Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  Seeing Margolis enter the car, Burke wrapped up the conversation he was holding on his wireless and pivoted stiffly to look at Margolis. “Are you ready?” Burke eyed the driver as he put Kevin’s roller bag in the trunk, climbed in the front seat and fired up the Lincoln.

  “Yes, sir.” Margolis sat tall in his seat and adjusted the silver briefcase on the floor between his knees.

  Burke reached and tapped the driver on the shoulder, “We’re ready here, Karl. Please do what you can. Mr. Margolis has an 11:00 flight at Dulles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Margolis’ face fell when he heard the timing; he certainly hadn’t meant to burn close to fifteen minutes upstairs re-setting his voicemail and getting his bags and paperwork together. “Are we going to be able to make an 11:00 flight, sir?”

  “Well,” Burke allowed a corner of his mouth to turn up just a bit, “the flight isn’t going to leave without you, Mr. Margolis. You aren’t in any danger of missing the flight, if that’s your concern.”

  “Ahh,” Margolis said looking down at his shoes, “I see.”

  “Now, are you clear on your immediate orders?”

  “Yes, sir,” Margolis allowed his eyes to float up as he replayed the tasking from his memory, “I am to rendezvous with members of the Austin Field Office about 1300 hours at the south Terminal at Bergstrom Airport. We will present ourselves to local law enforcement and inform of our intention to join the investigation.”

  “Right and…”

  “And by ‘join’ I mean, establish our command and work toward leading the investigation.”

  “Yes, very good,” Burke pursed his lips. “You could, potentially experience some barriers depending on the personalities at the location. Continue.”

  “Once our authority is established at the crime scene, get the Austin agents involved in the investigative details of the case and proceed to engage with the DHS-HSI Unit in Austin and communicate with the units in Dallas and San Antonio. By this time, the Direct Action initial reports on Laredo and McAllen should be complete.”

  “Yes. Ideally this should be around 1400 to 1430 hours,” Burke referenced his paper orders.

  “At that point, I coordinate with the DHS-HSI commanders to assess and come to joint recommendations as to stage two tasking orders for HSI Special Response Unit teams.”

  “Very good, Kevin,” Burke sat up and set aside the file folder. “Now lastly and off the record, arguably our most important mission…”

  “Meet up with the U.S. Attorney in Austin and assist in the interviews with the Governor and his staff,”

  “That’s right.” Burke scratched the corners of his mouth. “We should have the Governor and his senior staff in custody at the district offices by 1400 hours. They will have been compelled there under federal subpoenas, so they are likely to be unhappy and even not completely cooperative. Make sure you present yourself with the proper level of…authority.”

  “Right….” Margolis let his eyes fall to the briefcase, and he thoughtlessly stroked his breast pocket where his credentials were.

  “You’re acting with my full consent, Kevin,” Burke put his hand on the younger agent’s shoulder. “I’ve made a few calls while I was waiting – the important players will have been briefed, and you can expect full cooperation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kevin stuck his chin out a bit and looked at Burke. “I’m on it.”

  “Remember, Kevin,” Burke leaned in closer, “you heard the President. Your Task Force should be bringing home a special trophy.”

  “What’s that sir?”

  “Texas oysters…A special brand that goes by the label of ‘Frank Chase’,” Burke smiled broadly. “The President expects them in a jar on the wall of her den in the Hamptons when this is all over.”

  Margolis allowed himself a nervous laugh, which sent Burke into a full belly laugh, widening the old man’s cheeks to the point where he thought they were going to crack.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Margolis.” Burke let his laughter die down, and clapped Kevin on the shoulder before turned back to his papers, “you’re going to do just fine.”

  *****

  Rocksprings, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 10:40 a.m.

