Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  While the sheriff returned to his patrol car to see if there was a listed telephone number, Zach and Sam peered in at acres and acres of junk cars, piles of scrap iron, several old boats of various sizes, and at least four campers of such primitive construction and age that it looked like they might come with an outhouse in tow.

  In the middle of the sea of trash, the outline of a roof and chimney was visible.

  Zach strolled back to his truck, stepping up to stand on the back bumper so as to gain a better angle. “Hmmm. Now that is really interesting,” he stated. “In all this garbage, I can spot three brand new pickups and a bright yellow sports car parked by the office,” he informed his partner. “Somebody’s home.”

  Just then, a low growl sounded from the weeds, soon followed by the appearance of a massive dog. Less than a minute later, there were two canines letting the rangers know they weren’t welcome.

  “For once, I’m glad there’s a fence,” Sam commented, holding her ground. Zach noticed her hand resting on the butt of the .45, but decided it was a bad time for humor.

  “Nothing worse than junkyard dogs,” Zach agreed.

  When the sheriff reappeared, the animals began barking and howling up a storm.

  “I guess they don’t like police officers around here,” the lawman said over the ruckus. “I asked the dispatcher to call our friends and see if anyone answers. She’ll radio me back in a minute.”

  “No need,” Sam said, nodding back toward the yard’s resident. “I think the dogs have announced our presence.”

  The lawmen looked up to see an older, gray-haired man heading toward the gate, a double-barrel shotgun resting across his arms.

  Dressed in a sleeveless, dirty, once-white shirt and scruffy overalls, Zach estimated the new arrival had neither bathed nor shaved in over a week. Even then, clean clothes hadn’t been available from the looks of it. “What business do you have here?” he called from 50 feet away.

  “Mr. Bender,” the sheriff shouted over the dogs, “I have two Texas Rangers here with me. We’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  “Rangers? What the hell do the rangers want?” the poorly groomed fellow bellowed. “Well, go ahead and talk. I can hear ya just fine from here.”

  “It would be easier, sir, if we could speak someplace without the dogs,” Zach offered, stepping to the sheriff’s side.

  “Muffin! Cupcake! Y’all get back to the shed! Go on now!”

  The two brutes seemed confused by their master’s command, offering one last growl and display of bare teeth to the visitors at the gate. Then as ordered, they trotted off, never giving the lawmen another look. Mr. Bender drew closer but didn’t offer to unlock the chain.

  Staring at Sam and shrugging, Zach whispered, “Looks like talking through the fence is about the best we’re going to get without a warrant, SWAT team, and 20 rangers.”

  “Be my guest,” the raven-haired ranger replied. “I’ll stay back here and watch the show.”

  “Mr. Bender,” Zach began, strolling up to the enclosure. “A little over a year ago, someone from your company attended an auction at East Texas Tool Supply and purchased several pieces of oilfield equipment. Do you recall that event?”

  Bender shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe. But buying stuff at an auction isn’t illegal.”

  “No, sir, it’s not. We’re trying to trace one of the valves supposedly purchased by your firm as part of a broader investigation. What we’d like to know is who you sold it to.”

  Bender spit and then replied, “I’d have no idea about that, son. Even if we did buy the part you’re looking for, there’s no telling who, when, or where we resold it. I have scrap dealers coming through these gates with dump trucks about twice a week. We’ve got oilfield mechanics in here several times a month looking for spares and unusual parts. We mostly charge them by weight, not any serial or part numbers.”

  “Could you please check your records?” Sam asked stepping forward.

  The question drew another grunt and then a nervous smile. Sweeping his arm around the premises, Bender answered, “Pretty lady, does this look like a business that keeps computer inventory? We deal in cash and scrap by the ton.”

  Something in the man’s tone and manner told Zach they weren’t getting the entire story. The sheriff picked up on it, too. “Did you go to the auction personally, Mr. Bender?”

  “No. As I recall, one of my boys went.”

