Texas Hero

by Merline Lovelace

Still, as they moved toward the building that housed a special exhibit of weaponry used at the Al­amo, he found himself hoping the theory didn't hold water. A part of him wanted to believe the legend— that William Barrett Travis had drawn that line in the sand, then heroically fought to the death along-side Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the others. Texas deserved its heroes.

  The museum director evidently agreed. Short, ro­tund, his wire-rimmed glasses fogging in the steamy heat, he stood in front of the door to the exhibit with legs spread and arms folded and greeted Ellie with a curt nod. "Dr. Alazar."

  "Dr. Smith."

  "Were you wishing access to those artifacts not on public display?"

  "Yes, there's one rifle in particular I want to show my, er, associate."

  Jack nicked her an amused glance. Obviously, Ellie wasn't ready to admit she'd been intimidated into acquiescing to a bodyguard.

  "I'm sorry," the director replied with patent in­sincerity. ''I must insist that you put all such requests in writing from now on."

  Ellie's eyes flashed. Evidently Smith had just drawn his own line in the sand.

  "I'll do that," she snapped. "I'll also apprise my colleagues in this and future endeavors of your gen­erous spirit of cooperation."

  She left him standing guard at his post. Jack fol­lowed, shaking his head. Elena Maria Alazar might be one of the foremost experts in her field, but she wouldn't win a whole lot of prizes for tact or diplo­macy.

  "Damn Smith, anyway," she muttered, still fum­ing. "I suspect he's the one who raised such a stink with the media. He seems to think I'm attacking him personally by questioning his research."

  It sounded to Jack as though the man might have a point there. Wisely, he kept silent and made a men­tal note to have Mackenzie run a background check on the museum director.

  "I'll show you the images of that shotgun later," Ellie said as they retraced their steps.

  "Why is that particular weapon so significant?"

  "It's a double-barreled shotgun, reportedly recov­ered after the battle. Records indicate William Travis owned just such a weapon, or one similar to it. It's almost identical to the one we recovered at the dig."

  Tugging her ball cap lower on her brow to shield her eyes against the blazing sun, she wove a path through the milling crowd outside the Alamo and made for the elaborate, wrought-iron facade of the Menger.

  "I wish I could convince Smith that I'm still wide open to all possible theories. And that I have no in­tention of caving in to threats, obscene phone calls or petty nuisances like putting my requests for access to historical artifacts in writing."

  Her mouth set, she rummaged around in her shoul­der bag, dug out a parking receipt and approached the parking valet.

  "Why don't I drive?" Jack said easily, passing the attendant his receipt instead. "I want to get the lay of the land."

  He also wanted to make sure someone skilled in defensive driving techniques was at the wheel when­ever Ellie traveled.

  She didn't argue. When the Cherokee came down the ramp, its tires screeching at the tight turns, she tossed her bag into the back and slid into passenger seat. The ball cap came off. With a grateful sigh for the chilled air blasting out of the vents, she swiped the damp tendrils off her forehead.

  "Which way?" Jack asked.

  "Take a left, go past the Alamo Dome, then fol­low the signs for Mission Trail."

  Propping her neck against the headrest, Ellie stared straight ahead. For the second time in as many hours, Jack sensed the accumulated stress that kept the woman beside him coiled as tight as a cobra.

  "Tell me about these obscene phone calls. How many have you received?"

  "Five or six." Her nose wrinkled. "They were short and crude. Mostly suggestions on where I could stick my theories. One of the callers was female, by the way, which surprised the heck out of me."

  Nothing surprised Jack any more. ''Did the police run traces?"

  "They tried. But the calls came through the hotel switchboard, and there's something about the routing system that precluded a trace."

  Jack would fix that as soon as they returned. The electronic bag of tricks Mackenzie had assembled for this mission included a highly sophisticated and not exactly legal device that glommed onto a digital sig­nal and wouldn't let go.

  "See that sign?" Ellie pointed to a historical marker in the shape of a Spanish mission. "This is where we pick up Mission Trail. You need to hang a left here."

  "Got it."

