Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  As the pilot brought the tail around, Kaiser scanned left and found the kids. He put the crosshairs on one of the Kohl girls.

  Hopefully, it was that bitch who’d whacked him.

  But the Bell suddenly dipped, knocking him off target.

  He worked hastily to find them again and drew favor with the wind. A quick lull, Kaiser readjusted, and found one in his sights.

  Resting the crosshairs on the boy’s face, Kaiser pulled the rifle tight to his shoulder, and braced for recoil.

  From the hackberry grove, Garrett watched the white Ford one-ton drive onto the tank battery. The flickering flames of the gas flares illuminated gunmen inside the cab and several in the bed. Looked to be six in total.

  They pulled up around behind the oil tanks and Garrett lost visual. The brakes squealed, and the engine died to a muffled rumble.

  Allowing them a few seconds to disperse, Garrett spurred King into a gallop, crossing the flat and leaping onto the pad from behind a compressor unit. He’d just shouldered his rifle when he came within ten yards of a guard standing by the office door.

  The startled sicario yanked up his AK to fire a half second too late. Garrett’s irons were already center mass. Pulling the trigger twice, he landed a double tap to the chest. The gunman stumbled backward and collapsed in the snow.

  Garrett scanned left, then upward, following a heavy knock of gunfire. On the scaffolding above the tanks, a shooter sprayed wildly, taking no time to aim.

  After firing two low shots that sparked off the grated scaffolding, Garrett raised his rifle, canted from irons to optics, and eased the crosshairs between the yellow bars of the handrail. A squeeze of the trigger and his bullet caught the gunman in the right thigh.

  The sicario wavered but kept firing.

  Garrett adjusted aim and took a headshot. The gunman crumbled and somersaulted down the stairs with a reverberating clang.

  Spurring King into a trot, Garrett scanned right to the Renegade truck where he glimpsed a muzzle flash. Inside the cab a pistol barked twice, and its rounds cracked overhead.

  Rotating his rifle just a fraction, Garrett switched from optics to irons, found the gunman inside the window, and put three rounds in his chest and neck.

  Garrett spun. Saw the backs of two deserters taking cover in the mesquite brush.

  There was panicked shouting, followed by the distinctive knock of AK-47s as they fired back blindly. Seconds passed, the gunfire subsided, and the gunmen fled the scene.

  Dismounting on the fly, Garrett jogged between the oil tanks where he’d left Ray Smitty. The wretch had propped himself up on his elbows and was moaning like a wounded animal.

  Garrett knelt beside him. “Got any smokes?”

  Smitty reached inside his coat with a shaky hand and pulled out a crunched pack of Winstons and a red Bic lighter. “This ain’t like my last request or something, is it?” He chuckled nervously as he handed them over.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Garrett pulled a bent cigarette from the pack, clamped it between his pointer and middle fingers, and placed it on his lower lip. “My guess is stupidity will kill you long before I do.”

  “While you’re at it.” Smitty eased his bloody hand up. “Wouldn’t mind one myself.”

  Garrett lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and tossed the pack and lighter back to Smitty. Eyeing the oil and gas separator, he asked, “About how fast can you run?”

  Preoccupied with Garrett’s question, Smitty lost interest in his cigarettes. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

  “I said, how fast can you run?”

  “Not too fast,” Smitty whined. “You done shot me in the hip and that Indian kid stuck me with an arrow. Cain’t even feel my feet no more I’m so damn cold.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that last part.”

  Watching the glowing tip of the cigarette, Smitty’s eye went wide. He scurried to his feet and hobbled toward the ravine.

  Garrett walked back to the idling Renegade truck, put it in gear, and drove over to the oil and gas separator unit. He put it in park, hopped out, and took the plastic jerry can full of gasoline from the bed. Unscrewing the lid, he tipped the can over inside the cab.

  Giving it a few seconds to gurgle out onto the floorboard, Garrett took several big drags off his cigarette, then flicked it inside and slammed the door.

  Sprinting away he heard a whoosh then a whump, and not a second later the ice-covered mesquite flickered like amber diamonds. The natural gas line exploded and flames from the first oil and gas separator rose sixty feet in the air.

