Secession: The Storm

by Joe Nobody

  The trail had led Zach to a dead body and one very tall homicide detective. Sam’s investigation of the murder made a temporary partnership unavoidable.

  Zach’s first impression of Detective Temple hadn’t been a positive one. While the homicide gumshoe was clearly an intelligent, experienced investigator, she came across as big-city sophisticated - and more than a little snooty.

  Nearly six-feet in height, she was definitely a tall drink of water, but from Zach’s perspective, she used that stature to look down her nose at the planet’s lesser creatures.

  That first day, he’d watched her scold two uniformed officers at the crime scene, barking a harsh reprimand over a minor misstep with an evidence envelope. A few moments after she’d finished belittling the patrolmen, he overheard a lab technician receive a professional ass chewing via Sam’s cell phone.

  The local cops dubbed her the “Amazon Queen,” a fitting handle if the ranger had ever heard one.

  She was, as Zach would soon discover, the ultimate professional. Highly intelligent, detail oriented, and exuding boundless energy, Detective Temple had been issued a golden shield in record time. Her interpersonal skills, however, sucked.

  Until this moment in the hotel hallway, he’d never considered her female attributes. On an average day, she dressed like a librarian, her casual work attire accented by hair pulled back into a neat bun and thick rim glasses. To complete her work uniform, she typically donned the kind of low-slung flats purchased more for orthopedic comfort than a heel’s ability to glorify the line of a girl’s leg. Now, going undercover as a call girl, he was beginning to wonder what else he’d overlooked concerning this complex woman.

  Their suspect, as it turned out, had an appetite for high-end escorts. The boys over at vice knew the man by name and reputation – he favored tall, lithe-limbed beauties who weren’t afraid to show a little thigh. The ranger had to agree with the gent’s preferences – he had demonstrated a weakness for the same body type, as well.

  The lounge at the Metro Hotel was well known as a welcoming location for professional women to advertise their wares. It had been Samantha’s idea to go “under cover.” Zach suppressed the nearly infinite string of one-liners forming in his throat. His partner had a temper, and she carried a gun.

  Zach had staked out the hotel’s lobby while Sam rushed home to change. She strolled into the lobby half an hour later, gussied up and sporting leg. A lot of leg.

  Wearing 4-inch heels and dark, thigh-high stockings, Detective Temple did indeed command the room like an Amazon queen. She sashayed into the bar, selecting a stool like it was an old friend. The male population held its collective breath, spellbound as she ordered a white wine and crossed those seemingly endless limbs.

  Zach had to admit he’d never seen God issue such a long shin to any human being. The distance between her kneecap and ankle was mesmerizing, the flesh of her calf seductively proportional.

  Shaking his head in an effort to get back to business, the ranger continued scanning the lobby, waiting for the suspect to make a shopping trip to the bar.

  While they waited, Sam found herself being approached by practically every cowboy in that watering hole. Zach watched from his distant perch, amazed at how deftly she dismissed each suitor with a smile and minimal conversation.

  And then the man they lay in wait for appeared, stepping off the elevator dressed to the nines, and looking like he was ready to party.

  Poot Terrebonne’s stride indicated he was a man who was clearly pleased with himself. As the suspect strolled through the lobby, Zach had to wonder how the recently released convict could afford such fine duds, let alone a room at the Metro. This definitely wasn’t a low rent, no-tell motel. And from what Zach could ascertain, the felon had been living pretty high on the hog in the French Quarter too… that is, of course, after he vacated the Lone Star State’s hospitality suite at the Huntsville correctional facility.

  It didn’t take long for the flesh-hound to zero in on Sam. When she stood, leaning to reach for a bar napkin, Zach thought the fellow’s head was going to explode. He was seated next to the detective in seconds, buying Sam a drink in record time.

  Fifteen minutes passed before he rose, heading back to the elevator with a confident gait. Zach didn’t understand, but didn’t want to approach and blow their cover either.

