the result, I never heard the man make a sound as he slumped forward in his lawn chair, looking for all the world like a drunk taking a siesta. Just killing chickens, I repeated to myself.
I paused, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder at the door of the barn as I held my aim, but the dead man never so much as twitched after I delivered my double dose of lead. Finally satisfied, I raised my offhand to give my signal for Wil and Ethan to advance. Then I ripped the ruined plastic bottle off the barrel of my backup pistol and replaced it in the tanker holster across my chest. Hearing the crackle of disturbed frost, I looked up to spot Ethan and Wil sprinting across the three hundred yards dividing the woods from the barn. Well, maybe sprinting was a stretch for that distance, but they were running at a good trot and remembered to vary their steps and direction to avoid making a predictable target for any snipers lying in wait. Wil might have had the experience, but he made sure his brother-in-law knew the drill as well.
My two friends were nearly to the side of the barn when I raised up off one knee and joined them, rifle up and ready to enter. Since I’d heard no rifle fire up to this point, I was going to assume the rest of the operation was going as planned. Wil got us into a credible looking stack as we stood just outside the threshold of the open door, going over our cover assignments one last time before we stormed through into the dim spaces inside.
“Are you two going to be okay with this?” Wil asked as he hunkered down, ready to take the first slot through the wide opening.
“Up for it,” I replied hoarsely, already riding the adrenaline rush of combat. Forcing my mind empty to kill the seated guard had tripped the switches in my brain, and I was ready to get the rest of this chore completed. I risked a glance back, catching Ethan’s wan features in the uncertain shadow of the building.
“Let’s finish this gig,” he said with a nod to himself, unconsciously echoing my own sentiment. Ethan wasn’t a soldier, and he didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body, but he was willing to do what was necessary, even if he didn’t like it. In my mind, that made him a hero, and I resolved to make sure no matter what happened, he was going home to his Margie after th
is was over.
On Wil’s signal, we quietly entered the open doorway of the long barn, and I focused my attention to the right as I scanned my assigned sector. My eyes registered movement, and my finger tightened, drawing half slack as my feet continued to follow Wil’s direction at a fast shuffle. He had front, and I felt the slap of his first rounds firing more than heard them as I zeroed on my own targets. I had two, occupied with hauling a fifty-five gallon drum on a dolly from a tank in the far corner. I registered the old rusty Dodge pickup parked at an angle near the five hundred-gallon diesel tank and felt a release at the added confirmation these were the droids we were looking for after all.
The interior of the old tin-sided barn would have been dark if not for the pair of boom-mounted work lights erected in the four corners, serving as islands of illumination that picked out images in high contrast. I spotted more worklights set up near the rear of the three trucks, and I realized they were probably using some kind of makeshift loading dock to go with the forklifts being operated. In the front corner of the tall metal building, I could make out what must have been the spray rig and several cannisters of what could only be fast-setting paint. That was all the time I had for sightseeing, as the two highwayman I’d already picked out started reacting to our sudden appearance.
Pivoting at the waist, nearly skipping as I took a sliding gait to steady my aim while still proceeding deeper into the barn, I fired off a pair of shots, corrected for the next target, and repeated the double tap. I instinctively avoided holing the drum and made my shots count as I center-punched both men. I saw they carried slung rifles and one had a pistol on his hip, but neither made a move for their weapons. I thought about what had happened to Sally, and I took two more shots as insurance. I hit one square in the temple, and grazed the other across the neck. Then I forced my focus back on scanning for more targets.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 3 | Bite of Frost Page 22