by Jon Land
Dylan walked forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the single bar. The white-tail buck ran off and the bar locked into place right around where it had been feeding.
“Some men came to the ranch, dressed as cops.”
“Are you and your brother okay?”
“Yup. Maria too. Don’t know about the old men. Heard a lot of gunshots while we were in this old irrigation tunnel. We’re out now and we can’t hear anything.”
“Any cover you can see in the area?”
Dylan looked about. “Some.”
“You wanna hide or keep moving?”
“Road’s a ways off and nothing but open ground between here and there.”
“Then get yourself some cover and stay put. I’ll be there quick as I can.”
“There’s no one you can call?”
“Not right now, no. You hear everything I said, son?”
“Yeah. Dad?”
“I hear you.”
“What about those old men?”
“They saved your life, boy. They did what Rangers do.”
“You wanna hide or keep moving?”
Cort Wesley heard himself pose the question again in his head, as he barreled down the freeway toward Pearsall. Him asking his fifteen-year-old son what he thought was best. Cort Wesley wasn’t used to providing options or deferring to another’s judgment. In that moment, he believed he finally understood his son along with the depth of the trust he’d formed with him. It hadn’t happened quickly or easily and he didn’t realize it had happened at all. But here he was placing his faith in Dylan’s judgment at a time when a wrong decision could lead to more than just those old Rangers falling to an attack.
Put that in your report and smoke it, Marianna Silvaro.
“Your boys’ll be fine, Cort Wesley,” Caitlin had said, trying to sound reassuring in a brief conversation a few minutes before.
“What about you, Ranger?”
“I’m headed to Houston.”
“What’s there?”
“Hollis Tyree III.”
95
PEARSALL, TEXAS; THE PRESENT
By the time Cort Wesley arrived at the ranch in Pearsall, it was swimming with local sheriff’s deputies and highway patrolmen. He wasn’t normally one to walk straight into a major crime scene and announce himself, but circumstances today left him no choice.
He figured on calling or text messaging Dylan upon his arrival, only his phone had no signal. So he parked his truck at the outer rim of the makeshift blockade formed by the police cars, left his guns under the seat, and walked down the lower end of the drive leading to the old-fashioned two-story log home adorned with a farmer’s porch.
Cort Wesley saw the bodies when he cleared the first line of responding vehicles. Counted four of them, all dropped in the area of the lone black-and-white squad car. He glimpsed enough of two faces to know they were Mexicans.
On the porch, an ex-Ranger in a wheelchair talked hurriedly to a pair of detectives trying to keep their notetaking up with his words, while a second ex-Ranger who looked like a gunslinger took oxygen from an EMT’s portable tank.
“Excuse me,” a uniform said, stepping out to block Cort Wesley’s path, “you got any call to be here?”
Cort Wesley calmly gestured toward the porch. “Those men up there were guarding my sons.”
The uniform stepped aside. Cort Wesley started past him, then stopped and looked back. “There were three men living here.”
The uniform aimed his eyes low. “One didn’t make it.”
Cort Wesley felt his stomach muscles tighten, still not finished with the uniform. “Take a good look a those old men on that porch, son. Take a good look at them, ’cause they are genuine heroes and that’s a tough commodity to come by these days.”
The uniform nodded, suddenly looking very young.
Cort Wesley mounted the steps, those on the porch going silent as he fixed only Texas Rangers Bo Dean Perry and Terrell Scuggs in his gaze, ignoring everyone else. “I’m Cort Wesley Masters. Just wanna thank you men for saving my boys’ lives,” he said, and retraced his steps down from the porch.
The one in the wheelchair rolled toward him. “Mr. Masters?”
Cort Wesley stopped at the bottom and looked back up at him.
“Your oldest’s a heck of a boy, sir. I’d ride with him anytime.”
96
HOUSTON; THE PRESENT
“I’m afraid Mr. Tyree’s not in the building, Ranger,” the receptionist told Caitlin over the phone.
“You have any idea where I can reach him?” Caitlin asked. Her plane had barely touched down, the tense flight from Washington leaving her stiff and cramped.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Richest man in the state of Texas and you don’t know where he’s at?”
“I’m afraid—”
“Never mind,” Caitlin told her. “I think I know.” She started to lower her phone, then raised it again to continue. “Shame about what happened to those truck drivers worked for Mr. Tyree this morning.”
“I don’t believe I know what you’re speaking of, ma’am,” the receptionist said.
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
SWEETWATER, TEXAS; THE PRESENT
Caitlin found Hollis Tyree III on a stretch of flatland on the outskirts of the town, standing amid a garden centered around a flowering cottonwood tree just like the kind she’d picnicked under with her dad. Tyree’s knees were stained with the residue of dark mulch and a weak scent of manure hung in the air. The scene had an eerie familiarity to it, churning her mind back to the nightmares that left her under a similar tree in the dark and the rain.
Caitlin stiffened as a quartet of bodyguards, led by the man named Meeks, cut off her approach. “The men you put into Albion weren’t up for taking me on and I doubt you’re up to the task either, sir,” she said to him. “You tell Mr. Tyree I’m here because I think I know what happened to his kids two years back.”
