Winning Texas

by Nancy Stancill

  “Yeah, I agree. It doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “What else do you see in Nate’s records?” she asked.

  “Kyle Krause owns a lot of Hill Country land, including a huge, fenced-off ranch,” Travis said. “Nate thought he might be using his managers and girlfriend to buy property.”

  “Wonder what that’s all about?” Annie said.

  “The secrecy seems odd,” he said. “Wonder what they’re doing there?”

  “Something else we’ll need to check out.”

  They spent all afternoon reading through Nate’s stuff and making notes before Annie looked at her watch. It was nearly 5 o’clock and they needed a break. But they also needed to talk this through while it was fresh in their minds. It might be a good time to pick the brain of Brandon McGill, the Times reporter who covered the secessionist movement. She hoped he was still at his desk.

  “Let’s find Brandon and get his take on this,” she said. “I’ll buy you both a beer at La Carafe.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Annie walked the two blocks from the newspaper office to La Carafe with Brandon and Travis. She knew that this early on a weekday, happy-hour customers wouldn’t be there yet. They could find a secluded table before it got crowded. She wanted the three of them to take their time to brainstorm, away from the late-afternoon bustle of the newsroom.

  La Carafe was the favored drinking establishment of Times reporters and lower-level editors. The higher-ups generally would go to fancier watering holes, like the Petroleum Club, an exclusive members-only place. Located on Congress Street in Houston’s oldest commercial building, La Carafe wasn’t sufficiently upscale to attract high-salaried bankers or white-collar oil company staff. But its exposed brick walls and seedy air of permanence felt like an anchor in the increasingly fragile newspaper world. Journalists loved its disreputable air and eclectic jukebox.

  She found a rickety table and chairs in an upstairs corner and asked Travis to fetch beers from the bar. After her chardonnay-soaked Saturday night and the nightmare aftermath of Nate’s death Sunday morning, Annie had vowed not to drink wine again for a while. She could handle beer because she’d sip it slowly and be satisfied with one or two. It didn’t slip down the throat with the ease of her favorite Chardonnay or Pinot Noir.

  Travis brought three frosted glasses with Coronas and limes and a bowl of peanuts as she finished briefing Brandon on everything they’d learned from Nate’s notes.

  “Yep, I’ve been hearing a lot of chatter from sources close to the Nation of Texas,” Brandon said. “Those secessionists think the German Texans could ruin their political scheme to convert the state into a republic under their control. They want all of Texas and they view the German-Texas movement as a dangerous rival for territory.”

  He studied Annie through his square black-framed glasses, stopping to chug his beer with a handful of peanuts. Born in West Texas, Brandon understood the remote parts of the state better than anyone on the staff. His wide network of sources there was unsurpassed. Annie appreciated that he always measured his words carefully, avoiding exaggeration and bombast.

  “Four years ago, your stories came close to destroying the secessionists’ statewide network,” he said. “But they’ve built it back amazingly fast.”

  “Are they as strong as they were when Dan Riggins was running it?”

  “No, but they’re getting there, and Riggins is still very much involved. Lately I’m hearing there’s a mystery person at the helm who’s really good at carrying out his orders and keeps a low profile.”

  “That’s intriguing. Any guesses?”

  “Not yet, but it’s obviously somebody Riggins trusts.”

  She shuddered, thinking about Riggins and his deadly mistress.

  “You said you’d heard that he and Alicia slipped across the border into West Texas a while back. Have they been seen again?” she asked.

  “Not recently. Far as I know, they’re hiding out somewhere in Mexico. But Riggins still keeps his foot soldiers spread across Texas – hundreds of loyalists working for security companies or, rumor has it, in law enforcement.”

  “Guess they were shocked to find out about the German-Texas movement,” Annie said, sipping her beer.

  “Stunned and furious is the way I’d characterize it,” Brandon said. “If the German Texans end up controlling the Hill Country, that would be a huge political loss for the Nation of Texas. As I said, the secessionists want every bit of Texas under their thumb.”