  Garrett jumped into the saddle and got King into a gallop just as the first cauldron blew. The shock wave nearly knocked him from his saddle. Fighting for balance, he turned to see a tempest of orange flames and a rolling mushroom cloud of billowing black smoke.

  At a safe distance, Garrett turned back and watched with a smile.

  The destruction.

  The chaos.

  This multimillion-dollar bonfire was about to get some serious attention.

  With his crosshairs set on the boy, Kaiser rested the pad of his finger on the trigger and was about to pull when panicked shouting erupted in the cockpit. He’d turned to give Zuma a good ass-chewing when the domino explosions at the Central Tank Battery superseded his plans.

  “What—the—” Kaiser’s eyes went wide at the whump, whump, whump of exploding steel cauldrons both felt and heard in the air from a half mile away.

  “Get us over there! Now!”

  A squeamish-looking Zuma pushed the stick left, raised the collective to get some speed, and made a straight shot to the Central Tank Battery. The bluish glow from the full moon that had bathed the white landscape gave way to a hellish red blaze emanating from the twisted steel flow lines and towering reservoirs of burning crude.

  As Zuma made a couple of wide passes around the fiery wreckage, Kaiser spotted the burning hull of the white Renegade truck and two dead bodies atop the pad. About to make a third pass around, Kaiser caught a glimpse of movement in the ravine.

  He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed to the writhing body. “Take her down. We’ve got a live one.”

  Maneuvering into a clearing, Zuma dropped the skids with a jarring thud. Snow whipping up from the rotor wash circled the Bell in a blinding white whirlwind.

  Kaiser opened the door, shouldered his rifle, and jumped out. With the sharp bite of snow and ice stinging his face, he ducked low and sprinted out of it. He followed the pathetic moan that ultimately led to Ray Smitty.

  On his back, looking near dead, Smitty lay with cheeks glistening in the leaping flames from the tank battery atop the ridge. “Oh, thank God, man! Thank God!”

  Kaiser lowered the C20 and knelt beside him. “What the hell happened?”

  Smitty looked as if he’d seen a ghost. His state of consciousness was somewhere between delirious and dying. He eked out the words, “Shot me.”

  Gripping Smitty’s face between his thumb and fingers, Kaiser pointed to his blazing facility. “Not to you! I’m talking about up there! What. Happened?”

  “That Green Beret is what happened. Blew everything all to hell.”

  “I can see that, you idiot!” Kaiser let loose and watched as Smitty struggled to push himself up. “How? I sent Rocky and Nagual’s men to back you up.” He looked up and surveyed the top of the ridge, wondering if Garrett was up there now. “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you not to let him slip by.”

  He swung his leg back and kicked Smitty in the ribs. “Every bit of oil and gas I’ve got on this place is going up in a damn ball of flames because you couldn’t handle a simple job!”

  Drawing back for another kick, Kaiser stopped short, fighting like hell to calm down and collect his thoughts. “Did you at least see where he went?”

  Smitty raised a shaky arm and pointed to nowhere. “Went after Rocky and Nagual’s boys on horseback.” His voice was low and raspy. “Tore off after ’em lik
e he was tracking a deer.”

  Kaiser looked down and kicked a boot full of fresh powder in Smitty’s face. “This is all because you and that Boggs couldn’t get the dope from an old rancher. Now this crap’s really gonna get messy.”

  Smitty tried to push himself up but his arms gave out. “I need a doctor.”

  Kaiser laughed. “Well, you’d better get a move on then. Closest hospital is in Gray County. And that’s a good twenty miles.”

  “Please. You gotta fly me out.” He pointed to Kaiser’s helicopter and croaked out his plea. “I’ll die out here.”

  “Go on and die.” Kaiser turned and marched away. “Doubt anybody’ll miss you.”

  Remembering Smitty had a wife and kid he felt a tinge of guilt. But not enough to waste a trip to Pampa. Back aboard, Kaiser donned his headphones and turned to Zuma. “Take her up.”

  Zuma pulled the collective and the Bell lifted off the ground. Once they were up about a hundred feet, he turned to his boss. “Where we headed?”

