Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  “No…um…no it’s not,” she put her hand over the phone. “This is the twelfth floor.”

  “Oh pardonamé,” a bead of sweat rolled down and hung precariously from his nose. “Where is the service elevator? I’ll head on down at get to work.”

  She pointed down the long open highway between the cubicles. “It’s down there and take that door on the right.”

  His wireless buzzed in his pocket of his jeans, and the woman looked down at where, “You better get that phone.”

  Raúl smiled broadly, “It’s probably my boss, wondering where I am and why I’m not getting my job done. Have a good day.” He didn’t wait for a reply and simply strode away without looking back. He went to the door she indicated and, seeing the elevators just a few feet away, and pressed the down button.

  The doors opened just a moment later, and he got out brushing past a lean woman in a suit. A tall Anglo about fifty in an expensive gray suit stayed on with him and they went down further, past the tenth, ninth and eighth floors. Raúl could feel the icy gaze of the man as they rode, and after what seemed like an eternity, the man finally moved to exit at the seventh floor. As he exited, he said firmly, “The service elevator is on the end, idiot.” His cutting words accompanied by a murderous, cold stare. “Make sure you use it next time.” Raúl shifted his eyes to the credentials of the man which dangled from his suit coat pocket:

  Bob Jamison

  Account Manager

  Stevens-Bradford, Inc.

  Raúl stood motionless as the doors closed, perspiration dripping off his round, tan face while he rode down the remaining floors. As the chime for the first floor told him he had reached his destination floor, we swabbed the sweat with his hand and wiped it on the cream fabric wall of the elevator, leaving a long dark streak. Exiting the elevator he pulled out his wireless and checked it: 1 message received.

  Rodeo Maestro: Good. Check back later.

  Raúl put on his sunglasses and baseball cap, becoming one of a thousand Mexican construction guys in the downtown area. The disrespect his people had to deal with for generations made Raúl angry. He turned and walked down the street away from the park, heading the two blocks to where he had parked in a back alley. The Anglos are so high and mighty – so many like Bob Jamison walking around like they didn’t even know they were on stolen land. There was time of reckoning coming very soon for the likes of him and others like him. Yes, I’ll have to come pay you a visit Mr. Jamison.

  *****

  Outside Rocksprings, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 12:15 pm

  Brodie wondered how Sara and the kids were doing as he and his friends cruised along Highway 55 toward Rocksprings. He hadn’t heard anything from them, and he was beginning to get a little worried. That and the devil’s claws in the back of his head were starting to tighten their grip on him a little bit – he could really use a drink. He had told everyone months ago that he had given up the booze for good, but there he had been back at it just last night. He shook his head trying to rid himself of the feeling and pulled out his wireless. No service. Dammit. He knew there was a pretty new tower outside Rocksprings, so he thought he could call when they came through. He was glad because they were close to town. They really needed to stop and talk to Sherriff Johnson about the shortwave frequencies Lott had given him, and they needed to fuel up too.

  They came into town and pulled into the Gas-n-More, and Brodie nudged Kirk Thompson awake, “Hey, you all might want to hit the head and grab some snacks. Who knows when we might get a break again.”

  Kirk, Mark Simmons, and Joe Calderon piled out of the 4x4 and headed into the small convenience store. Brodie got out and started to fill up the tank. Leaning on the side of truck he stole a rare, quiet moment and surveyed the landscape. Empty shotgun shells and bullet casings from the gun battle just a couple hours before littered the gravel lot of the convenience store. It was a haunting image as the sounds of the shots and shouting replayed in his mind. He could feel a flashback heading at him like a freight train and a building ring in his ears, but he went back to the thought of Sara and the kids, of horseback riding across the ranch. In the dappled sunlight through the tall cedars and the warm breeze, he watched the kids laughing as they danced their horses about. Sara drove her painted mare in a circle, waving for him to join them as they took the horses around the stand of trees in a playful canter.

  “Hey, Brodie, did you hear me?” Kirk’s voice brought him back and Brodie spun toward him.