  Flicking on his directional signal, Jack turned left. A half mile later, he made a right. That was when he noticed the dusty black SUV. The Ford Expedi­tion remained three cars back, never more, never less, making every turn Jack did. Frowning, he navigated the busy city streets for another few blocks before spinning the steering wheel. The Cherokee's tires squealed as he cut a sharp left across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

  "Hey!" Ellie made a grab for the handle just above her window. ''Did I miss a sign?''

  "No."

  He nicked a glance in the rearview mirror. The SUV waited until one oncoming vehicle whizzed passed, dodged a second and followed.

  Ellie had figured out something was wrong. Cran­ing her neck, she peered at the traffic behind them while Jack whipped around another corner. When the SUV followed some moments later, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a single button.

  "Control, this is Renegade."

  "Renegade?"

  Ignoring Ellie's startled echo, Jack waited for a response. Mackenzie came on a moment later.

  "Control here. Go ahead."

  "I'm traveling west on..." He squinted at the street sign that whizzed by. ''On Alameda Street in south San Antonio. There's a black Expedition fol­lowing approximately fifty meters behind. I need you to put a satellite on him before I shake him."

  "Roger, Renegade. I'll vector off your signal."

  "Let me know when you've got the lock."

  "Give me ten seconds."

  Jack did a mental count and got down to three before Mackenzie came on the radio.

  "Okay, I see you. I'm panning back... There he is. Black Expedition. Now I just have to sharpen the image a little..." A moment later, she gave a hum of satisfaction. "He's tagged. I'm feeding the license plate number into the computer as we speak. How long do you want me to maintain the satellite lock?''

  "Follow him all the way home. And let me know as soon as you get an ID."

  "Will do."

  "Thanks, Mac."

  "Anytime," OMEGA's communications chief an­swered breezily.

  Jack snapped the transceiver shut and slipped it into his shirt pocket. A quick glance at Ellie showed her staring at him in astonishment.

  "Your company has a satellite at their disposal?"

  "Several. Hang tight, I'm going to lose this joker."

  Jack could see the questions in her eyes but didn't have time for answers right now. The first rule in personal protective services was to remove the pro­tectee from any potentially dangerous situation. He didn't know who was behind the wheel of the SUV or what his intentions were. He sure as hell wasn't about to find out with Ellie in the car.

  Stomping down on the accelerator, he took the next intersection on two wheels. Ellie gulped and scrunched down in her seat. Jack shot a look in the rearview mirror and watched the larger, heavier Ex­pedition lurch around the corner.

  Two turns later, they'd left the main downtown area and had entered an industrial area crisscrossed by railroad tracks. Brick warehouses crowded either side of the street, their windows staring down like unseeing eyes. Once again, Jack put his boot to the floor. The Cherokee rocketed forward, flew over a set of tracks and sailed into an intersection just as a semi bearing the logo of Alamo City Fruits and Veg­etables swung wide across the same crossing.

  "Lookout!"

  Shrieking, Ellie braced both hands on the dash. Her boots slammed against the floorboards.

  Jack spun the wheel right, then left and finessed the Cherokee pas
t the truck with less than an inch or two to spare. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he hit the accelerator again.

  The bulkier Expedition couldn't squeeze through. Behind him, they heard the squeal of brakes followed by the screech of metal scraping metal. Still smiling grimly, Jack made another turn. A few minutes later, he picked up Mission Trail again, but this time he headed into the city instead of out.

  "We'd better put off our visit to the site until to­morrow," he told Ellie. "By then I should have a better idea of who or what we're dealing with."

  "Fine by me," she replied, wiggling upright in her seat.

  Actually, it was more than fine. After that wild ride, her nerves jumped like grasshoppers on hot as­phalt, and her kidneys were signaling a pressing need to find the closest bathroom.

  Jack, on the other hand, didn't look the least flus­tered. He gripped the steering wheel loosely, resting one arm on the console between the bucket seats, and divided his attention between the road ahead and the traffic behind. She couldn't see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but not so much as a bead of nervous sweat had popped out on his forehead.

