by Taylor Moore
Looking down at Asadi, he asked, “Well, what’d you think?” He pointed to the window. “Ever think you’d see your country from way up here?”
The boy looked up, his big brown eyes staring back blankly. He wasn’t as impressed as Garrett had hoped. Of course, they were a good four hundred feet off the ground and there wasn’t much to see in the darkness anyhow but a few scattered lights.
After a second, Asadi rose in his seat, glanced out the window, and curled his lips slightly. It wasn’t quite a smile, but Garrett counted it as a win. He reached down and mussed the kid’s hair. “Wish it was daytime. Be more to see.”
That was only partially true. Even in daylight there wasn’t much there but a whole lot of dirt. Of course, the land where Garrett grew up wasn’t that different. The Texas Panhandle was within an area once known as the Great American Desert, an endless sea of grasslands so boundless that the buffalo that once roamed it by the millions made only a speck.
Fortunately, the Kohl Ranch was located by the Canadian River, a near thousand-mile tributary originating in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains of Colorado that meandered lazily through New Mexico and Texas until it finally met the Arkansas. While much of the High Plains was desolate, Garrett’s boyhood home was nestled directly beneath the Caprock Escarpment, a beautiful caliche ridge jutting out from the flat plains a thousand feet high.
On top of scenic views and a natural spring, Garrett’s ranch was teeming with whitetail deer, pronghorn antelope, and aoudad sheep, which shared the grazing with cattle and horses. For a man whose two greatest passions were hunting and riding, it was paradise on earth.
Garrett was about to persist with Asadi when he noticed that the crew chief behind the pilot, an African American woman in her late twenties, kept glancing back at them. He was certain that she, like everyone else at Tsavo, had probably been given the requisite briefing on Secret Squirrel operations.
Don’t talk to the operatives.
Don’t ask them questions.
And you damn sure don’t repeat what you saw. Because you didn’t see anything anyhow.
But her passengers weren’t just unusual for a special ops mission. This was a Rob Zombie meets Mowgli from The Jungle Book kind of bizarre. Who could blame her for staring?
Garrett shot her a smile to let her know it was okay and the crew chief returned the gesture. “Got one about his age back home.”
Garrett detected a sadness in her eyes. “Where’s that?”
With each syllable her southern accent grew more apparent. “Little town outside a Birmingham, Alabama. Place called Toadvine.”
It was obvious she was homesick. Garrett knew the look. He’d seen it in the mirror about a thousand times before. “Got much longer here?”
The crew chief didn’t answer. She was still staring at Asadi, her face etched in worry. “Boy needs a better coat.”
Garrett detected a mild tone of judgment. But when he saw that Asadi was shivering, he understood this mother’s concern. “Yeah, well, I’ll have to do a little shopping when we get where we’re going.” He pulled the kid in closer, a token gesture to make sure she knew he cared. “Weren’t a whole lot of options and we left in kind of a hurry.”
“Where ya’ll—?” Catching herself on the fly, she flipped her question into a statement. “You go shopping, buy goose down or wool. My gramma always says, ‘You can’t outdo what God gave us.’” The crew chief chuckled. “But she’s old school. Grew up on a farm.”
“Me too.” Garrett yanked the wool watch cap from his coat pocket and dangled it for her to see. “And your grandma’s right. Can’t beat the basics.”
With a smile, the woman looked out the window, clearly reminiscing on a moment that meant nothing at the time but everything far from home. “My boy says wool’s too scratchy.” She chuckled again, this time to herself. “Throws a big ol’ fit every time I make him wear it.” Turning back to Garrett a moment later, she was a little misty-eyed. “I guess I’d just rather him be itchy than catch a cold. Know what I’m sayin’?”
Garrett nodded and shoved the hat back into his coat pocket. He didn’t know how to respond, so he just kept quiet.
The crew chief looked down, unzipped the pack beside her, and pulled out what looked to be a folded green blanket. She balled it up and tossed it over. The military-issue nylon poncho liner, affectionally dubbed the woobie, was heaven-sent. Garrett unfolded the garment and draped it over the boy. He even pulled some onto his own lap, craving a little warmth himself.
