Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  “What about the car and uniforms Terri reported?” Bishop asked.

  Watts dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “The department in Dallas has squad cars all over the place. They have about one-tenth the number of cops as before, so there’s no shortage of available cruisers. Looters, over time, have picked a lot of them clean, but not all. Uniforms probably aren’t that hard to either acquire or make. The chief promised to have his men on the lookout for any imposters.”

  Bishop brought up his wife’s observation about one of the phonies calling the other by the rank of captain. “Are we dealing with a gang of former military?”

  Nick shrugged, “That wouldn’t surprise me. Huge sections of the USA are still basically classified as badlands. Same with large swaths of Mexico. It would make sense that a desperate group of Army or Marine buddies would band together.”

  Watts shook his head, “I just can’t connect the dots here, gentlemen. While there are some similarities between the robberies, I don’t think Terri’s incident is related. Even the evidence relating the three thefts is circumstantial at best.”

  Frowning, Grim asked, “What are the similarities?”

  “All three of the robbery incidents were conducted with military precision. All three were well planned and executed. We know that two of the three involved a four-man team. We don’t know exactly how many were working the Moss Ridge job.”

  As Bishop sat and listened to the meeting continue, it occurred to him that Watts was being overly conservative, which wasn’t all that surprising.

  The sheriff was a lawman, tried and true. He’d spent a lifetime dealing with juries, attorneys, judges, and prosecutors. He was brainwashed into dealing with hard, black and white facts and evidence. Watts was damn good at his job and was a tremendous asset for the Alliance but was not known for taking the most enlightened position.

  Was the sheriff looking at things through narrow blinders? Bishop wondered. That thought was quickly dismissed when the Texan remembered the sheriff questioning Pete’s cash flow.

  For an hour the four men hashed what was known, Nick eventually rising to stretch while announcing, “We’re going around in circles. I need some shuteye. Meeting adjourned.”

  As Bishop started to leave, Watts pulled him to the side. “You know what I have to ask.”

  Nodding, the Texan said, “I’ve not seen or heard of a single thing that even hints at foul play. Pete’s establishments are booming, sometimes with lines out the door and down the block. He’s very savvy and appears to make good decisions.”

  “The crooks walked away with over $500,000 from Moss Ridge. That is a huge pile of money. You promise to let me know if Pete’s cash supply suddenly increases?”

  Bishop agreed. “Yes. You have my word.” The Texan started to turn away but then paused. “How do you know I’m not part of Pete’s gang?” he asked, only half in jest.

  “I don’t,” Watts replied. There was no smile, chuckle, or grin.

  “Thanks for that,” Bishop said, shaking his head. “Always good to know you’re trusted by the authorities.”

  “I don’t trust anybody,” Watts replied, his face stern. “You wear a badge for over 40 years; you learn. If it makes you feel any better, I asked Sergeant Capela about Nick’s whereabouts. With Diana losing the election, you never know when somebody is going to want to fatten his nest egg in the face of unemployment.”

  Grunting at the image of Nick being a bandit, Bishop said, “If Nick has gone rogue, you’re going to need a lot more deputies, sir.”

  Chapter 13

  With only six days left before the election, all eyes in Texas turned toward San Antonio.

  The Alamo City had been chosen to host the one and only debate for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that of all of Texas’s major metropolitan areas, San Antonio had suffered the least amount of damage during the downfall.

  There were functioning hotels, more restaurants per capita, a television station broadcasting six hours per day, and what was now considered to be the state’s largest newspaper.

  By all accounts, the race was neck and neck. Cyrus’s message was resonating with the population centers, the incumbent holding her ground with the rural voters.

  Pete’s Pizzeria, the mogul’s establishment along the San Antonio Riverwalk, was benefiting from the influx of reporters, businessmen, and citizens arriving for the political showdown. That meant Bishop was in town as well, relishing yet another opportunity to see his family.

  The only building large enough to host the debate and provide air conditioning was the city’s Central High School. The institution had long been a powerhouse in regional basketball, and the gymnasium had been constructed to hold thousands of fervent fans.

  Packed to the rafters, Central Fieldhouse reminded Terri of the pre-collapse world. There were lights, surround sound, television cameras, and reporters from every corner of the Lone Star Nation. Music played over the public-address system between the warmup speakers, many of whom were local dignitaries and elected officials.

  Given the traffic, and the fact that he was on the clock, Bishop stayed with his wife and son for as long as possible. “I’d love to hang out and watch the fireworks, but one of us has to work for a living,” he announced, leaning in to kiss his nervous wife.

  “Okay,” she replied, bouncing an excited, fascinated Hunter on her hip. “We’ll get over to Pete’s as soon as possible. Grim says you’re buying.”

  Laughing at his old comrade’s sense of duty, Bishop nodded. “As long as he keeps you safe, I’m happy to fill his mug. See you soon.”