  “But the German Texans don’t want an independent country, just a cultural enclave, right?” Travis said. “Are they a real threat to the secessionists?”

  “The secessionists, rightly or wrongly, view them as deadly competition,” Brandon said. “They believe that the German Texans want more than a cultural enclave in the Hill Country. They fear that the German Texans are positioning their movement to take over the whole state.”

  “I guess they’re projecting their own ambitions and paranoia on the German Texans,” Travis said. “Makes sense, in a twisted kind of way. But what can the secessionists do?”

  “For now, they’ll do whatever they can to undermine the German Texans politically,” Brandon said. “But as Annie knows, violence is always on the table.”

  “That’s certainly evident in their campaign against Sam Wurzbach,” Annie said. “Sabotaging his bakeries wasn’t enough. They had to make it personal by killing his family’s dogs.”

  “Sounds like their tactics,” Brandon said.

  Annie swallowed the last of her beer. She felt lucky to have skilled reporters like Brandon and Travis to work on this. But their three-person team would be stretched to the bone to unravel these complex threads. She was pleased to see Travis focused and thoughtful, putting aside for the moment his sadness over Nate. She felt much the same. A setback in her personal life usually meant increased intensity to work so that she could feel a sense of control over something.

  “Guys, one more?” she said. “I’m buying.”

  “What’s next?” Travis asked.

  “I suspect we’ll spend the rest of the week getting our ducks in a row. Brandon should take over the investigation into Nate’s death while you and I head to the Hill Country next week,” she said.

  She’d enjoy her second beer and their companionship. Then she’d go home, clean her house and wash her clothes, things she hadn’t done in a week. It would be good for her and Travis to get out of town for a few days. She felt comforted just thinking about being on the road and working as a reporter-editor instead of sitting in the newsroom waiting for something to happen and feeling bad about Nate.

  CHAPTER 24

  Dan Riggins heard his nephew’s pickup banging down the rutted path that passed for a road outside Ojinaga, Mexico. The summer had been especially dry and hot and when the rare vehicle lumbered by, it was usually covered in dust by the time it passed his rented place. He could see the maroon truck coming now, navigating the curvy road with nothing on either side except for scrawny plants, sun-baked grasses and a few small houses in the distance. He mopped his face like a cowboy with the red bandanna he stuffed in his jeans pocket.

  The pickup skittered to a stop outside his pink stucco house and Rob Ryland got out and hugged his uncle. Riggins hadn’t talked to Rob for a few days, but he and his nephew were frequently in touch now. When Riggins and Alicia fled Texas, they’d left the Nation of Texas in shambles. Riggins had been reluctant to share power, and his deputies in the movement had scattered, fearful of being arrested after the shootout on the Interstate 10 freeway. They mostly went back to their day jobs and waited to see what would happen.

  After his impulsive, failed attempt to kidnap Times reporte
r Annie Price, Rob Ryland had landed in jail. Riggins regretted abandoning his nephew to the vagaries of the court system and secretly funneled money for his defense. Luckily, because of his youth and a lenient judge, Rob got off with probation and an order to stay away from the secessionist movement. Riggins had waited to see how Rob would handle his freedom before contacting him. He’d been impressed that his nephew had found a job with an Austin alternative paper and quickly put his fractured life back together. Last year, Riggins had contacted Rob to see if he was still interested in the Nation of Texas. Rob came to Mexico to meet with him and they talked for a long time. Riggins, acting on a combination of instinct and desperation, had given Rob a key role in rallying the secessionist leaders. But because of the court order, it had to be top-secret. Rob continued to work at the Austin newspaper and Riggins remained the group’s leader. All directives that went through the underground network were issued in his name, but his nephew was helping him with steps to resuscitate the group. The recent rise of the German-Texas movement had caught Riggins off guard. He’d ordered some quick and dirty action while he mulled a more substantive plan.