“Let her through,” Tyree called from the garden. His voice sounded soft but the wind seemed to pick it up, making it louder.
Caitlin held Meeks’s stare until he finally stepped aside. A few yards past him, she stopped and turned back, finding his unblinking eyes still locked upon her.
“Assuming Sheriff Huffard and his deputies are safe, Mr. Meeks, I’m willing to give you a pass on your little charade in Albion. But if I find out you had anything to do with an attempt on the lives of some children under the Rangers’ protection in Pearsall, or the gunning down of my captain, you and I are gonna meet up again. That clear enough for you?”
Caitlin started on again for the garden where Tyree was standing, careful not to disturb any of the seedlings. He looked shorter than their last meeting, his shoulders slumped, eyes drawn and tired with the crow’s feet forming pale shadows around them.
“You been to Mexico, Ranger?”
“I went to see a man in Washington who told me about a lunatic colonel who’s been killing American tourists. His name’s Montoya and he’s got a brother who makes him look like a Sunday school teacher.”
She could see Tyree stiffen, his eyes starting to moisten. His expression wrinkled, as if he’d swallowed something sour or spoiled.
“You have proof?” he asked.
“That’s gonna be tough to come by. But your kids weren’t the only victims. Montoya’s your man for sure, sir. And he’s up to plenty more than that.”
Tyree waited for her to continue, finally spoke again when she didn’t. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was.”
“Didn’t have to. I’m guessing you came here after you heard about those six drivers of yours whose bodies were found in the desert this morning, try to sort through the mess. That was Montoya’s work too.” Caitlin took a single step closer to him. “I didn’t appreciate being lied to about those Mexican girls on your worksite, or about whatever’s poisoning those people in Albion. But it would seem circumstances have left us with the same enemy here.”
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“Tell me about this Montoya.”
“He’s a native Indian, a Mayan who hates the world, especially Americans, for the racism that derailed his career. They tend to treat Indians down there the way our country used to treat blacks. Colonel Montoya figured he’d had enough. Decided to take out his hostilities on tourists when he failed to make general on account of his heritage. Word is he’s used former commandoes called Zetas to take control of the drug cartels and may be planning to launch a guerrilla war against the United States. With your help, sir.”
“My help?”
“Whatever was in those dump trucks is surely in Montoya’s hands by now, because you delivered it to him all wrapped up in a bow. I think you better tell me once and for all what it is you dug out of the ground last night to cover up all the damage you’ve done.”
Tyree swallowed hard and looked at her for what seemed like a long time before responding.
“Uranium,” he said flatly.
97
PEARSALL, TEXAS; THE PRESENT
“You did good, son,” Cort Wesley said, brushing the bramble and sagebrush Dylan had used for cover off the boy’s dirt-laden flesh. Some tight overgrowth and root thorns had curled into his hair and he grimaced as Cort Wesley plucked it free. “Better than good, truth be told.”
“You told me to find cover, so I did.”
“We’ll drive with the windows open on a account of the three of you smelling like cesspools,” Cort Wesley said, going to work on Luke, leaving Maria’s tangles to Dylan, “but right now that’s the sweetest scent I ever knew.”
“Ouch,” Luke said, pulling away from him.
“Hold still, son.”
“It hurts.”
“Almost done.”
Cort Wesley’s gaze lifted over Luke’s shoulder and saw old Leroy Epps leaning against the base of a cottonwood tree.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” the old man grinned. His teeth looked whiter, as if death had finally returned the pearl white color to them. “Wouldn’t happen to have one of those root beers, would you?”
“No,” Cort Wesley said out loud.
“Huh?” from Luke.
“Keep still,” Cort Wesley told him, holding his gaze on Epps.
“Fine boys, bubba. They got your heart and your ilk. Tough combination to beat.”
“I do hope you’re right, champ.”
“Who’s champ?”
“Oh, I’m right for sure. Where I’m at now, you see things from a whole different perspective. Seeing you this way makes me wish I had my own boys to look in on. But once you play the cards life deals you, you can’t ask for new ones. Remember that, bubba. Man, I’m thirsty . . . Sure you don’t got one of them root beers?”
Cort Wesley pulled the last of the brambles from Luke’s hair and held his gaze on Leroy Epps.
“What’re you looking at, Dad?” Luke asked him.
Leroy Epps winked.
“Nothing, son,” said Cort Wesley.
98
SWEETWATER; THE PRESENT
“I figured Professor Lamb was up to something,” Hollis Tyree continued, after steadying his breath, “but nothing like this.”
“It was to pay off a gambling debt to the Branca crime family. Next thing you know, Brancas are looking to sell off the information to the highest bidder. That explains how Montoya and his cartel partners got hold of the report you never saw until it was too late. I’m guessing Frank Branca Jr. had already made peace with the cartels to allow him to get back in business in Texas. Rest just fell together.”
Caitlin watched the red flowing in and out of Tyree’s expression, as he struggled to steady his breathing. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak.
“I think I understand, sir,” she said finally.
“Understand what?”
“When was the last time you weren’t in control of a situation? When was the last time you couldn’t buy yourself out of a scrape or send men like Meeks to clean up your mess?”
