Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  Callie thought going further was fruitless as they were barely moving, and Meacham’s honking of the horn only seemed to make things worse. “My goodness. We’re never going to make it close enough even to show our credentials.” This wasn’t good. All kinds of trouble could happen out here in the sea of people. Callie gasped when something hard hit her window. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it startled her. This is crazy. “Bill, get us to the gate, please.”

  Chapter 14

  Governor’s Mansion

  Austin, Texas –July 5th, 2017 – 4:25 pm

  Margolis was gnawing on his fingernail when he heard the call come over the radio, “Five, this is Three. They are out of the parking garage in the green SUV. They’re heading toward you, Five.” Hearing his car’s call sign, Margolis snatched the radio, “This is Five. Copy that, Three. We are keeping our eyes open.”

  Margolis had gotten the call from the Austin FBI headquarters that one of the ‘big five’ on his treason list of interviews subjects – Solicitor General and architect of Texas Subdivision – was taking questions on the District courthouse after a court appearance on the Texas Border case. Margolis licked his lips. They were starting to become chapped from all the time out in the wind at the airport, and he felt the heat of sunburn on his cheeks and forehead starting to emerge. He took a sip of his diet soda and rested on his reddening cheek for a moment. Now they had their chance, and Margolis was going to collar this guy and make a name for himself in the Bureau. He could see that this was just the break he needed to make his career. From analyst to star field agent.

  Margolis tapped the A/C and pushed it to ‘max’ setting, trying to nudge the switch beyond where it could go. Sitting at idle the GM sedan was losing the battle with the Texas air over keeping the agents cool. “Five, Three. He’s turning toward you, so we’re passing him off – coming back around, over.” Car three was the follow car that was assigned to keep eyes on the courthouse for their exit. His hope when he heard that Meacham had been spotted was that the attorney would lead them to the Governor and that might land him on the front page of the USA Today and the Washington Post. That was a pass key to the fifth floor and the executive washroom, and Margolis licked his lips again.

  “Copy that, Five. We’ll take him from here. This is Three over,” Margolis could see the green SUV make the turn onto 10th Street, where they sat behind tinted glass at the curb opposite the gate entrance to the Governor’s mansion. Margolis could see the bevy of state police sedans and Suburbans beyond the gate, and the dozens of troopers in cowboy hats walking the circle drive and lawn area. He checked the rearview mirror. Car two was in place and seemed ready as he spied one of the agents with a small set of binoculars like the one the Austin agent next to him was using. What was his name again? Judson, or maybe Jamison?

  “What do you see, Jorgenson?” one of the two agents in the rear seat saved him the embarrassment.

  “He’s got the lawyer babe with him,” Jorgenson kept the binocs trained on the SUV as it started to ease its way into the many vagrants, agitators and reporters who filled the street around the mansion’s entrants.

  “Man, I’d like to interrogate her,” one of the two agents in the back wheezed like a donkey with a head cold.

  “Forget that,” the other in the back hissed. “She seems like a royal bitch.”

  “Keep your heads in the game,” Margolis shot a look over his shoulder. “This one is on the top five of our list, so stay focused.” Margolis had to concede her allure, but he shook his head at the lack of professionalism. These field agents sure were a brutish bunch.

  The green SUV crept toward the gate at a turtle’s pace through the throng of people, and they nearly slowed to a stop. Margolis grabbed the radio, “Get ready, Two. We’ll exit and intercept on foot at the gate on my call, Five over.”

  “We copy, Five.”

  Meacham had made it about as far as he could, given the throng of onlookers and protestors crowding the gate area. A couple of muscular Texas state troopers had exited the guard shack when one sketchy looking hipster pounded on the hood of the SUV, yelling something obscene. The troopers put their hands on their weapons and started ordering the crowd to move and let the car through when Margolis observed three or four of them in the circle driveway pivot and start to jog toward the gate. This is our chance. He grabbed the radio handset, “All agents move in now. Take them!”