  However, Riggins was increasingly distracted with worry about Alicia’s condition. His recent trip to Houston with Tom Marr had been fruitless. They hadn’t found either Alicia or Marr’s runaway daughter Betsy. But a few days after Riggins returned to Mexico, Alicia had come back to Ojinaga, exhausted, sick and rambling.

  Riggins had asked Rob to come to the Ojinaga house for some planning because he hesitated to cross the border again so soon. He took chances, but they were always calculated risks, and his intuition told him not to try to sneak back into Texas right now. He’d also grown closer to Rob and welcomed the only family member with whom he was still in contact. He needed a sounding board for his latest round of troubles.

  “Thanks for coming, son,” he said. “Alicia wants to see you.”

  Rob walked through the living room of the small house. Riggins and Alicia had rented it for two years, but he’d never visited and Riggins could tell he was curious about it. His nephew looked approvingly at the cozy living room with Saltillo tile floors, decent furniture and a large TV. Its satellite dish lent a focal point to the barren back yard. Riggins needed to keep up with news across the border and was addicted to CNN International. A room air conditioner in the living area blasted cold air, a welcome respite from the 101-degree temperatures they routinely suffered in the Mexican scrub country.

  Rob looked impressed. “Really nice for Mexico,” he said. “Did you have trouble finding something decent? The town looks kind of awful.”

  “Our cartel sources have been pretty helpful to me and Alicia,” Riggins said. “As you know, they’re very interested in Texas secession and will support us all the way. They’d certainly like more access to large markets on the other side of the border.”

  “You haven’t told me much about that,” Rob said. “Which cartels?”

  “Don’t worry about that right now. The less you know, the safer you’ll be. I’ll brief you fully when you need to know. Want to see Alicia?”

  “Of course,” Rob said. He admired Alicia, but Riggins could tell he’d always been a little afraid of her. Her reputation as a skilled assassin with an unpredictable temper preceded her.

  Riggins walked in the bedroom ahead of Rob to make sure his darling was still awake. The door was open and Alicia lay still – too still – in their king-sized bed under starched white sheets. Her round dark eyes with their thick lashes were open, but she seemed lethargic. Her long, thick white hair fanned across the pillow. She gave Rob a weak smile.

  “Rob, que pasa?”

  “Hola, Tia Alicia,” Rob said. He sat at the edge of the bed and gingerly squeezed her hand. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Not good,” she said with a small sigh. “How is my little yellow house?”

  Before she and Riggins had fled to Peru, she’d lived in West Texas near Tom Marr’s vast ranch. Riggins had built a small home for Alicia where he visited her between foreign trips for the CIA. It was just a three-bedroom, stucco house painted a cheerful yellow, but both Riggins and Alicia had regarded it as their secret, treasured place. In happier days, she’d run a pottery business from the house, commissioning pieces to sell at San Antonio’s Mexican Market. She’d leave the place only for her pottery business or to carry out assassination contracts.

  “Your house is just the way you left it,” Riggins said. “It will be waiting for you when we’re able to come back to Texas.”

  “Do you want me to go there and pick up anything for you?” Rob asked.

  “No, but please don’t let anyone break into my beautiful house and steal my things,” she pleaded. “All of my furniture and pottery and clothes are inside.”

  “Mi corazon, I pay someone to come by and check on it,” Riggins said. She hadn’t mentioned it much while they were fugitives, but he knew how terribly she missed the only home she’d known since the Shining Path terrorists captured her as a teenager in Peru.

  She made an effort to talk to Rob for a few minutes, but Riggins could see that her energy was fading.

  “Still so tired from the trip,” she said. “I’m glad you came, Rob, but I think I will sleep now.”

  Rob kissed her cheek and walked out of the room with Riggins, who closed the door softly.

  They went silently into the small kitchen at the back of the house. Riggins got two beers out of the refrigerator and handed one to Rob. They sat at the square kitchen table and clinked the glass bottles solemnly.

