Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Garrett couldn’t get out his apology fast enough. “I’m so sorry, Lacey. I shouldn’t have gotten you mixed up in all this.”

  “Gotten me mixed up?” She let out a little laugh as he took a seat. “I work for Renegade, Garrett. Kind of mixed up in it already, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but not to this extent.”

  Lacey pushed one of the two frosty mugs over to him. “Shiner Bock.” His surprise must’ve registered. “Last night, you said it was your favorite.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to one of these back at this place for long as I can remember.” Garrett smiled as he took the ice-cold beer in hand. “Just imagined the circumstances being a bit different.”

  Every soldier has the meal, and for Garrett it was a Chile Cheese Billy with an order of fried jalapeños. Lacey Capshaw just happened to be the perfect side order to the perfect side order. But given her desperate phone call it was clear all that would have to wait.

  Lacey looked a little guilty. “Sorry about what happened.”

  “Sorry? What on earth do you have to be sorry about?”

  “I wasn’t able to get what you were looking for.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After putting herself in jeopardy, Lacey was worried she’d let him down. “I never should’ve asked you to do that in the first place.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. Because now I know something bad is going on over there.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “The way Bo was acting. It was like he knew that I was on to him. Or on to something. The way he was talking. Grabbed me.”

  “Whoa, wait.” Before the Shiner had even reached his lips, Garrett set it back on the table. “You telling me, he touched you?”

  “Grabbed my wrist and squeezed so hard I dropped the key. There was a noise outside, and he let go. Had someone not been there, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  The idea of Bo making a woman uncomfortable was one thing. He’d probably done that every day of his life. But grabbing Lacey was another.

  “Look, Lacey, Bo’s day is coming. And you won’t have to worry about him. Okay? We’re going to see to that real soon.”

  Garrett was about to tell her Bridger’s plans to go to the Rangers when a half dozen Renegade oil field hands walked in the door. The sight didn’t spook him as much as it did Lacey, but when the crew made their way through a restaurant of empty tables and sat right beside them, it was clear this wasn’t an accident. Bo’s show of force and intimidation was just getting started.

  Leaning across the table, Garrett spoke in a voice that only she could hear. “Your kids still with their dad?”

  The intent of his question was not at all lost on her. She nodded, fighting a show of fear. “Whole weekend. Why?”

  “Follow me back to the ranch.” Garrett glanced over at the Renegade crew who were staring at them. “I got a feeling this thing won’t hold until Monday. And if it doesn’t, I don’t want you by yourself.”

  Garrett was sliding back to leave when his phone buzzed on the table. He answered his dad’s call and immediately detected a tone of regret. It was a sorrow he hadn’t heard since his mother’s accident. It was the way that he spoke when she died.

  25

  Garrett pulled the truck up to the porch, clicked off the headlights, and shut off the engine. At a glance, there were no signs of trouble, and the chimney was belching out smoke like always. So far, so good. Garrett and Lacey walked inside the house to find a scene about as close to a modern-day Norman Rockwell painting as you’ll ever find.

  The old man and the kid were sitting on the couch in front of the fire watching television and eating Hungry-Man frozen dinners. Asadi was launching popcorn chicken into his mouth while Butch was sawing away at a rubbery Salisbury steak.

  As Garrett walked farther into the living room, Asadi unglued himself from the cartoon just long enough to smile and wave. Butch jumped up from the couch and slid past the boy, almost tiptoeing, so as not to interrupt his program. He was clearly surprised to see Lacey but recovered quickly.

  “You must be the girl that put that big smile on this one’s face.” He reached out and shook her hand. “I’m Butch Kohl.”

  She reciprocated and smiled. “Pleasure to know you, Mr. Kohl.”

  “Mister Kohl died in ’87. I’m Butch.”

  “You got it, Butch,” Lacey said with a laugh. “Hard to believe we’re just now meeting after all these years.”

  “Well, I knew your daddy some.” Butch cut eyes at Garrett then back to her. “Don’t care for oilmen much, but he was one of the good ones. Maybe the only one.”