  “Which one?”

  The junkman temper flashed red hot, his eyes opening wide while his grip on the shotgun tightened. “What’s this all about, sheriff? We ain’t done nothing wrong. Y'all leave my boys out of this.”

  Sam’s frustration boiled over, the last week of dead ends and the constant pressure from Austin bubbling to the surface. Marching forward and wagging her finger at the old man, she barked, “This is critical information, sir. We are conducting a homicide investigation, as well as a potential act of official terrorism and treason. So either cease and desist with the stonewalling, or I’ll come back here tomorrow morning with 50 heavily armed Texas Rangers and a handful of search warrants. Understand?”

  The play didn’t work. Bender stood still for a few moments and then responded, “I’ll see you in the morning then, pretty gal. Feel free to bring breakfast with ya. Until then, this conversation is over.”

  And with that, he turned and ambled away from the three lawmen.

  “Fuck!” Sam barked, pivoting abruptly and facing Zach. “Why be such an asshole? What a jerk.”

  It was Zach’s turn to rub his chin, the ranger’s steady gaze following old man Bender as he strolled back toward the building. “You’re right, Sam,” he finally offered. “He is hiding something, and maybe… just maybe, you might have just flushed out the truth.”

  “Huh?”

  “All those brand new vehicles I saw back there don’t fit the bill. And his reaction doesn’t match his story. We may have just hit pay dirt.”

  “I don’t follow,” the sheriff chimed in.

  “Let’s see if any of the Bender clan decide it’s a good time to take a trip before we come back in the morning. I’ve got a feeling he knows a lot more than what he’s telling us.”

  “Do you want me to get started on the warrants?” the sheriff asked, obviously dreading the task.

  “No, sir. Thanks, but let’s hold off on that for now. I really don’t think that will be necessary. What I would like to have is a list of the cars registered to the old man and his boys. That might come in handy. Oh, and while you’re at it, can you run a check on any other properties owned by the Bender clan. I’d be especially interested in anything purchased lately.”

  Chapter 6

  The Bottoms presented two advantages, as least as far as the rangers were concerned.

  First, there was only one route in or out.

  Second, that road offered plenty of concealment for a stakeout.

  “So you really think it’ll be that easy?” Sam asked, watching Zach back the state-issued pickup into a spot where they could observe the road.

  “I can’t be sure,” he responded, “but it’s worth a few hours of our time. Something was bugging the old man, and all those new cars just seemed a bit out of place. I think he believed you’d be back with a warrant, and it wouldn’t surprise me if one or more of them try to get out of Dodge before we show up in the morning.”

  It was exactly 97 minutes before a bright yellow Corvette rolled down the lane. Zach’s smug expression and head bobble indicating, “I thought you boys would make a move,” caused Sam to roll her eyes.

  “How do you know that’s one of the Benders?”

  “That’s the car I saw back at the junkyard. Besides, how many new Corvettes do you think are garaged in this neck of the woods?”

  The rangers waited a short time before pulling out to follow, Zach already having a good idea where the young Bender was going. According to the sheriff, the old junk dealer had recently purchased a hunting cabin 60 miles north. />
  Keeping the suspect’s car in sight was easy, its unusual color remaining visible for some distance. Even when the flashy ride zipped up the entrance ramp to I-10, the rangers had no issue spotting their man.

  The Vette was only on the interstate for a few miles before it signaled to exit. “I bet he heads north,” Zach grinned. “He’s not even going to stop for beer or beef jerky on the way.”

  Sure enough, the yellow sports car behaved as Zach had predicted, shooting north as if being chased by the devil.

  There was no way Zach’s pickup could keep up with the much faster Chevy, but that didn’t bother the ranger at all. He knew where the kid was going.

  “I have a lot of questions for you, young Mr. Bender. Where did your family’s sudden wealth come from? How did you all afford new cars and a new hunting lodge? Why didn’t your father want you to talk to us?”