  Brodie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they wound through the back roads heading north. He didn’t feel good about leaving Sheriff Johnson back at the station, or splitting up the crew, but Rocksprings needed protection. At the same time, Brodie felt they needed to assess the landscape in case there was more chaos heading their way. He was glad that the guys in Mac Harris’ truck had volunteered to stay behind with Sheriff Johnson and Deputy Martinez until they could drum up some more men, in case the marauders decided to come back. It was a good sign that a couple of volunteers had already shown up before they had gotten Kirk Thompson’s neck patched up and Martinez’ ribs taped up.

  Brodie’s heart nearly stopped when he replayed the image of Martinez taking that round to his chest, knocking him into the dust. When he could only see the deputy’s feet wriggling around, he considered Martinez a goner. He had seen many men killed in Paktika province, Tangi Valley and Korangal Valley, as well as Kabul itself in the 10th Mountain’s hunt for Osama bin Laden, and it was always unsettling. No one was happier than Brodie when Martinez sat up and starting blustering for breath, wheezing and spitting. A quick inspection back at the station revealed a red and purple bruise about the size of a softball forming just above his sternum. Thank God for that Kevlar vest. Brodie’s mind flashed to that little valley south of the Pech river.

  The boy leading a donkey with saddlebags loaded with of bladders full of water saw them and waved. The cherub-faced little guy was clothed like so many of the Pashtun boys in Kunar province – a dirty, tan knee-length kurta, shabby, baggy brown trousers and leather sandals. A sunny smile showed beneath the brown and tan shemagh he had wrapped about his head as he headed up from the river, leading the donkey patiently across the rocky slope. Did he have a weapon under that long shirt, or maybe in the folds of the blankets on the animal’s back?

  “Hey man,” Kirk Thompson put his hand on Brodie’s shoulder, “you okay, buddy? You look like you were a thousand miles away for a second there.”

  “Yeah,” Brodie rubbed his face and eyes for moment, “I think I’m getting a little gassed from being up so long.” That gun battle had really put him on edge, and now he felt drained. When he first deployed from Fort Drum, he actually wanted to be tested in battle. Every single one of the men in the 2nd Brigade Combat Team of the 10th would have said so, if asked. The ultimate test for a soldier was combat duty, and most soldiers secretly had an intense desire to be tested. In time that fire for battle becomes a steely professionalism focused on doing some good as best you can in a God-forsaken place. If you were one of the lucky ones, you rotated out before the professionalism faded to the cold, harsh hand of survival instinct, which mostly held you by the throat. Brodie glanced at the bandage on Kirk’s neck, “So how’s the neck feel?”

  “Hurts like hell,” Kirk said as he fiddled with the edge of the medical tape holding down the layers of gauze.

  “Next time keep your damn head down, you moron,” Mark Simmons joked from the back seat. “You sure can tell which ones are civilians when the lead starts flying.”

  “Shaddup, you,” Kirk feigned a raised backhanded slap at Simmons. “I thought I saw you wet your pants back there.”

  “So what’s the plan boss?” Mark stuck his face up between the two front seats, grabbing the tops of the headrests.

  “Patrol north and keep an eye out for anything unusual. Keep an ear to the radio and investigate anything that’s out of place.” Brodie adjusted the volume of the CB radio to check the level on the orange digital display. “Hope like hell that Rocksprings was an isolated thing.” Brodie thought about Sara and the kids. What if this thing spreads and the ranches around Hunt start to come under attack?

  “When do you think Mac will hook back up with us?” Kirk asked.

/>   “He’ll do what’s right.” Brodie leaned hard on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes peeled as they headed north on Highway 377. “He won’t leave until Sheriff Johnson has a dozen men there to support him.”

  “I think he’ll be all right.” Kirk slouched down in his seat a bit, blinking slowly. “He’s been around the block a time or two.”

  “I don’t know,” Simmons said rubbing his forehead, “did you see the tattoos on Mr. Mohawk back there?”

  “Yeah,” Brodie took a quick glance at the blond accountant Simmons, “mean anything to you?”