  “To better times,” Rob said. “I’ve never seen her so subdued. Have you gotten her to a doctor?”

  “I paid a lot yesterday for a good doc to come across the border and examine her. He thinks it might be a brain tumor, but we won’t know until she goes to a hospital for a head scan. I’m hoping I can get her to the Ojinaga hospital tomorrow. So far, she’s refused to go.”

  “Do you know where she went after she disappeared?” Rob asked.

  “She said she’d driven all over Texas, but I think she mostly spent her time in Houston,” Riggins said. “I looked at the stuff in her car. There were a bunch of gas and motel receipts from the Houston area.”

  “Any idea how she spent her time?”

  “God knows. I’m not sure I want to. She still hates your former newspaper colleague, Annie Price, and has vowed to kill her. That didn’t happen this time, but I’m dreading the fallout from whatever she did.”

  They drank their beers in moody silence for a while until Riggins said, “Can I pick your brain about something else?”

  “Sure, Uncle Dan.”

  “It’s that Kyle Krause character and his relationship with the German-Texas group.”

  “The strip-club king in Houston? Didn’t you say he wasn’t much of a threat?”

  “Yeah. I was wrong. He’s a dangerous troublemaker.” He got up, got two more beers and offered one to Rob as he thought out loud.

  “Krause is especially tight with our German-Texan friend, Sam Wurzbach. He’s given more money to those Hill Country Huns than anyone else.”

  “Our patriot members up in Fredericksburg have stirred up a lot of trouble for Sam,” Rob said. “We hear he’s been talking to the cops about the bakery break-ins.”

  “What did he do when his fancy dogs were poisoned?” Riggins asked.

  Rob looked down, abashed. “I heard his little girls were awfully upset. Was that really necessary?”

  “You have to learn, Rob, that a psychological blow is the most powerful kind of guerilla warfare,” Riggins said. “It’s a classic CIA move.”

  “Okay,” Rob said. “Let’s not talk about it. What do you want me to do about Kyle Kraus
e? Our guys in San Antonio did a pretty good job blowing a hole in his gas emporium. Too bad they couldn’t get to the pumps.”

  “Yeah, he was really mad, but he and his buddy Sam managed to get it hushed up. Let me think about it some more,” Riggins said. “Hold on. Did you hear something?”

  Riggins walked out the back door and looked across the arid yard and beyond, just to make sure nobody was there. Though he was stuck in the boondocks, the habits of a secretive lifetime conspired to keep him vigilant.

  As usual, the back yard was devoid of human habitation, but he saw a coyote in the distance sniffing around. The nasty animal was another reason to hate this place. His nephew had become smarter, but Rob still needed toughening up. He shouldn’t have been so troubled by the dog caper. But Riggins had to admit that he was glad for the company. Lately, he’d had to watch what he said around Alicia for fear she’d go off half-cocked again. She was brave but foolhardy and hardheaded, even at her best. What was wrong with her? What were they doing in this godforsaken border town? He felt impotent and miserable.

  “What else do you need from me?” Rob asked. “I need to get to the other side of the border before dark. I’ll have a long day tomorrow driving to Austin.”

  “Sam Wurzbach is still our biggest problem,” Riggins said. “Without him, I think the German Texans might just fold their tents and slink away.”

  “What do you want our folks in the Hill Country to do?”

  “Stand by, for the moment,” Riggins said. “We’ll watch his next moves.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Zogu pulled into the budget motel’s parking lot and pulled out the latest load of groceries for the Albanian girls. This time he’d purchased only items from the list compiled by his wife Genta and he wasn’t surprised that it contained mostly low-calorie and healthy foods. Cottage cheese, yogurt, sacks of carrot and celery sticks, coffee and lots of Lean Cuisine dinners filled the plastic bags. Genta had forbidden him to buy pizza, beer, coffeecakes and other cheaper fare he’d brought at first, items he suspected the girls much preferred.