  Bubba watched the Corvette’s speedometer reach the 70 mile per hour mark before he let off the gas. Now wasn’t the time to get pulled over for speeding.

  With a nervous glance, he checked the review mirror again, fully expecting to spot a dozen police cars racing up on his back bumper. No law in sight, he told himself.

  He glanced nervously at the cell phone resting in the passenger seat, trying desperately to resist the urge. Instead of reaching for the mobile, he chose to light a Marlboro instead. It was his third smoke in the last 15 minutes.

  The Frenchman had said the shipment would be untraceable. What’s more, that fucking asshole had promised the equipment was going to South America.

  When the news had splashed last week that parts made in Texas had somehow managed to land in Syria, he hadn’t made the connection. When the president had said the rangers were looking into the matter, it had all seemed a world away.

  Even when his pa had put two and two together, the old man and his brothers hadn’t been concerned. It was very unlikely anybody could follow the trail through a bankrupt company and public auction. Damn near impossible the old man had thought.

  But the international heat on Texas was getting hotter. Just yesterday, two of her biggest corporate employers had announced layoffs. Australia had banned the import of natural gas from the Lone Star Republic, and President Simmons had gone on national television to reassure everyone that the rangers were on the hunt.

  And then they just showed up a little over an hour ago, asking questions about that fucking valve.

  The Frenchman had lied. Yes, he’d paid a premium for the old parts. Cash as it were, nearly 30 times what the product was worth. But still, he’d lied right through his teeth.

  Again, Bubba peered at the cell phone. He had the man’s number, weird prefix and strange string of figures.

  After another glance in the mirror, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. Exhaling a billowing cloud of smoke, Bubba reached for the device, located the number, and hit the call button.

  As expected, no one answered. After six rings, a mechanical voice came on the line and spoke a series of words Bubba couldn’t understand. A few seconds later, the beep of an answering machine sounded.

  “This is the guy who sold you that oilfield equipment, asshole,” Bubba half shouted in the phone. “I just had the sheriff and two Texas Rangers show up at our business. I need to get out of Texas now. Right now. And if you don’t help me, I’m going to tell them everything I know in order to cut a deal. You’ve got my number. Call me.”

  Somehow, it made him feel better. Despite being an outright liar, the Frenchman had to have connections. At this point, Bubba didn’t care who those contacts were. He’d been in jail, and the thought of going back was simply unacceptable.

  Up ahead, a neon sign drew the fugitive’s attention, the bright light illuminating what he recognized as Coleman’s Ice House.

  “I bet those jerk-off brothers of mine didn’t leave a single brew at the hunting cabin,” he whispered. “Besides, I might have to hole up for a while. A carton of smokes wouldn’t hurt.”

  Flicking on the blinker, Bubba smiled knowingly as he slowed for the roadside tavern’s parking lot. “Being on the lam is thirsty work,” he said to himself. “A nice cold one while I’m here can’t hurt a thing.”

  Zach almost missed the Corvette’s yellow tail sticking out between two pickup trucks. With quick reflexes and an ungraceful application of the brakes, he managed to swerve the pickup into the lot without squealing the rubber.

  “Don’t tell me we’re stopping for a beer?” Sam spat, the maneuver taking her completely by surprise.

  Zach didn’t answer. Instead he just pointed to the suspect’s car in the lot.

  “I guess he got thirsty,” Sam said. “Either that or he’s meeting someone here. Maybe you’re entirely wrong about this. Maybe he just had a date tonight.”

  “Maybe,” Zach replied. “But my gut says the Bender boys are the small fish in all this. And when the small fish get nervous, they typically run for cover or try to hide behind big brother.”

  The ranger parked his ride where he could observe the yellow car and yet still not be obvious. That wasn’t hard, as Coleman’s lot was full of similar trucks. “This place is hopping tonight,” Zach nodded. “I wonder if the band is any good.”