Content to see Asadi nestled under the blanket, the crew chief smiled and turned back to the window. Her mothering was done, and she went back to soldiering.
On the approach to Bagram, Garrett was taken off guard by their entry on the back side of the base. The bird swung in low, landed at the dark far end of the runway near an awaiting Gulfstream jet. The CIA was for being spooky, but this took the cake.
Garrett had assumed they’d be flying Uncle Sam Airways, but the plane didn’t have the worn-out look of government aircraft. This G700 was fresh off the line—a hell of an expensive flight, but odds were the CIA wasn’t paying a dime. Some billionaire in a place like Dubai owed the Dragon Queen a huge favor, and now she was cashing in. For once, Kim’s heavy hand had turned out to be a blessing.
When the Black Hawk landed, there was no one there to greet them and no instructions over the headset. Their newfound friend simply got up, moved over, and gently unbuckled Asadi’s four-way harness.
Garrett wadded up the poncho liner to hand back, but the crew chief waved him off.
“Keep it,” she said with a smile. “A gift for the little man till you get to where you’re going.”
Garrett nodded a thank-you, led Asadi to the door, and helped him onto the tarmac. In the frigid night air, intensified by the rotor wash, they ducked low, sprinted to the clam-shell stairs, and climbed aboard. Only a few steps into the fuselage Garrett felt immediate warmth.
As they moved through a cabin of planked walnut, Casablanca marble, and white leather sofas, Asadi’s eyes went as wide as saucers. New-car smell had nothing on a seventy-million-dollar luxury jet. The Black Hawk might not have impressed him but the G700 certainly did.
They had barely leaned back into their plush chairs and buckled the seat belts when the jet taxied down the runway and shot them out of Afghanistan at just under Mach speed. It was obvious to Garrett that Kim wanted them gone before midnight and she’d done everything in her power to make it happen. The mission, thus far, had been rush-rush, which made him suspicious.
What the hell was she not telling him?
The assignment was one for the books, or off-the-books, as the case may be. Garrett had done some babysitting before. That was nothing new. But this wasn’t guard duty over some drug dealer ratting out his buddies. This was taking care of a child who’d experienced a tragedy and Garrett didn’t have a clue as to how to do that. He’d barely survived his own.
Asadi hadn’t said a word since the attack, which for the moment Garrett didn’t mind. He needed a little time to think. Going back home was going to be awkward. It had been three years since his last visit, and he’d left more than a few things unsettled. History hadn’t been kind to the Kohl family and he and his father didn’t always see eye to eye. Not only that, Garrett was on bad terms with his brother, who’d in the past been his closest ally.
Other than his dad, nobody knew Garrett was DEA. Given his deep-cover status, he’d kept his work a secret. As far as his brother and sister knew, he was employed by an international offshore drilling company, a perfect cover since he’d worked oil field jobs growing up. It also explained why he was gone for long periods of time and couldn’t readily be reached. They believed he’d been working off the coast of Bahrain for the past year and a half.
At first, Garrett worried his dad might spill the beans, but Butch Kohl was basically a hermit, who only left the ranch to get feed for the horses and cattle or make a grocery run. And even if he had flapped
his gums about his son being a deep-cover DEA officer, no one would believe it. The old man was a borderline crackpot who hated the government. Anyone he told would have believed it to be another of his half-baked conspiracy theories.
Garrett’s oil field cover was the same one he used with the narcos. Because he’d done the job, it gave him credibility. Not only did he look the part, he could walk the walk, working the narcotics supply chain from source to buyer. Like drilling equipment, he could move dope across any border on the planet, which made him lots of friends in the world of smuggling.
Three hours into the flight, the adrenaline had finally worn off and Garrett was feeling the effects. Unlike Asadi, who’d closed his eyes and started snoring the moment his head hit the couch, Garrett sat ramrod straight, staring out the window at the dark abyss. But the dim lighting and the soft whine of the Rolls-Royce Pearl 700 engines eventually worked their magic and sent him adrift in a place somewhere between sleep and consciousness.