  “Nope,” Simmons said pushing back the tuft of blond hair and smoothing his receding hairline. “He made me glad I didn’t speak Spanish, though.”

  “It told me that his mama didn’t raise him right,” Kirk flashed that broad grin.

  “No kidding,” Brodie laughed, thankful for a moment of light-heartedness.

  “Those tats indicated the pendejo was Mara,” Calderon adjusted the fingerless black gloves and looked up at Brodie’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Mara…?” Brodie said with a slight frown.

  “You know…Mara Salvatrucha, MS?” Calderon sat up a bit and rested his elbow on the door. “MS-13, the big Cali gang that runs drugs all over the west coast and big cities in the north.”

  “Cripes, you’re kidding?” Brodie snapped his head around at Calderon.

  “Oh great,” Kirk shook his head and just put his face in his palm. “We’ve got the Mexican mafia pissed off at us.”

  *****

  Outside San Marcos, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 10:40 a.m.

  “This is good,” Chase said as he looked over the speech papers. “It’s forceful and resolute without being aggressive. It’s strong, firm, and clear.” They had left the residence in a pair of white Suburbans, and Doyle felt a discernible drop in tension, just escaping the confines of the residence as they made their way to San Antonio down I-35. Traffic wasn’t bad at midday and Doyle noted that the Governor still looked a bit fatigued despite the shower and shave.

  “Very good, sir,” Doyle said as he keyed the last of the changes into his laptop. “I’m glad you like it. Do you have any final changes before I make a final printout for it and move a copy on to your tablet?”

  Lopez put his hand over his wireless, “Yes, Governor. I thought you would like it.” He continued talking into the handheld quietly and said, “I’ll get back to you” and turned to back to Chase. “It’s a homerun, I think, sir.”

  Chase glanced at Lopez and then gave a fitful look out the window, before facing Doyle, “Just one, Jeff.” He pointed to a section on the top most section on one of the papers. “This sentence here needs a little pop – get us going right out of the gate.”

  Doyle leaned forward and cocked his neck trying to see the page and section with the Governor who was sitting in the rear-most seat opposite him and Lopez. A pair of Texas Rangers sat in the front seats, one driving and the other keeping his eyes peeled for anything happening around the vehicle. The trailing Suburban carried four more Rangers as well as three staffers in the public affairs office, who were helping coordinate the Alamo event.

  Lopez’s wireless buzzed again, and Lopez answered quickly. This was a downside to going mobile with all the things they were juggling. Lopez had been on the phone nearly the entire time since they had left the mansion. Doyle tried to re-focus on the rather bland sentence in the second paragraph – one that Lopez had written early on – trying to find a more interesting way to convey the pride of an expanding sphere of influence Texas was likely to have on the political landscape without providing any fodder to the U.S. attorneys for their conspiracy theories.

  Lopez ended the call with a deliberate stab of his thumb, “Governor,” his face was stern, “that was Ted White back at the mansion.”

  “Yes…?” the Governor’s brows furrowed and somewhat frowned at the interjection from his Chief of Staff. “What is it?”

  “We may want to re-think this speech, sir,” Lopez said. “CNN news is reporting that the Governor of Arizona has been shot.”

  “What the hell…?” Chase put down the papers on his lap and intertwined his fingers in front of his lips. “How did it happen?”

  “White didn’t have many details, but she was shot at a press conference outing about an hour ago, where she was making a speech about the need for increased border security.”

  Doyle leaned back in his seat and took that in. The air seemed to escape the cabin of the large Suburban as Doyle listened to the low rumble of the tires on the pavement.

  “I want to go ahead with the speech,” Governor Chase broke the silence. “Now is not the time to appear weak. I think I have to do it, especially now.”

  The Rangers in the front seats glanced at each other briefly before snapping back to face the front. The laptop cursor blinked repeatedly at Doyle as he stared at the little screen. Chase’s opinion seemed rash, reckless. Does he have a death wish? Doyle knew this was a critical time, and the citizens did need to hear from the Governor, but the Alamo seemed like a spectacle now. It struck Doyle as careless, like an engraved invitation to copy-cats to accomplish their aims, or God forbid, conspirators.