“It’s not that.”
The life seemed to drain out of Tyree’s expression. He stood there, looking ready to keel over, then took a step away from her to balance himself. Caitlin gave Hollis Tyree a few moments before circling back in front of him again.
“This Montoya killed my children,” he said finally. “And now, thanks to me, he’s going to kill plenty more.”
Caitlin took a step closer to him. “Sir, the first time we met you asked me what I’d do if I’d been on the case when your boy and girl went missing. Well, consider me on it now. I can’t bring your kids back but I can stop Montoya from killing any more.”
“Do you have any idea how many people could have been helped by the water I found in Tunga County, Ranger?” Tyree asked, as if to defend himself.
“That why you’ve purchased another two dozen similar tracts of land across the plains all the way to California?”
Tyree’s mouth dropped slightly.
“I did some checking,” Caitlin told him, “and some figuring. You’re just like the guy building windmills across the state because someday it’s gonna make him a fortune. You said it yourself: today it’s oil, tomorrow it’ll be water, and where will folks have to go to get it?” She paused to let her point sink in. “You might’ve thought you were doing good, Mr. Tyree, but in the end it was all about making yourself richer, come the day water gets priced by the barrel just like crude. This whole thing’s about making sure it’s your trademark on those barrels.”
“That’s not true, Ranger.”
“You trying to fool me or yourself, sir?”
Hollis Tyree looked trapped between responses, his eyes seeming to peer in different directions at once. “What can I do to prove you’re wrong about me?”
“Tell me about the uranium.”
“How much you know on the subject?”
“Nothing ’sides the obvious.”
“Well, there’s a lot more than the obvious. Let’s start with the fact that finding uranium in Texas is nothing new. Airborne gamma radiation surveys first found it by accident in 1954 while looking for petroleum deposits. The strikes were confined almost exclusively to the southern part of the state in areas rich in sandstone.”
“Doesn’t seem to describe Tunga County much, does it, Mr. Tyree?”
“I’m getting to that,” he told her, as wind rustled the flowers around them. “Thing is there are various grades of uranium, and most of them, especially the strikes found in Texas, aren’t worth a lick. But when we found water in Tunga County nobody knew was there, we also found uranium nobody knew was there.”
“And that’s what poisoned the water in Albion, turned the town’s residents crazy just like drinking from that creek made those pioneers mad enough to kill each other in 1881.” Caitlin blinked some dust from her eye. “Only case like that I ever came upon was an Indian Reservation where they used contaminated rocks and tailings from local uranium mines to build their homes. But that was nothing like this.”
“That’s because the uranium we found in Tunga County was the highly enriched kind thought to be geologically extinct for the most part, containing 99.4 percent uranium-235. Uranium is considered weapons grade if it contains as little as 85 percent.”
“How many bombs is that, Mr. Tyree?”
The blood seemed to drain from Hollis Tyree’s face, his complexion taking on the color of milk and look of cardboard. “Depends on how much uranium they can pull out of the soil.”
“Take a guess.”
“You’d need fifty-five pounds of the stuff to fashion even a single crude nuclear device, but only a fraction of that for a dirty bomb.”
“How many dirty bombs in what those dump trucks were carrying?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“How many, sir?”
“A dozen, at least.”
Caitlin let that settle in her mind for a moment. “Montoya hates Americans, Mr. Tyree, and he’s got his own private army of Mexican Special Forces troops to ba
ck it up. I think he’s going to use your uranium and his men to attack American cities. I think what we’re looking at here now is an all-out war.”
Tyree surveyed the land around him, as if seeing it for something else entirely. “This is the very site of the house my great-granddad built, where my father was born. I resolved to keep it standing forever. But a lightning storm set it ablaze twenty years back. Guess you’re right about control; I couldn’t stop that lightning any more than I could save my children’s lives. The lightning strike happened the very same day my father passed away, and to this day I’m convinced those two things were related. Can I tell you something else?”
“Go ahead.”
“I walk the streets of Sweetwater a lot to remind me where I come from and who I am. And once in a while, not often mind you, but once in a while, when I look down the street I swear I can see Earl Strong on his rounds, looking for human waste products to put on his chain.”
Tyree looked as if he had more to say, but the words dissolved into a heavy sigh that escaped between trembling lips. His eyes moistened again, lids locking open as if everything had seized up solid on him. Then he sucked in a deep breath that sounded dry and crackly.
“I don’t think there’s a town ever been made you couldn’t clean up just like your granddad, Ranger.”
“Guess we’ll see about that, Mr. Tyree.”
99
SAN ANTONIO; THE PRESENT
D. W. Tepper awoke to the sight of the huge man standing at the foot of his bed.
“Oh, shit,” he said, reflexively reaching for the pistol that, of course, wasn’t there.
“We’ve never met, Captain,” said Guillermo Paz. “I’m—”
“I know who you are, I’ve heard all about you.” Tepper struggled to sit up, failed. “And I’m placing you under arrest.”
Paz pulled a nine-millimeter pistol from his belt and laid it atop the bedcovers within Tepper’s reach. “Feel free.”
Tepper started to reach for the gun, then stopped. “I can’t.”