  “Huh?”

  Kirk thumbed like a hitchhiker toward the convenience store, “Gas-n-More – you want something?”

  “Yeah, grab me a diet soda and a candy bar.” Brodie gave a slight smile, but he could tell Kirk Thompson wasn’t buying it.

  “You okay, man?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Brodie allowed himself a half-hearted wave of his hand. “You know I’m getting pretty gassed. Better make that something with caffeine.”

  “You got it,” Kirk headed back toward the store.

  Brodie turned back around and breathed a heavy sigh. He felt the breeze on his face and watched the numbers on the digital gas pump accumulate. It was crazy how fast they piled up when filling up anymore. Brodie mused thinking about the days of one dollar per gallon gas, as Joe Calderon and Mark Simmons ambled back to the truck.

  “Hey Nick,” Calderon held his giant Styrofoam cup, “no charge for anything inside. Go grab a burrito or something.”

  “Yeah, I’m not that hungry.” Brodie picked up the pump handle as it was nearing a hundred bucks. Six bucks a gallon hit the pocketbook pretty hard, and Brodie grimaced as he put the handle back to the main pump.

  Suddenly his wireless buzzed in his pocket, so he took it out. He didn’t recognize the number, “Hello, Nick Brodie.”

  “Nick this is Jeff Doyle,” the voice wasn’t familiar. “I served under you with the 2nd of the 3rd in Afghanistan – I was in the 87th with you – Delta Company in the Pech Valley and Korangel Valley in ‘03 and ‘04. Sergeant Jeffrey Doyle, leader of Fireteam Charlie.”

  A flood of memories came rushing back to Brodie, as he placed Doyle with his voice. Brodie recalled Doyle as a good soldier, very smart and high in character. He had once tried to talk Doyle into rotating back and becoming an officer. Brodie thought he remembered that Doyle did his three year hitch and got out after a six month supplemental in about 2004 or so. Brodie had seen him at the reunion for the 87th back in 2009 or so, but hadn’t seen him since.

  “Oh my Lord, Jeff. How the hell are you?”

  “Good, good.” Doyle’s voice was hesitant, soft. “Actually, not that great.”

  “Sorry, I was having a moment there, but it’s been a long, long day.”

  “No problem, I can relate…”

  “Jeff, what’s going on? It’s been a long time.”

  “Well, Cap, I’m a bit of jam and thought you might be able to help.”

  *****

  Outside San Antonio, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 12:25 pm

  Doyle was still trying to clear his head as the pair of Suburbans raced north on Highway 281. He hadn’t been around any kind of violence in a long, long time and was unprepared for the intensity of combat, and the sight of spilled blood. It was a whirlwind of shouting and a mad rush, followed by a long lull as everyone came down from the adrenaline. Doyle still wasn’t sure what had happened to force the gunfight – the U.S. Attorney was speaking and suddenly he was…just…dead. Doyle never heard a shot, which lead him to believe that it came from a distance, but the feds had drawn down on them right away. Of course, the Rangers had to draw to protect the Governor, so it just went sideways from the start. Normal battle haze prevented him from knowing all the gory details, but it didn’t take a General to know the whole scene was just FUBAR tens ways from Sunday.

  “What the hell happened back there?” Chase was still breathing hard and looked quite pale. “Did somebody draw on the U.S. Attorney and I just missed it?”

  Billy, the Governor’s Ra
nger bodyguard, shook his head vigorously, trying to keep an eye on the road, “None of us Rangers even made a move until those federals in their shades drew on us.”

  “That’s right,” the muscular Ranger next to him said. “They pulled first – we were justified.”

  “I didn’t hear a gunshot when the U.S.A. was killed.” Doyle sat tall as he noticed Chase look at him. “So in hindsight, I would say he wasn’t shot from close range. My gut tells me he couldn’t have been shot by anyone nearby.”

  “I don’t know, Jeff.” Lopez wrinkled his brow, “Are you sure you didn’t hear a shot when Padilla went down?”