  Lacey looked pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you two were acquainted.”

  “Not well,” Butch admitted. “But we’d see each other over at the feed store now and again. Man had a good eye for horses. Something you don’t find too often these days.”

  Garrett cleared his throat. “Lacey, do you mind if I talk to my dad for a second?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  With a quick glance into the living room, Garrett winced when he saw that Family Guy was on. Last thing he wanted was for Lacey to peg him as a deadbeat caretaker.

  “Hey, Outlaw!” Garrett called. “Want to meet a friend of mine?”

  Asadi popped from the couch, his brow furrowed with purpose as he marched to Lacey and thrust out his hand. “Nice. Meet you.”

  Garrett had seen sloppier performances by guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. On top of ranching and horsemanship, Butch had apparently been running a charm school.

  Clearly impressed, Lacey turned to Garrett and smiled. “My-my, what a gentleman you’ve got here. Color me impressed.”

  Butch was quick to chime in. “That was my doing.” He thumbed over at Garrett. “When this one’s not stuffing the boy full of Bandit burritos, I’ve been teaching him a thing or two.”

  Her eyebrows rose with approval and Lacey gave Butch a nod. “Nicely done.”

  It was about that time Lois Griffin’s nasally voice carried over her own. Garrett glanced over at the television to find a scene playing out that was barely appropriate for himself, much less a ten-year-old. Any admiration gained from Lacey was most certainly lost.

  In a kind but motherly voice, she asked Asadi, “What are you watching in there?”

  “Uh . . . probably something he shouldn’t be,” Garrett interjected. “Would you mind helping him find something a little more—?”

  “Age appropriate.” Lacey checked her watch and looked to Asadi. “Looks like it’s Ninja Turtles time. My son won’t miss them.” She smiled wide. “You a fan too?”

  “He doesn’t speak much English,” Garrett answered. “But I’m sure he’d love it.”

  “Turtles it is.” She took Asadi back into the living room where they made themselves comfortable on the sofa.

  With the two out of earshot and settled into the program, Garrett asked, “You okay, Daddy? What’s going on?”

  A guilty-looking Butch walked over to the pantry and opened the accordion door. Sitting on the top shelf was a stainless steel .357 Magnum nestled in between the Frosted Flakes and three cans of evaporated milk. The walnut grip of the Colt Python was facing them, positioned for quick access.

  Butch pulled the box from beneath a pile of plastic grocery bags and brought it to the kitchen counter. He glanced over at Asadi and Lacey, who were laughing together on the couch.

  Butch opened the box, revealing about half a million dollars, street value, of black tar heroin. Maybe more. Garrett spoke low enough not to be heard by Lacey.

  “Daddy, where in the hell did you get this?”

  Butch explained what had happened in almost excruciating detail, from the time he got the phone call from Kate Shanessy to when he pulled his gun. For some reason, the old man felt it important to give every part of the story equal airtime. Garrett was tempted to jump in but didn’t want to get his dad so flustered he forgot something important.

  When
Butch was done explaining though, Garrett couldn’t resist asking one important question. “Why on earth did you think it would be a good idea to take this?”

  There was a hesitation before Butch spoke and Garrett could tell his dad regretted the decision immensely, but he wasn’t going to readily admit it. “An airplane flies over and drops something on my property, and you think I’m not going to check it out?” He gestured toward the box and the dozens of bags wrapped in cellophane.

  As the only one in Garrett’s family who actually knew he worked for the DEA, it was rare for his father to even acknowledge his work as a federal law enforcement officer, lest there be some vague reference to jackbooted henchmen whose sole job it was to tear up the Constitution and squash the Bill of Rights. But now that Butch had gotten himself into trouble, he seemed to have finally figured out what his son did for a living.

  “Hell. Isn’t this what you do? They ought to be giving me the key to the city for this.”