  Terri took Hunter’s hand to help the boy wave at his exiting father, but it didn’t do much good. Born after the collapse, the child had never seen anything like the spectacle playing out in the arena and was powerless to direct his attention at anything other than the political circus. “You know, this facility is amazing,” she marveled to her son. “We might as well be the real, live versions of ‘Ma and Pa Kettle Go to Town,’” she joked, hoping to alleviate a bit of her own anxiety.

  Then it was time, the mayor of San Antonio marching onstage to introduce the candidates, giving a hardy thumbs-up to the cheering throng as he crossed to the podium.

  Terri couldn’t remember ever being so nervous, and she wasn’t even the one having to debate. Diana, with Nick at her side, winked before strolling gracefully onto the stage, waving and smiling to the adoring pundits, ignoring the surprising number of moans and boos.

  Cyrus came next, his dark suit and flaming red tie in sharp contrast to Diana’s royal blue dress. The two candidates met in the middle and shook hands. It was to be the most civil gesture of the entire evening.

  Bitter was hardly the word to describe the next 90 minutes. Back and forth flew a blizzard of accusations, insults, and confrontational statements.

  At first, Cyrus’s ferocity took Diana aback, but Terri’s friend was a fighter, a trait that quickly became evident as the moderator threw question after question at the two politicians.

  At the halfway point, Terri thought the contest was a dead heat. At the three-quarters mark, Diana was clearly ahead, pinning Cyrus down on his plan to raise taxes and embarrassing the older man with her calculator-like grasp of the budget numbers in question.

  By the time the moderator announced the final questions, Terri was sure Diana had thoroughly kicked his ass. Cyrus didn’t look happy, nor did his handlers on the opposite side of the stage.

  “Please describe your position on gun control, Mr. Young.”

  Clearing his throat, Cyrus began. “We must have gun control. We are not living in the Old West. Men walking around with battle rifles and openly displaying firearms are inhibiting the recovery. Our urban areas are experiencing far too much violence due to the prevalence of firearms. In fact, a major crime wave is sweeping through the territory right now and has been building for some time. This is only going to get worse.”

  “And your position, Pre
sident Brown?”

  “I strongly support the 2nd Amendment and all citizens’ rights to bear arms. If I am elected, there will not be any additional restrictions.”

  Cyrus jumped in before the moderator could respond. “So, your proposal is to allow anyone to carry any sort of weapon, regardless of whether they live in Houston or Meraton? This is exactly why the recovery is stalled! How can any civilized person believe that heavily armed individuals promote peace, order, and prosperity, especially in a densely populated, urban environment?”

  Shaking her head, Diana responded, “As long as I’m president of this republic, Texans will always have the right to bear arms.”

  Before Cyrus could react, the moderator announced, “And that concludes our debate for this evening. My sincere thanks to both candidates and the great city of San Antonio for hosting this event!”

  As Diana walked off, Terri knew the real battle was about to begin. Handing Hunter to a pre-arranged babysitter, it was now time for the campaign manager to earn her pay.

  The backstage media room was a traditional feature of political debates. There, the press not only could gorge themselves on food and drink, but they also had a chance to compare notes with each other and chat with the “experts” provided by each candidate.

  Entering the Brown media room, Terri encountered a swirling mass of VIPs, press, and contributors, all of whom were trying to talk, eat, and drink at the same time. The place was packed, and that was a good sign. Everybody loved a winner.

  Pete’s Pub was catering the event, uniformed servers rushing here and there with trays full of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of wine. There were tables of barbecue, finger sandwiches, and spirits, competing with the clusters of people discussing, spinning, and debating the event’s outcome.

  Terri’s first priority was to ensure that there were enough free nibbles and suds to satisfy the burgeoning crowd. Once satisfied with the available indulgences, she then sauntered about the room, taking the temperature of the crowd, eavesdropping on the conversations.

  After a short time, Terri’s curiosity began to get the best of her. Diana’s room was charged with energy and optimism, reporters from all over the Alliance smiling, conversing, and swallowing serious quantities of free libations. I wonder about the climate in Cyrus’s room, she pondered.

  Knowing that Diana would be just as curious, Terri slinked toward the door, hoping to sneak into the opposition’s camp and scout around. Cyrus’s people might know her name, but she didn’t think many of them would recognize her face.

  Flipping her identity badge around, she stepped toward the opposite side of the backstage area. There, she knew, the Young campaign had an almost identical setup.

  Most of the space was divided by curtains rather than walls. As she approached the entrance to the enemy camp, Terri stopped suddenly and turned away. A couple of the competitor’s people were in the middle of a conversation, and both knew exactly who she was.

  “This is a bad idea,” she whispered, facing the nearest cloth divider. With her heart beating rapidly, she began to have doubts about her future in espionage. “Jane Bond you are not,” she chided, mentally trying to settle her nerves.