Moments later he was shaken from it by a scream and the realization that Asadi was in the throes of a nightmare. Garrett jumped from his plush swivel chair and stumbled across the aisle atop wobbly legs, still sore and aching from the climb earlier that morning. After catching his balance, he took the few steps to where the boy was thrashing under the woobie, sat, and woke him as gently as he could.
“It’s just a dream,” Garrett assured him. “It’s only a dream.”
Garrett used a voice loud enough to rouse Asadi but quiet enough not to frighten him, rubbing his back with the palm of his right hand, making slow clockwise circles between his shoulder blades. It was what Garrett’s mother had done when he’d had nightmares as a child.
As Asadi came to, he lashed out and tried to push away. It was obvious he was fighting off the murderers from his village—his cries were the same. The poor boy was calling out for a mother who’d never again answer. It was the same dream and heart-wrenching pain Garrett had known most of his life.
Asadi looked up, his face wet with tears, and Garrett did his best to convey a look of peace through his eyes. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re safe now. You don’t have to worry about them anymore.”
Garrett nodded, hoping the gesture would convey to Asadi the meaning of his words. After a few seconds, the boy quit squirming and stared back. His body went limp and it was clear what had happened. Asadi had broken out of the awful dreamscape only to realize his reality wasn’t any better, and nothing would ever be the same.
Looking around, Garrett searched for help that wasn’t there. Other than the flight crew, who’d been holed up in the cockpit since they arrived, it was only the two of them. And for the first time in a long time, he felt lonely. Powerless. The kid was damaged goods and needed more care than Garrett could provide.
He glanced down as Asadi closed his eyes. Unsure what to do, Garrett cradled him gently and reclined back into the couch. After a few seconds, the boy was breathing heavily, fast asleep in his arms. Not wanting to wake him, Garrett tilted his head back and rested it against the window. With eyelids too heavy to hold up, he gave in to the darkness, searching for answers to some age-old questions.
At this point in his life, he was well beyond why bad things happen to good people and had moved on to why do they keep happening to me. Was it a test from God? Was there something he should’ve done but didn’t? It seemed the faster he ran, the closer his ghosts followed. And he shuddered to think what would happen when they finally caught up.
5
Making their descent into Texas, Garrett stared out the window of the Gulfstream jet, even though they were above the clouds and there was nothing to see. Anything was better than looking at Asadi, who monitored his every move, and smiled whenever they made eye contact.
On undercover assignments and during past military deployments, Garrett typically kept to himself during his downtime, and preferred others do the same. But it was abundantly clear the kid wanted his attention. He wondered if he could survive this much one-on-one time if the job lasted more than a couple of weeks.
After landing at the Naval Air Station in Fort Worth, Garrett and Asadi were met by a nondescript white van beside a remote hangar. Their driver, who looked to be a plainclothes military police officer, made the two-and-a-half-hour drive west, and dropped them off at the closest thing Garrett had to a home—the thirty-three-foot Airstream Classic he kept parked at the Mesquite Falls RV park on Possum Kingdom Lake. The travel trailer, Skeeter bass boat, and black GMC Sierra HD pickup were the only possessions to his name.
For Garrett, these things were all he needed or wanted, and he found this Jimmy Buffett kind of lifestyle to be one of the better perks of living undercover on the DEA’s dime. As a single man with few expenses, he indulged himself the best he knew how. And lake living on Possum Kingdom was to him what the Fortress of Solitude was to Superman, a place to disconnect from the ugliness he faced on the job and recharge his soul. He got there a lot less than he wanted, but when he did it was magic. His boat, a fishing pole, and an iced-down cooler full of Shiner Bock beer was about as good as it got.
He was tempted to stay a night in the Airstream before heading off to the ranch but figured it’d be going against better judgment. Guests at Mesquite Falls tended to be nosy, as was the lady who ran the place. Over the years, she’d learned to give him some distance, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t spread gossip whenever she had the chance. And him showing up at the lake with a ten-year-old Afghan village boy would be the biggest thing to happen to the RV park in years. So, he wasted no time in charging his truck battery, packing up, and shoving off before alerting the neighbors.