  “Nope,” Billy pounded his hand on steering wheel. “It wasn’t one of us. That’s for certain.”

  “Yeah,” Doyle looked directly at Lopez, “I’ve heard gunfire in my life – a lot of it in Afghanistan – and I’m telling you, I didn’t hear the shot that got him. My guess is that he was hit from two-hundred-plus yards, probably with a suppressed rifle.”

  “Yep, that sounds about right,” Billy’s Stetson bobbed up and down in agreement.

  “What on earth is going on?” Chase panted. “What was that about – gunning down the U.S. Attorney?”

  “I think the bullet was likely meant for you, Governor,” Doyle glanced at Chase, who just nodded a touch. “I’m guessing it is probably some kind of copycat of the Arizona shooting.”

  “Good Lord,” Lopez was just staring at the floor trying to catch his breath.

  “What the hell are we going to do now?” Chase reclined, slouching in the large leather seat of the SUV. “I’m guessing they consider me some kind of fugitive now.”

  “Very likely all of us are believed to be fleeing justice, sir,” Doyle said.

  “Well,” Chase allowed a sardonic grin, “at least I’m in good company.”

  “What we need is a plan,” Lopez bared his teeth, and Doyle wasn’t sure if he was still wheezing or was trying to give a cool smile.

  “Right, Joe.” The Governor was back to serious business again. “It’s time to earn the paychecks. What do we do now? Turn ourselves in?”

  “We’ve got to get Wendell some medical attention, first and foremost.” Lopez rolled his neck, trying to relax. “Then I suppose we should just turn ourselves in and explain everything that happened.”

  “Right now, I think we need to get Wendell to a hospital and lay low for the time being. Frankly, I’m afraid for your life right now sir.” Doyle stared right at the Governor. “I think I would issue a statement that says, ‘Given the attempt on the Governor’s life, the Administration is re-locating to a secure location until the his safety is assured, no matter who the enemies might be.’ Something like that.”

  “Then say that the Governor wants all Texans to know that he is unfazed and fighting to keep Texas free from all who might do her harm’ or words to that effect,” Lopez perked up and looked to be buying in.

  “Okay, but where?” Chase grabbed a tumbler and a bottle of what looked like Scotch from the small storage cabinet built in under the center console between the front seats, and poured a double. “Obviously, everyone will know to go to the ranch in Mineral Wells and the house in Turtle Bay, shortly after.” The Governor slammed the drink and poured another.

  “Yeah.” Lopez kneaded his forehead. “Those are out. Any place with a connection to any of us personally, would be out as well. Damn.”

  “I have an idea,” Doyle sat up hastily. “If you guys are open to something unorthodox, I might just the place.”

  “Like what?” Lopez glanced at Doyle with a quizzical look as he took out his wireless and started to bang out a text.

  “Let me make a call, and see if it’s a possibility,” Doyle pulled out his wireless. “I think it’s just what we’re looking for.” Doyle pulled out an old business card from his wallet and dialed a number. He settled into his seat and brought the phone to his ear, “Hey Butch, it’s Jeff Doyle…yeah…yeah…Hey, Listen. I need a favor. Do you have Captain Brodie’s number? Yeah okay, great. You want to give that to me?”

  Doyle thought that Brodie might help them. He recalled some of the old gang from the 1st Battalion had said he had become something of a recluse, living out on his family ranch in the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere is just what we need right now. As he started to dial, he thought of Callie and switched over to messaging. He had to warn her – her life could be in danger. There was a madman running loose who had just tried to kill the Governor and the federal government, in all likelihood, considered her a member of a rogue government if not an outright conspirator to the sedition.

  *****

  Downtown – U.S. District Court

  Austin, Texas –July 5th, 2017 – 12:36 pm

  Callie gasped as she read the text. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She blinked. Then she read the text again.

  Jeff_Doyle: Someone tried to assassinate the Governor after speech at the Alamo. You are in danger. We are on the run – taking the Gov to a safe place, out of Austin. Won’t be using wireless for a while. Be safe.