  ''Do you do these kinds of high-speed races often in your line of work?" she asked. "Often enough."

  "And you've been in the same business since you left the Corps?" "More or less."

  "How do you handle the stress?" He flashed her a grin that reminded her so much of the man she'd once known that Ellie gulped. "I'll show you when we get back to the hotel."

  Chapter 4

  “Yoga?"

  Ellie's disbelieving laughter rippled through the sun-washed hotel room. "You do yoga?"

  "According to my instructor," Jack intoned sol­emnly, "one doesn't 'do' yoga. One ascends to it."

  ''Uh-huh. And who is this instructor?'' she asked, forming a mental image of a tanned, New Age Californian in flowing orange robes.

  "One of the grunts in the first platoon I com­manded."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Nope. Dirwood had progressed to the master level before joining the Corps."

  She shook her head. "You know, of course, you're blowing my image of United States Marines all to hell."

  "Funny," Jack murmured, "I thought I'd pretty much already done that."

  He peeled off his sunglasses, tucked them in his shirt pocket and propped his hips against the sofa back. His blue eyes spent several moments studying Ellie's face before moving south.

  She withstood his scrutiny calmly enough but knew she looked a mess. Sweat had painted damp patches on her scoop-necked top, and her khaki shorts boasted more wrinkles than Rip Van Winkle. She was also, as Jack proceeded to point out, a bun­dle of nerves.

  "You're wound tighter than baling wire. You have been since I arrived."

  No way was she going to admit that a good chunk of the tension wrapping her in steel cables stemmed as much from seeing him again after all these years as from the problems on the project.

  "I've had a lot on my mind," she replied with magnificent understatement.

  "It takes years to really master yoga techniques, but I could teach you a few of the basic chants and positions to help you relax."

  Somehow Ellie suspected that getting down on the floor and sitting knee-to-knee with Jack would prove anything but relaxing. Part of her wanted to do it, if for no other reason than to test her ability to with­stand the intimacy. Another part, more mature, more experienced—and more concerned with self-preservation—knew it was wiser to avoid temptation altogether.

  "Maybe later," she said with a polite smile.

  "It's your call."

  "So what do we do now?"

  "We wait until I get a report on the SUV."

  Sitting twiddling her thumbs with Jack only a few feet away didn't do any more to soothe Ellie's jan­gled nerves than getting down on the floor with him would have.

  "Since we've got the time now," she suggested, "why don't I show you some of the digital images I took at the Alamo and at the excavation site?"

  "Good enough."

  "I'll boot up the computer. Drag over another chair."

  More than agreeable to the diversion, Jack hooked a chair and hauled it across the room. It was obvious why she'd shied away from his offer to teach her some basic relaxation techniques. She was jumpy as a cat around him. Not a good situation. For either of them.

  A tense, nerve-racked client could prove too de­manding and distracting to the agent charged with his or her protection. Jack's job would be a whole lot easier if he could get her to relax a little. Not enough to let down her guard. Not so much she grew careless. Just enough that the tension didn't leave her drained of energy or alertness.

  Still, he had to admit to a certain degree of relief that she'd turned down his offer. The mere thought of folding Ellie's knees and elbows and tucking her into the first position was enough to put a kink in Jack's gut. Breathing in her potent combination of sun-warmed female and cactus pear perfume didn't exactly unkink it, either. Scowling, he focused his attention on the long list of files that appeared on the computer screen.

  "We'll start at the Alamo," Ellie said, dragging the cursor down the list. "I want to show you the shotgun I was talking about."

  "The one the museum director refused to let us see this afternoon?"

  ''Yes. I think the armament images pick up right about..." The cursor zipped down the indexed files. "Here."

  Brilliant color flooded the seventeen-inch active matrix screen. There was Ellie in the Alamo's court­yard, smiling at the short, rotund director who ges­tured with almost obsequious delight to the entrance of the building housing his prized arms exhibit. Tour­ists crowded the courtyard around and behind them.