  Margolis could hear nothing but the beat of his racing heart and a high-pitched whine as he drew his sidearm from his belt holster and exited the car. Within moments, the seven agents in dark suits and sunglasses were behind him and drawing their pistols. Margolis pointed his weapon at Meacham who appeared to be pressing on the horn and turning toward the driveway entrance just a few feet from the gate. “Get out of the car!”

  The crowd of onlookers and protestors rushed past Margolis and away from him at every angle as he trained his front sight on the Solicitor General in the front seat of the large SUV. His expression turned to shock as Margolis approached, which the agent found quite odd. Didn’t he realize he was a wanted man? The thought angered Margolis and he took a couple of steps toward the SUV, brandishing the pistol more forcefully in order to reinforce his order. His pulse raced faster and his ears were pummeled by an intense peel as if a jet were taking off near him. The crowd was dispersing quickly and Margolis couldn’t hear anything outside the powerful ring in his ears, except for a couple of faint cracks like someone setting off a couple of firecrackers a few blocks away.

  Margolis heard another indistinct pop and felt a sting in his neck. He felt weak and his muscles seemed to fail as he took another step, extending his weapon just feet from Meacham, who sat in horror behind the glass like some zoo exhibit. Kevin Margolis tried to give Meacham one last chance to comply and commanded Meacham to get out of the car, but nothing came out, and he was hit with a wave of heat and nausea. What the hell’s wrong with me?

  *****

  The crowd of demonstrators, spectators and media went crazy when they witnessed the squad stalking the SUV with weapons drawn. Hundreds of people simultaneously started screaming, leaping to the ground, and ducking and running for cover. It became absolute chaos when the gunshot rang out.

  Callie saw the horror on Meacham’s face when a half-dozen men in dark suits and dark sunglasses descended on the SUV. The man at the head of the formation held a black pistol in both hands and was only about ten feet from the car as he screamed, “Get out of the car!” Oh dear God, they’re going to kill us!

  Callie fought the urge to step on the gas pedal, and was glad she did when several people ran in front of the car, and another pair of people ducked down by the front bumper. That was when she heard the loud crack of gunfire and she screamed instinctively, thinking that the hit squad was executing their orders.

  She looked up to see the throat of the lead killer get blown out, and as his comrades wheeled toward the gate area, the man with the sunburned face staggered closer and kept his pistol high, pointed right at Meacham. Bill hunched down in the seat as two more bullets ripped into the shooter’s torso, sending blood splattering on the window, and the man’s arm spasmed and jerked as he began to crumple. Callie heard the thunderous blast, seeing the fire flash from the gun and Meacham’s window shatter, so she shrank down as small as possible and pushed the accelerator to the floor with her foot.

  The SUV lurched forward and halted suddenly. Callie Morgan saw the dashboard come flying at her, and then were only impressions as her presence slipped away from her senses.

  Pain.

  Ear-splitting ringing.

  Darkness.

  *****

  Three Eagles Ranch

  Outside of Hunt, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 4:34 p.m.

  Jeff Doyle held up his wireless and pushed the small camera icon, which was blinking, bringing the recording to a stop. It was hard to fathom what he’d just heard and he chanced a look at Brodie and his friend Finnegan. The mammoth former ground pounder w
ith the rooster comb of red hair looked like he was trying to contain a volcano inside of him. Brodie looked almost bored. How was it possible that a guy could rationalize his way into stalking a member of the President’s Cabinet, laying a trap and then nearly springing it, but stopping when he heard another shot? Did he do all that, take all that risk, and then didn’t fire?

  Doyle’s skepticism must have leaked out, because Haslett sat up, “I’d put my hand on my mama’s Bible and tell you that I didn’t kill that woman. I saw that round-faced Mexican hauling ass out of the bush, carrying a rifle case. He looked guilty as hell, tell ya.”