  Hatred burning in his eyes, Kaiser stared down at the inferno below, watching as his tank battery warped into a pile of molten rubble. “We’re going to find the man responsible for this. And when I’m done, there’ll be nothing left of him to bury.”

  39

  When Garrett got to the edge of the mesquite brush, he brought King to a halt, jerked his TX15 up, and scanned the flat horizon. Two of the runaways he’d tracked from the Central Tank Battery were kneeling behind a concrete feed bunker about seventy yards out. The tops of their heads were barely visible above a windswept pile of powdery snow.

  He spurred the sorrel into a full gallop and made a wide loop on the gunmen’s flanks. Forty yards from the first shooter, he lined up his iron sights and popped off a shot. His aim wasn’t perfect, but close enough. The bullet ripped through the sicario’s belly and doubled him over.

  Galloping past the bunker, Garrett ducked as a bullet snapped by. He tugged the reins left, making a sharp pivot, and leveled his rifle at the remaining sicario who fired wildly.

  With a quick squeeze of the reins, Garrett set the crosshairs on the shooter’s midsection and let off a round that sent him tumbling over the bunker and into a snowbank.

  Lowering his rifle, Garrett spied a third hiding gunman behind a fallen hackberry tree forty yards to his right. As the guy darted into the mesquite thicket, Garrett popped three quick shots. He pulled the reins right and gave King a little spur.

  They loped across the plains until they arrived at the edge of the undergrowth, where Garrett slowed King to a trot. The moonlit sky provided just enough light to see the gunman’s trail.

  The tracks, sinking deep in the snow, appeared to be made by work boots. Kaiser’s man for sure. And a big one at that.

  Garrett followed the prints to where they dead-ended at a frozen creek beneath a rickety bridge made of old railroad ties. Unsure if the gunman had gone over or under it, he leapt from the saddle, shouldered his rifle, and eased up slowly.

  He was almost convinced the guy had vanished when the barrel of an AR-15 slid around a concrete piling and fired.

  Startled, Garrett dove prone, aimed at the leaping flames of the gunman’s muzzle, and pulled the trigger rapid fire.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped. And the guy leaned out for a look.

  With a quick breath and careful aim, Garrett put a round through the gunman’s shoulder.

  Unfortunately, the bullet was little more than a nuisance. The guy barely flinched. He just popped in another magazine and went back to firing.

  Garrett emptied his own rifle, dropped the mag, and jammed in another. He was chambering a round when the shooter blitzed, barreled over, and slammed him to his back.

  Pinned beneath the weight, Garrett absorbed the first blow from Rocky Anderson’s meaty fists with his face. The punch felt like a sledgehammer but the second was even worse. Pissed off and thirsty for blood, the cage fighter was well on his way to getting his fill.

  Zuma yelled through the headset, “Over by the bridge!”

  Right where they were headed, Kaiser observed two men fighting near the creek’s edge. It had to be Garrett Kohl.

  “Get on top of them and gimme a good angle.”

  Zuma nudged the cyclic forward and spun around to get Kaiser in position. The pilot fought the stick, but the chopper still bucked with every gust of wind.

  Kaiser edged the C20 out of the gun port. “That’s Rocky. Bring her around and keep steady.”

  Kaiser brought the scope up to his eye, but with the wind blasting, he couldn’t keep the brawling figures in frame. He turned to Zuma and snarled, “Thought you were the big hero pilot. Flew into a hurricane and rescued some rig hands or fisherman or some crap.”

  For once Zuma had no response, just kept working the pedals.

  Kaiser took out his phone and texted Nagual.

  We found Garrett Kohl. You got the kids yet?

  Nagual texted back:

  Soon.

  Kaiser replied:

  Good. Send me some troops. We take out Kohl, this thing is over.

  Turning to his pilot, Kaiser pulled the rifle in from the gun port. “Just go ahead and land. I’m gonna go out there and end this for good.”

  With each jarring blow, Garrett faded. He gave a hard shove, but Rocky held tight, cocked a fist and raised it for leverage. Mustering what little strength he had left, Garrett thrust his knee upward, catching Rocky square in the balls.

  The cage fighter groaned, his body seized, and Garrett threw a left cross to the chin.