  Still, the two campaign workers at the threshold remained, inadvertently blocking her infiltration.

  An annoyed voice penetrated the curtain wall, Terri immediately perking up. It was Cyrus. His dressing room must have been just on the other side of the makeshift barrier.

  “Well that was a rolling cluster fuck,” Terri heard the candidate bark. “We just lost 10 points in the polls,” continued the irritated man.

  “It wasn’t that bad, Cyrus,” a weak voice answered. “Who knew Diana had that kind of grasp of budget numbers and tax policy?”

  “You should have known!” came the enraged response. “You are paid a lot of money to keep me ahead of the curve. You and your people dropped the ball. Now we’re going to have to scramble to make up for this setback, and I’m damn tempted to take what that is going to cost us out of your fucking hide.”

  “Sir, really, it wasn’t as devastating as you’re making it out to be. We can work the press and media. Already my people are spinning a couple of our weaker moments. That, combined with another advertising blitz, and we’ll be in fine shape.”

  Cyrus was incensed. “Another advertising blitz! And just where is that money supposed to come from? After our little performance this evening, I don’t think contributors are going to be lining up with their piggy banks in hand. How much do we have left in the kitty?”

  “We do need to raise more funds, but I’m sure that can be accomplished,” sounded the timid answer.

  Before Terri could hear more, a voice from over her shoulder said, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  She turned to find one of Nick’s security people standing behind her. “Oh, sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “Uh-huh,” the big fellow replied, knowing good and well that Terri had been eavesdropping. “You should probably head back to your side of the hall, ma’am. If Mr. Young’s people see you here, there might be trouble, and then I’d be in hot water.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Terri replied, slinking back toward Diana’s room with a sly grin on her face.

  The importance of what she’d just overheard finally dawned on Terri. “They’re out of money,” she whispered, the realization lifting her spirits even higher. “We can win this thing. We can actually do it!”

  As he drove toward the restaurant, Bishop listened to the radio’s broadcast of the debate with half an ear.

  His less than intense interest in things political was part of the reason, his main focus being on securing Pete’s money. Bishop’s department had been shaken to the core following the deaths of four co-workers.

  As he’d anticipated, most of the guys had responded with knee-jerk reactions and a high level of angst over the incident. They all needed to process … to determine what details had been overlooked, what piece of kit might prevent another tragedy. “We need belt-fed weapons,” one of the security guys had spouted. Another suggested acquiring armored battle tanks from the military so the huge bundles of money could be transported safely.

  It had taken a while for everyone to calm down. Time, combined with several new procedures Bishop had implemented, had finally unwadded most of his team’s panties.

  Still, Bishop was troubled by the crime wave sweeping across the Alliance. He remembered the Colonel’s voice from his early days at HBR. “Without security, there is nothing. No one grows crops if they thieves will take the fruits of labor. Nobody fixes bridges, or repairs roads, or bothers to open their shops if anarchy rules. Security is job one.”

  It was true.

  If Pete started losing his profits to bandits, the old barkeep would stop opening new restaurants, and a hiring freeze would prevent dozens of people from filling decent jobs. The reasoning was simple. Any businessman would be insane to invest his time and resources in an environment where his hard work earned him a gun barrel pointed at his face.

  Watts was a good man and obviously committed to catching the crooks. Yet, Bishop wondered if the sheriff wasn’t outgunned and outmanned. The four men gunned down in the last attempt had been professionals, all of them former military types who had seen their fair share of gunplay. None of them had managed to get off a shot.

  The entire episode reminded Bishop of a series of events that had taken place in his youth. For weeks, his normally even-tempered father had come home frustrated and angry. A rather cunning mountain lion was working the ranch’s herd, and the overgrown kitty was besting all their efforts.

  Hunting parties had ridden into the mountains, only to return empty-handed. The number of men riding herd had been doubled, an expense that damaged the barely profitable outfit’s bottom line. Still, every three or four days, the headcount came up short, another calf missing. Two cows were found dead, the mothers being mauled while trying to protect their offspring. Blood stains, trailing next to lion
tracks, left little doubt regarding the culprit.

  The jumbo-sized mouser was remarkably savvy, alternating between the north section and the western range. Every time the foreman ordered more men into their saddles, the predator would strike somewhere else. The ranch hands were feeling like the rodents when it came to this new game of cat and mouse.

  “Why don’t the men just shoot the lion,” a frightened, young Bishop had asked his father.

  “This lion is super smart, son. It seems to know that we can’t shoot what we can find or see.”

  After the loss of two more calves, Bishop’s dad came up with an idea. Ordering his boy into the old, rambling pickup’s cab, father and son headed out to the south range with nothing more than a 30-30 lever action and a rope.