  “Doyle says that someone tried to assassinate the Governor at Alamo Park,” Callie felt faint and sat down and to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher a court assistant had just brought in. “He says we’re in danger and they are taking the Governor to a safe location, away from Austin.” She sensed bitterness in her mouth and felt a wave of heat pass over her, so she took a quick drink of water. What was the world coming to? Was all of this worth a Governor’s life? Bill’s life? My life? Any person’s life?

  “Oh my God,” Meacham took a seat and leaned his elbows on the table as if to pray.

  “I know we’ve got a job to do here, but what if people are trying to kill you, Bill?”

  “There’s nothing good that come from focusing on it, right now.” Meacham turned his attention to the files and papers in front of him. He snatched the pitcher and filled a glass for himself and rapidly drank half of it down. He set the glass down and patted his brow with a hanky he took from his breast pocket, “The people of Texas need us to be single-minded right now and be strong advocates for them.”

  Callie didn’t pay much attention to the citizens and reporters that were beginning to file into the room and take up seats in the gallery. She closed her eyes. She tried to push away everything in the world and say a silent prayer to God to see them through this. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.

  “Callie,” she felt a tap on the shoulder, “Callie, would you hand me the 1845 brief, please, the one that Jeremy and Ben wrote?”

  “Hmmm,” she opened her eyes and perused the files in front of her. “Okay, let me see.”

  Finding the right one, she handed the file folder to him, and he gave her a quick nod of thanks. The border was under attack and the Texas Guard had been called up. The U.S. Attorney General had been killed and now the Governor had been targeted. What would happen to Meacham and her when they left the courthouse? Would they be even be allowed to leave? The world felt like it was coming apart. “I hope we can make it through this.”

  Meacham kept reading the notes in the file, “Just concentrate on the reasoning for the motion to dismiss – that’s the linchpin for us. We’ll make it through just fine.”

  Of course, she wasn’t worried just about the case anymore. She thought about Jeff. She felt a strong bond with him, despite only knowing him for a little while. She resisted the urge to text him back. He wouldn’t answer her and it may even reveal their location to the watching eyes of Big Brother. He probably had gotten rid of the wireless after he made a few last texts. They were on the run. She wondered if he was even okay – he didn’t say he had been hurt, but had he been shot at too? Would we all survive this day? Dear God – help us all.

  *****

  Outside Laredo, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 12:45 pm

  Darren Schmidt had a headache that would kill a horse, but he was otherwise okay. Somehow the SWAT van had sputtered and wheezed its way back to the mall to
the temporary Laredo HQ, and Schmidt was thankful that they hadn’t been stopped by a roving SUV full of thugs. Lieutenant Brackin wasted no time in de-briefing them. His eye had twitched a few times as they described the loss of his SWAT officers and Schmidt’s SRT commandos, but he had been otherwise reserved in the face of the report. He had understood when Schmidt told him that he had been ordered back to San Antonio for de-briefing, and even gave him a black and white to make the trip, since the DAP was out of commission. After an exchange of a hearty handshake from SWAT officer Aguado, who had saved his ass, had he taken the officer’s address and phone number and had vowed to look him up when this was all over.

  As he made his way out of Laredo on I-35, he had started his DHS debrief with the Watch Commander back at SRT headquarters. Commander Lefkowicz was a fair-minded professional that Schmidt knew and liked, and he had covered the basics of the op well enough. It wasn’t until the other two on the phone, the Regional Director of Homeland Security for Homeland Security Investigations and the Deputy Director for Immigration Enforcement, started peppering him with questions that things started to become tense.

  “So Sergeant Schmidt, at what time did you feel that the operation stood a ‘minimal chance’ of success?” The ICE official asked, her voice icy and quick.

  “Not long after we arrived in Laredo, I saw a downed aircraft, multiple buildings on fire, shootings in the streets, and the hospital flooded with cars so bad that the people were abandoning them from several blocks away.”