  Garrett raised his hands and made a big show of pointing out the obvious. “What city? We’re on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, Daddy. And you’re messing with some big-time traffickers here. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.” He turned to Asadi, who was still sitting on the couch engrossed in his cartoons. “And him.”

  Butch stared at the boy with a look of contrition and did something Garrett had never seen him do before—admit he was wrong. “Look, son, it all happened so fast, I didn’t think it through real good.” He walked over to the window and stared out at the blanket of snow stretching as far as the eye could see. After a few seconds of silence, the old dog relented and tried another new trick—asking Garrett’s opinion. “Okay, how do we fix this?”

  Garrett went to stand by his dad. They stared at the prairie in silence. Before anything else, he had to do something about the drugs. Someone somewhere was going to want them back. And when they did, they wouldn’t ask nicely.

  Under normal circumstances he’d call local law enforcement, but that option had problems. First and foremost, he didn’t know who to trust. Even Sanchez was questionable at this point. Whoever owned the heroin was coming for it sooner rather than later. The only viable option was to continue as planned and get the dope to the Texas Rangers down in Lubbock just as soon as humanly possible.

  Garrett was planning next steps when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Quick panicked breathing preceded Bridger’s quivering voice. “Somebody’s got Sophie and Chloe, Garrett. Took ’em. Said Daddy took their drugs. Is that true?”

  “He did, Bridger. But it was just a misunderstanding. We’re gonna—”

  “Garrett, we got to give ’em back. They said they’ll kill my girls if we don’t.”

  Garrett’s mind was racing but it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. The Garzas were sending a message. And the best way to do that was with someone’s children. With the thought of the twins in cartel hands, every law-abiding instinct he had flew right out the window. He’d deal with the aftermath later.

  “Hold tight, Bridger. I’ve got what they want. I’m on my way.”

  Garrett ended the call and turned to find Lacey and Butch staring at him. “The twins have gone missing.”

  Lacey’s hand flew to her mouth. “What happened?”

  “There’s just some threats being made right now. That’s all.” For Butch’s sake, Garrett lied. “We’ve got something they want, and as long as they get it, everything’s gonna be fine.”

  Lacey eyed the package on the counter. “Is that what they want?”

  Garrett nodded. “Taking it to them right now. So, don’t worry.”

  Neither Lacey nor his dad looked convinced.

  Garrett could tell Butch wanted to say something. “What is it, Daddy?”

  Butch glanced at Lacey then back to Garrett. “Your brother. Well, he’s capable enough at most things, but . . . with Sophie and Chloe involved now—” He was clearly skirting the issue of Garrett’s DEA affiliation, so as not to tip off Lacey.

  “I’ll be there every step of the way, Daddy. The girls are going to be just fine. I promise you that. So, don’t worry about a thing. Okay?”

  Butch exhaled and took a big breath. It was as if he hadn’t taken one since the moment Bridger called. His big blue eyes were racked with worry—guilt over the fact that because of what he’d done he might never see his granddaughters again. He looked like he might say something but only nodded.

  Garrett looked to Lacey, who appeared equally concerned. “You mind keeping an eye on these two for me? Don’t expect I’ll be gone too long.”

  Lacey reached over, put her hand on Butch’s shoulder and forced a smile. “Of course not. We’ll keep busy until you’re back.”

  Garrett could tell that she too wanted to say more but was fighting to keep calm. He grabbed the box from the counter, clamped it under his arm, and walked right out the door.

  And in that moment, he turned from lawman to outlaw. His heart sank at the prospect of what he was about to do, even though he knew what the outcome would be if he didn’t. He’d seen lives wasted for a hell of a lot less and this was the only way possible to save the girls. There’d be blood spilled over this.

  Lots of it.

  But there was no blood equal to family.

  Part Three

  The coward never starts and the weak die along the way.

  —Kit Carson

  26

  Smitty quit fumbling with the pack of Winstons and stuffed it back in his front pocket with a shaky hand. His fingers were so numb he could barely work the lighter. He actually hadn’t felt like a smoke, just wanted something to distract him from the freezing cold. He looked over at Floyd Boggs, who was standing at the edge of the caprock, eyes trained on the Kohl house about fifty yards below.