  Sam ignored the remark, choosing instead to study a couple approaching the establishment’s front door. “Doesn’t look like we’re overdressed, for sure.”

  “Except for the badges and guns, I bet we’d fit right in. Well… maybe the badges would stand out. This is Texas, after all.”

  A questioning look from his partner caused Zach to shake his head. “No, I don’t want to go in. If he’s just inside buying a 12-pack for the road, it’s not worth the exposure.”

  “And if he’s meeting the diabolical mastermind behind this whole Syrian parts shipment?”

  “We’ll sit right here for a while. If any evil genius type wearing a keffiyeh strolls across the parking lot, we’ll go in.”

  The vision caused Sam to chuckle. “Why do I get the feeling not a lot of Arab customers frequent Coleman’s Ice House?”

  Sam’s laughter caused Zach to smile as well. He liked it, and the realization of that made the Texan ponder his relationship to the woman next to him.

  “We don’t do enough of that,” he finally announced in a low voice.

  “What’s that?”

  “Laugh. We’re always snarking at the world or each other, but it’s rare that we have a genuine laugh together.”

  “Why Zachariah Bass, don’t tell me you’re getting all soft and emotional on me. Am I getting ready to see the big teddy bear that really lurks inside that tough, West Texas exterior?”

  Her reaction surprised Zach, but then he realized it shouldn’t have. “Never mind,” he mumbled, shifting his gaze back to the bar’s front door. “I say stupid shit when I’m tired.”

  Sam also experienced a realization, a flash of embarrassment warming her cheeks as it dawned that her response had been far too harsh. Zach never saw it, and for the time being, that with just fine with Ranger Temple.

  Following his daily routine, Ghost received the second troubling message. The junk dealer he’d used as a middleman had been visited by the police and was now demanding help.

  Disappointed that his efforts to silence the auctioneer hadn’t stalled the police for more than a couple of hours, he pondered what to do with Bender.

  The mileage ISIS was getting out of the Texas parts shipment to Damascus was far exceeding his wildest expectations. Those in charge of the caliphate were ecstatic.

  But all of that would come undone if the truth were uncovered. Ghost feared the backlash against his benefactors… and himself.

  He was well aware that even the smallest bit of information could allow the authorities to unravel the shroud of conspiracy, and he needed to snip any loose threads.

  The Benders had been the perfect accomplices.

  Several months ago, when he’d hatched the plan, Ghost had established a set of parameters required for fl
awless execution.

  First and foremost, he borrowed from the PLO’s (Palestine Liberation Organization) playbook concerning recruitment. Economic depression was the single, most important criterion.

  Years ago, the terrorist organization had discovered that it was easy to attract manpower, money, and loyalty from communities and individuals who were disenfranchised with society, government, or simply life in general.

  For some, such a state was based on radical political beliefs or historical injustice. But by far the most commonly occurring circumstances were economic depression and religious strife. Often those two conditions intersected, and that proved to be the most fertile hunting ground.

  High unemployment, poor education, and lack of opportunity created a particular mindset in younger people. Those environmental parameters, combined with a nearly constant barrage of Western media’s flaunting extravagant lifestyles of temptation and decadence led to endless frustration and eventually, anger. The perfect recipe for a terrorist melting pot.

  In places like Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and post-invasion Iraq, Al Qaeda has refined the harvesting of such individuals to a higher level.

  Few Westerners grasped the impact their wealth and quality of life had on those living on the other side of the economic divide. Most wouldn’t have connected the dots between the Arab Spring and the fact that the old American television show, “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” had been one of the most popular broadcasts in all of the Middle East at the time.

  When young, hopeless, hotheaded men are inundated with images of what they are denied, tempers will eventually boil over. Terrorist organizations, dictators, and even nationalist movements had understood and manipulated this situation for hundreds of years. Would Adolf Hitler have risen to power if the German people had not been so economically deprived? ISIS had utilized the experience of the PLO and Al Qaeda, quickly developing such tactics into high art.