  Dazed but not done, Rocky lunged for Garrett’s throat, but was met with a solid right that smacked his jaw. His eyes rolled backward, he swayed left, and collapsed like timber.

  Garrett gasped for air, drawing in a blizzardy breath from the chopper’s rotor wash. Light-headed and weary, he scuttled to his feet on shaky legs, and spun in search of the helo.

  A full woozy circle and he found the Bell not thirty yards out, settling into a clearing behind some mesquite. Its skids had just touched the ground when Garrett ripped the Nighthawk from his holster, took aim, and fired.

  Kaiser had just reached for the door handle when Garrett’s bullets peppered the windscreen. Throwing his forearms in front of him, he braced for the shock of incoming rounds. But it was the wope-wope-wope of the Ground Proximity Alarm that really woke him up.

  The high-pitched shriek was soon overcome by a grinding buzz like a chainsaw on iron. The tail rotor was churning through mesquite.

  While the fuselage bucked to forty-five degrees, he turned to the pilot and clutched a fistful of sleeve. “Pull it together, dammit!”

  Zuma pushed the cyclic and worked the pedals like mad. With a pull of the collective, the bird climbed, and the alarm went silent. As they rose above the swirling blizzard from the rotor wash, blasts of frigid air whistled through tiny bullet holes into the cockpit, knocking the already low temp down a few degrees.

  Zuma jerked the cyclic left to get them the hell out of Garrett’s bead as he frantically checked his controls. Remarkably, there was no other damage.

  “Dammit, Mr. Kaiser! We’re lucky he didn’t knock us out of the sky!”

  “The sky?” Kaiser pointed at the ground. “We’re a hundred feet up!”

  Realizing that Zuma was rattled enough already, Kaiser took a deep breath and spoke calmly. “Now listen to me closely. Sooner you give me a shot, the sooner we’re back on the ground.”

  Zuma didn’t respond but gave the bird some left pedal to turn them back in the right direction. Despite the cold, his brow was dripping sweat.

  Satisfied that his pilot was halfway under control, Kaiser slid his rifle out the port and searched with his scope. “Get lower so I can see him.”

  “Lower?” Zuma huffed into the mouthpiece. “We’re clipping the damn treetops as it is.”

  Scanning the area with his optics, Kaiser saw nothing below but a bunch of spent cartridges and an unconscious Rocky Anders
on.

  Garrett Kohl and his sorrel were nowhere to be found.

  40

  Asadi’s excitement bubbled over as he watched two white pickups roar across the prairie, racing toward the thundering blaze in the distance. He had no idea what had exploded but had an idea who was responsible. It was the man who had saved him in Nasrin, the cowboy who had promised—you’ll always be safe with me. With a big smile, Asadi turned to find Sophie.

  Leaning in close, she whispered, “Come on! Now’s our chance!”

  Keeping his head below the snowy shrubs, he scurried behind the girls for about fifty yards until they arrived at the end of the hedgerow. Sophie sat on her haunches and turned back. “Think it’s safe to cross?”

  Chloe leaned around her sister and eyed the garden terraces between them and the mansion. Each one glowed under a towering floodlight.

  “I don’t know, Soph.” She shot her sister a skeptical look. “I think they’ll see us.”

  Sophie rose and peeked over the bushes. “They might. But we have to chance it. If someone is coming to our rescue, we have to be where they can find us.”

  Chloe pointed to a building about forty yards down an incline to the right. It had rock walls, a steepled tin roof, and massive plank doors. “What about that place?” she asked. “Looks like a barn or something.”

  Sophie’s eyes lit up. “If there are horses we can ride out of here.”

  Asadi could not follow what they were saying but heard the word horse. And it did not take a genius to understand what they were planning.

  Chloe turned to him and made the running motion with her arms. “You ready?”

  Asadi nodded and Chloe scrambled to her feet, sprinting from the hedgerow with Sophie on her heels. Immediately, gunfire erupted like a thousand firecrackers at once.

  Scared to move, but too terrified to stay, Asadi sprung from the bushes, bounding through the powder like a jackrabbit. He raced across the courtyard, ducking each time a shot screamed past. When he finally reached the barn, his heart pounded as he gasped for breath.