  Boggs was one of those cock-strong sons o’ bitches you couldn’t whup with an atomic crowbar—a full-fledged sociopath who hated drug users with a passion. Called ’em cockroaches. And as a recovering addict, Smitty didn’t get much sympathy.

  Once a tweaker always a tweaker, Boggs would say—usually over some mess-up that could’ve happened to anyone but only seemed to happen to Smitty when Boggs was watching.

  But there was no room for screwups this time. Smitty wasn’t going back to his old ways. Not now. Not ever. And he damn sure wasn’t going back to prison. He had a wife, a daughter, and a pontoon boat out at Lake Meredith. Life was good, if he could just hold on to it.

  Needing some space from Boggs, Smitty moved to his partner’s old van, parked a few yards away, and hopped into the passenger seat. He slammed the door, yanked the phone from his coat, and worked on a frantic text to Malek.

  Shipment got stolen. Now what?

  Waiting for a reply, Smitty hung his arm out the window and yelled over the wind, “See anything yet? Don’t want to be here all damn day.”

  “What’s your big hurry, cockroach?” Boggs turned back again and smiled. “You got somewheres else to be?” He hopped up from his perch and moved to the van. His puffy face was ruddier than normal.

  “Ain’t no hurry. Just don’t like sitting out here in the freezing cold, that’s all.”

  Boggs stuck his giant head through the window, a golf ball–size plug of Red Man chew swelling his left cheek. “You up to something, ain’t ya’?” He leaned in so close Smitty could smell the tobacco juice. “Bo said he seen you talking to somebody up at Locust Grove. Said maybe you done got greedy. Working for the competition.”

  Smitty shook off the accusation. “Hell no. It ain’t like that.” He turned forward and stared out the windshield, hoping Boggs would lose interest. “I done explained all that to Bo at the Wagon Bridge. We got it straight.”

  “Then maybe you back on that dope again, huh?” Boggs smiled wide and pulled his head out of the window. “Once a tweaker always a tweaker.” He just stood there, staring. His reddish-blond beard was nearly sideways from the wind. “Might have to put a bullet in your head before this whole thing is over.”<
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  Smitty closed his eyes and prayed Boggs would just walk away. Nutjob would kill him as quick as Bo. Maybe quicker. And he didn’t need a gun to do it. They’d both done time at the Wynne Unit down in Huntsville, and he’d seen Boggs beat an inmate half to death with only his fists. He was like a psychotic Pit Bull, abused since birth. Didn’t think about biting—just bit.

  “Look, Boggs, all I’m saying is the longer we sit here, the better the chances we get caught.”

  “Ain’t nobody but us and them Kohls within ten miles of here except that shriveled bitch Kate Shanessy. And Bo’s about ready to smoke her old ass anyhow for taking potshots with her rifle at the Garzas’ plane.”

  As Boggs walked back to the edge of the caprock, Smitty jerked the door handle and hopped out of the van. He was eyeing the AK-47 leaning against the tire when Boggs turned back and stared him down. “Don’t be getting no ideas there. I see what you’re looking at.”

  Smitty feigned disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  Boggs was just getting that mad dog look in his eyes when he turned suddenly to the house and dropped to a knee. “Shut up. Something’s happening.”

  Smitty crept up and squatted beside Boggs, right as Garrett Kohl’s black GMC pulled away, kicking a trail of snow and gravel behind it. “You see the old man and that boy?”

  Boggs squinted and craned his neck. “Nah, they’re still inside.” He turned back to Smitty. “We’re going to have to go down there.”

  “What for?” Smitty stared at the windows of the house but couldn’t see any movement. “I thought we were just supposed to let Bo know when Garrett takes off.”

  “We are. But that boy and the old man seen our faces. Know we work for Renegade.” Boggs turned and smiled, a spark in his eyes. “And Bo said Lacey Capshaw’s been snooping around up at the office.”