Garrett had expected the drive from Possum Kingdom would take about six and a half hours, but according to reports, the northwest part of the state was already getting pelted with an incoming Blue Norther. In his opinion, there was no weather phenomenon more beautiful or more deadly. Depending on her mood she could be heaven, hell, and everything in between.
The rolling wall of blue-black clouds could plunge temperatures by sixty degrees in a matter of only a few hours, and even result in a full-on blizzard if conditions were right. Expectations for this storm weren’t as dire, but still to be considered. Garrett would have to take extra caution.
Proceeding northwest at a quick clip, Garrett and Asadi shot through Wichita Falls on their way to the heart of the Panhandle. It was a tour through the old country where Garrett’s Comanche ancestors once reigned supreme, terrorizing anyone who’d dared venture onto their land. This route even took them through Quanah, named after Quanah Parker, son of Comanche Chief Peta Nocona and wife Cynthia Ann Parker, a settler’s daughter kidnapped at the age of ten who ultimately assimilated into the tribe.
Garrett turned north off 287 to cut across Interstate 40 just shy of Goodnight, thus named after his boyhood hero. On top of being a superlative cowboy, Indian fighter, and Texas Ranger, Charles Goodnight had famously blazed a trail as far north as Wyoming with herds of livestock.
The farther Garrett drove, the more he remembered how much he loved this part of the state. From Palo Duro Canyon to the Oklahoma border, the land looked and felt like the Wild West. It was the old stomping grounds for buffalo hunters, scouts, and gunfighters like Bat Masterson, Billy Dixon, and Kit Carson. This rough country drew in tornadoes and wildfires like flies to honey. And the people inhabiting it now had as much grit as the ones who’d settled it.
Large ranches that encompassed dozens of square miles were cut in half by deep valleys and sharp ravines, exposing soil so red in places it looked drenched in blood. On the vast plains, massive center-pivot irrigation systems a quarter mile long ran parallel with the horizon, while rusty pump jacks bobbed on the scrubby ranchland.
Cattle hunkered behind windbreaks made of corrugated tin to get out of the blowing snow, fighting for prime real estate around feed bunkers teeming with grain. Others, not as lucky, wove paths through thorny mesquite brush, nuzzling through inches of powdery snow to scare up what
was left of the short-shorn winter wheat.
Over centuries, this stretch of land spanning several million acres had gone by many names. Texas High Plains. Llano Estacado. And Comancheria. But one thing never differed. It was rough and unforgiving country—both an island and a fortress, forming a natural barrier to those not welcome. If Mother Nature didn’t kill you, Indians or outlaws probably would.
With the exception of its inhabitants, not all that much had changed. Most who lived there still preferred isolation. It was a great place to hunker down, escape, or hide. And like outlaws of ages past—many still did.
Garrett pulled the black Ray-Ban Aviators from his face and tossed them on the dash. He looked over at Asadi, buckled in the passenger seat beside him, and pointed to the Flying Bandit Travel Stop off in the distance. Towering over the building was its trademark sign—a neon cowboy atop a galloping red horse. The motto for every franchise location was the same.
You’re in cowboy country, pardner. Enjoy the ride!
There was something about the image and slogan Garrett had always loved. It made the Texas High Plains seem rugged and untamed, like it had been two hundred years ago. And apparently, he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.
Asadi was grinning, mesmerized by it too. He turned, pulled out imaginary six-shooters from his belt, and made pewpew sounds with his mouth.
Garrett pulled a hand from the wheel, clutched his chest, and let out a howl. “Okay, Outlaw! You got me! I give up!”
Asadi laughed, blew pretend smoke from his fingertips, and returned the guns to their holsters.
Happy to see the boy in good spirits, Garrett checked his watch and saw it was well past noon. “You hungry?” he asked, glancing over. “Want something to eat?”