  “So you’ve said, Danny,” Brodie sat back in the chair and folded his arms across his thick chest. “I’m just not sure I believe it.”

  “I swear to God, man. I didn’t do it.”

  The air hung in the long, narrow office above the garage. As the wall unit kicked on pushing cooler air at Doyle, he took a glance at his wireless. That ten minute video had drained his battery quite a bit – he was down to half power. He made a mental note to ask Brodie later if he had a charger that he could use in the house.

  Haslett scuffled his feet and tried to find a comfortable spot in the low couch. The floor creaked as Finnegan shifted his weight by the head of the staircase, glaring at his friend. Finnegan had confessed that he didn’t know Haslett real well. He said that they had only done some hunting together the past few years and got together occasionally for a couple of beers at the VFW in Kerrville. He had only called Haslett because he was such as dead shot and had always seemed like a square guy. Doyle wasn’t sure what to believe. He seemed like some skinhead trying to cover his ass, but he still didn’t understand the guy’s motivation. Doyle wondered why he hadn’t just kept his trap shut.

  Haslett clearly had no designs of getting close to the Governor and trying something else as sinister. He had blown that with the confession. Why would he take the risk of bringing the attention on himself and get us all wound up in the process? It didn’t make sense to Doyle.

  “Why don’t you go on down with Frank Martin and Mooch.” Finnegan waved his hand toward the stairs, and Brodie closed his eyes and gave a slight nod in agreement.

  “Yeah,” Doyle stood up and watched as Haslett moved down the steps. “Do us a favor and stay close.”

  After the door slammed shut downstairs, Doyle shot Brodie and Finnegan an incredulous look, “It just doesn’t add up. There’s something wrong there.”

  “I’m with you.” Brodie got up and started pacing, stopping in front of the wall A/C unit, bending down and letting the cool air hit his face. “I still don’t trust him.”

  “But what are we going to do with him?” Doyle tapped a finger on frowning, tightened lips. “We can’t have him wandering around the main house.”

  “Give him a rifle and put him way out on a patrol location.” Finnegan narrowed his eyes and leaned against the stair case rail.

  “Are you serious?” Doyle shot back. “You want to give him a gun?”

  “What he wants more than he can say is to fit in and be of use,” Finnegan scratched his chest. “Hell, I know that story, because it’s me when I came back to the world after years in the service. Give him a patrol and somebody we trust to watch him.”

  “Make it a bolt-action and give him a radio,” Brodie turned and faced them and wagged his finger lightly. “We don’t want to single him out, make him paranoid. I think we’re better off having him think we trust him.”

  “That’s true,” Doyle glanced at his old Company commander. He had a point. If they were truly concerned about the guy’s mental state, they should do what they could to put him at ease rather than backing him into a corner. “I think we’re better off bringing him back from the ledge, than putting a hand in his back and pushing him forward.”

  “I agree,” Finnegan glanced at Doyle. “Plus, he’s probably the best shot here. He could be useful out there watching the wire.”

  “I’ve got it,” Brodie grinned a bit and turned back to the A/C unit and closed his eyes. “I know just how to do it.”

  *****

  Outside of Austin, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 4:36 p.m.

  Callie heard the faint sounds of screaming and caught the distinct scent of salt in the air as she felt her weight being shifted around. Lord help me, where am I? Her eyes searched desperately for the pinhole of light in the tapestry of blackness that veiled her vision. She willed herself toward that tiny point of light, feeling the warmth of its dim radiance. It grew slightly and she relished its embrace as she floated toward it.

  Then, with the sound of a hurricane, her vision was swept away and she heard the sirens and a chaotic symphony of ear-splitting voices screaming. There was a burst of blurry brightness in her eyes as she felt an intense frigid sensation gripping her. There was someone standing above her – a man in a uniform. Her vision was obscured by her foggy mind, but after a moment she could see from the cream straw hat and light brown uniform it was Texas Ranger. His lips were moving, but she could not make out clearly what he was saying. She tried to get up, but her limbs disobeyed what she was telling them to do with protests of pain and awkward, uncontrolled movements.