  One mugged at an unseen camera. Another waited with an expression of impatience for Ellie and Smith to move out of the way. But the shot of Smith's face was clear and unobstructed.

  "I'd like to send a copy of this image to a security analyst," Jack said. "Can you flag it for later refer­ence?"

  "Yes, of course. But..." Looking uncomfortable, Ellie turned to face him. "Smith is just trying to protect his turf. I don't like the idea of invading his privacy or compiling a secret file on him. Or on any of my colleagues, for that matter."

  "We won't be compiling secret files," he an­swered mildly. ''Merely exploiting those that already exist. You'd be amazed at how much data is floating around out there about John Q. Public."

  "Yes, but..."

  "Flag the image, Ellie."

  With obvious reluctance, she went to the menu at the top of the screen and bookmarked the file.

  Jack leaned forward, peering intently at the images that flashed by after that. More shots in the courtyard. The interior of the museum, with room after room of weaponry of the type used during the siege of the Alamo. The special exhibits, not open to the public.

  "For the most part," Ellie explained, "these are pieces that have yet to be authenticated. They were either excavated in or around the Alamo or donated by descendants of the combatants."

  A click of the mouse brought up a vividly detailed image of a long-barreled rifle.

  "This is a Brown Bess, so known because the troopers allowed the steel barrel to burnish and thus prevent glare that could distort their aim. This smooth-bore musket served as the standard infantry rifle carried by the British during the Napoleonic Wars. After the war, the Brits sold their excess in­ventories to armies all over the world."

  "Including the Mexican army?"

  "Yes, well, Mexico was still ruled by Spain then. When it won its independence, its army pretty well retained the standard-issue armaments. Historical documents indicate Santa Anna's infantry was armed with the Brown Bess. Most had been converted from muzzle-loading flintlock to percussion by then."

  She flashed up another image of the musket and highlighted the differences in the firing mechanism.

  "By contrast," she continued, "the Tejanos who fought at the Alamo carried weapons as diverse as the defenders themselves. They weren't members
of a regular army, remember. They were settlers—farm­ers, ranchers, doctors, lawyers, ministers and slaves—all rebelling against Santa Anna's edicts dis­possessing them of their rights under the former Con­stitution. They were also adventurers like Jim Bowie.

  Patriots like Davy Crockett and his Tennesseeans. Slaves, like Bowie's man Joe. They came armed with everything from Spanish blunderbusses to French muskets to long-barreled Kentucky hunting rifles, fowlers and shotguns."

  She ran through a series of images, identifying each weapon as it came up. When the image of a particular shotgun filled the screen, her voice took on an unmistakable hint of excitement.

  "We know from various accounts that Travis ar­rived at the Alamo armed with a double-barrel shot­gun like this one. He'd written several letters to Ste­phen Austin, advocating the gun as the standard weapon for the newly organized Texas cavalry. It didn't have the range of long rifle, of course, but it provided lethal firepower at closer range."

  With a click of the mouse, she rotated the three-dimensional image.

  "Note the stock. It's made of curly maple, some­times called tiger tail or fiddleback."

  Another click zoomed in on the silver inlays on the side of the stock.

  "See the gunsmith's mark on the butt plate? It traces to a gunsmith in Sparta, South Carolina."

  Close at her shoulder, Jack could feel her con­trolled excitement straining to break loose as she re­turned to the index, scrolled down several pages and clicked on another file.

  An outdoor scene was painted across the screen. A narrow creek twisted through the background, its banks almost lost amid a dense tangle of cotton-woods. A small group stood at the edge of one bank. Ellie and her team, Jack guessed, scrutinizing each of their faces in turn.

  "Flag this photo, too," he instructed.

  Her lips thinned, but she bookmarked the file. That done, she zoomed in on one of the objects lying on a piece of canvas at the team's feet. It was a shotgun, similar to the one she'd brought up on the screen moments ago. But this barrel sported a thick coat of rust. The silver mountings had tarnished to black, and wood rot riddled the stock.

  Ellie enlarged the image again. "Look at the butt plate on this one. The gunsmith's mark is hard to read, but it's there."