  Lopez breathed a heavy breath, “I don’t know, Governor. I’m a bit concerned about the venue now, with this information. I think we have enough security for this event, in light of what’s happened.”

  Doyle was going to concur with his boss until he saw the visage of the Governor. He had seen that look before on him, the stern, unrelenting gaze of a man who had made his decision. He was determined. “I think it can be done. We should call ahead and tell San Antonio PD we are requesting that they double their planned presence in the park, and get the Park Police to bring at least two of their mounted units, preferably three or four. It would be a strong statement to proceed, on a number of levels.” Doyle really hoped that he didn’t seem like an opportunist, but he could tell the Governor was resolute in his stance. It was a risk, no doubt.

  Lopez tightened his grip on the pen in his hammy fist and stared at Doyle, visibly trying to mask a scowl. Doyle remained emotionless in the face of his boss, and felt the profound drain of personal equity he held with Lopez after nearly three years working for him. He liked Lopez, but on occasion felt that the other man wasn’t a thoughtful or big-picture enough, so Doyle found diplomatic ways to raise alternate perspectives or add information. Doyle examined the laptop for his train of thought, hoping his political calculus added up.

  “No, I really need to make this speech.” The Governor took his hands from his knees and picked up the papers on his lap. “This is a test of sorts, and I’m not going to turn tail when I need to stand tall.”

  Doyle admired the man’s courage, but he wondered if it was a foolhardy show of bravado. The past four hours had produced two very prominent shootings. The dynamics of the speech at the Alamo before his latest news had seemed politically savvy, but now it seemed risky, hazardous. Doyle was anxious, and started typing to do something with his fidgety hands. This is a test. No, no. That’s wrong – it’s a trial. Doyle backspaced over his gibberish on the screen and returned the cursor to where he had started before. It sat blinking, waiting impatiently for him to do something. “Okay,” Doyle looked up at the Governor, “what changes do we need to make based on this news? I think we need to really strengthen this second paragraph now.”

  The Governor was staring out the window, watching the cedar trees off in the distance, but was pulled back, “Agreed. Let’s say something like ‘In these perilous times, it is tempting to shrink back….”

  “That’s good, sir.” Doyle started typing as the Governor spoke. My God, I hope this doesn’t go bad.

  *****

  San Antonio, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 10:50 a.m.

  The wireless buzzed with the tone of an incoming text message, and the lean, round-faced Mexican grabbed the phone with his spider-tattooed hand. While he pulled up the text, he heard a volley of gunfire f
rom the alley above him. Raúl hated this nasty safe house. It was a basement apartment in the worst part of the Edgewood district, and it stank of sex and crystal. The people who lived here were goddamn pigs. “Malditos cerdos,” he muttered a guttural curse under his breath, damn pigs, as he scanned the text message.

  Rodeo maestro: New orders sent. Drop location #5. Timing is ASAP. Game starts at noon.

  Raúl grabbed his car keys and bounded for the door. He stopped and jammed out a response on the handheld.

  El Chacal: Message Received. Proceeding to drop point.

  He shook his head and cursed as he slammed the door and ran to the top of the stairs two at a time. Stopping before he went out to his truck in the alley, he typed another text.

  El Chacal: The price has doubled. Don’t disappoint me.

  He stepped over an old Hispanic, man who was naked from the waist up, laying against the wall of the building in a pile of newspapers and cardboard. Raúl spun on his heels and plucked the wad of cash from his pocket peeling off a couple of twenty dollar bills and handing them to the old man. The recipient opened one eye and peeked at him. “Don’t let anyone in down there for the next four or five hours and I’ll give you another forty when I get back,” Raúl said in quick, fluid Spanish. “You understand, old grandfather?”