  She reeled as strong hands pulled her upright, and she saw the world moving around her in hazy, sepia blanched colors. She felt her weight collapse into the front seat of a car, and heard the slam of the door which pinned her inside. She tried to sit up, but her arms seemed very heavy and remained largely defiant to her will. Callie finally managed to get an elbow under her on the center console while she heard the shuffling of activity in the back seat. A moment later, a Texas trooper slid in to the driver’s seat and fired up the car, pushing her back against the vinyl seat.

  “Just try to relax and stay awake, Ms. Morgan,” the trooper turned the wheel sharply making Callie sway as they accelerated away. “I’m getting you two out of here.”

  “What…what happened back there?” Callie was struggling coming out of her fog and tried to sit up a bit more. She felt like she had been a ragdoll in the hands on angry two-year-old.

  “We thought it was some kind of hit squad with the tinted windows and dark suits, coming out guns blazing. We had directives to watch out for shooters on you all.” the trooper swerved the car around violently a few times before setting into a straight run where he chanced eye contact. His low drawl was comforting to Callie. “Turns out they were FBI, but we couldn’t tell from how the lead guy closed on Meacham and shot him.”

  “They shot Bill?” Callie’s head was spinning, this time from the feelings that were welling up inside her. What in God’s name?

  “Yeah,” the Ranger bobbed his head toward the back of the car. “He’s in rough shape, I’m afraid.”

  “Wait,” Callie tried to rattle herself and get her senses to return. She rubbed her temples and sat up higher in the seat. At least her arms were obeying her now, she thought. “We need to get him to a hospital, and fast.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t help ma’am,” the trooper allowed his eyes to find hers. “He’s dead, Ms. Morgan.”

  Callie felt numb, and she put her face in her hands trying to get a handle on the situation. She gasped for air as the force of the words hit her like a shovel. Chest heaving she pivoted on the trooper. “You point this car in the direction of the nearest hospital.”

  “I can’t do that ma’am. You’re in too much danger.”

  “I’m ordering you to take Mr. Meacham to the nearest hospital, so they can save him,” Callie was ranting and pressed herself into the wide seat of the cruiser as if by sheer will should could force the car to go back.

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but Ted White ordered us hours ago. No one goes in or out of the mansion. If you and Mr. Meacham, or anyone in the Administration showed up, we were to get you out of there to a set of GPS coordinates he gave us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Callie mumbled looking down and noticing the dark red that littered her blouse and suit. She just settled back and sobbed,
staring at the stains of blood that covered her.

  “Try to relax, ma’am. I’m going to get you to a safe place.”

  “All right,” Callie felt dizzy. She didn’t have the heart to look back, and yet she found herself peeking at the rearview mirror. Thankfully, the angle was too severe to see much, and Callie closed her eyes and breathed deeply trying to escape the images burned in the back of her mind.

  The flash from the gun.

  The splatter of the blood.

  Meacham’s limp body.

  She was scared, really scared. Dear Lord, help me make it through this.

  *****

  San Antonio, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 4:45 p.m.

  His wireless buzzed with an incoming message, so Raúl pulled it from his pocket as he sat up in the nasty basement apartment, and tried to get the sleep out of his eyes.

  Rodeo Maestro: Papa Bear has arrived.

  Rodeo Maestro: Spanish Ranch two miles west of here.

  Rodeo Maestro: N30 5.67101 W99 27.37061

  Rodeo Maestro: Bring the rain.

  He cursed to himself as he got up off the rancid couch, throwing his system into overdrive for the second time that day. He glanced back at the wireless and took a deep draw of air. This text didn’t indicate some kind of loco timeframe like last time, so he stretched a bit before looking for the keys to his truck. Bring the rain meant he needed to contact Hector and some of his Mara friends. He needed to make some calls. He typed out a quick reply on the wireless.