  Moments later, Sam sauntered to the lawman’s perch as if she were reviewing one of the fancy canvases that adorned the lobby. “Follow me to the ladies' room,” she whispered.

  And so he did.

  “It’s all set,” she reported, examining her appearance in the oversized mirror. “I told him I had to use the facilities and would meet him in his room in a few minutes. He’s supposed to be freshening up and ordering champagne,” she announced, reapplying a layer of pale pink lipstick and arranging her exotic tresses before making a slight adjustment to her stockings. Finally satisfied with her presence, she puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. “Ready, cowboy?”

  “How much?” Zach asked, unable to stop himself.

  “How much for what?” she smiled coquettishly.

  “Your services.”

  Grunting, she batted her eyelashes and responded, “$2,000 for two hours. Nothing rough.”

  “Damn,” Zach replied as they strolled toward the elevators. “This guy must have more money than sense.”

  “Fuck you,” she whispered as they entered the car. “I let him talk me down from my normal rate of $1500 an hour.”

  Again, remembering the pistol strapped to her thigh, Zach decided silence was the better part of valor… and his health.

  They exited into a plush hall, thick carpeting and tasteful art adorning the passage. “I’ll wait out here with my ear against the door. As soon as you see that the money’s inside, yell. If he gets the drop on you, yell. If anything goes wrong.…”

  “Yell,” she finished for him. Then with a sly smile, her accent became laced with southern charm, her tone that of a helpless belle, “I think it’s sweet that you’re so worried about little ole’ me. How nice it is to have a big, strong, Texas Ranger to protect me.”

  Without another word, she glided toward the crook’s room, an exaggerated swagger in her hips. Zach ducked behind the ice machine.

  Her knock was answered immediately. Light spilled out into the hall as she was invited inside. Zach waited a few moments after the lock had clicked and then stalked to the threshold to eavesdrop. He’d acquired a universal keycard from the front desk while Sam had been changing. He withdrew the plastic from his pocket … just in case.

  “Show me the money,” Sam urged, getting right down to business.

  Poot glanced up from his champagne pouring and smiled at the crass demand. “Show me your tits first. I don’t like fake ones.”

  “You don't see anything until I see the money,” Sam countered.

  Handing her a glass of bubbly liquid, his eyes lustily swept up and down her frame as he began to circle her like a ravenous lion preparing to pounce on an antelope.

  Towering over the shorter man, Sam did her best to imitate how a real escort would react. “Okay, I’ll flash the glands, but that’s it. No more freebies.”

  “Deal,” he responded, moving to the edge of the bed and taking a seat for a better view.

  Sam unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her bra. Without unsnapping the undergarment, she pulled it up to expose her breasts. “Satisfied?”

  Poot reached to examine a sample, but she backed away, covering the merchandise as she withdrew. “I thought we had a deal,” she protested. “Show me the cash, or I’m out of here.”

  But he kept on coming, a greedy gleam in his eye. It was a mistake.

  As he extended both arms to grab the detective, Sam ignored his left hand, focusing all of her attention on his right. Before Poot could react, she had a grip on his wrist and thumb, bending the digit back as she twisted the joint.

  The Cajun conman howled in pain, Sam’s downward pressure forcing hi
m to his knees. She was just twisting his arm behind his back when Zach burst into the room, pistol drawn, barrel sweeping right and left.

  “It’s okay,” she snapped. “I’ve got it under control.”

  “Where’s the money?” he asked, ignoring the menu of smart-ass remarks that filled his throat at the sight of her unbuttoned blouse.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Horny here decided to get frisky before I saw the cash.”

  “Shit,” Zach spit, glancing around the room for any sign of the evidence they so desperately needed. He finally spied a briefcase in the corner.

  As he stepped to retrieve the leather attaché, Sam’s prisoner surged with an angry roar, “Noooo!”

  His elbow slammed into Sam’s knee, causing the high heel-clad detective to lose her balance. Zach spotted the man reaching for the small of his back and realized his partner hadn’t had a chance yet to search her captive. This is going to get ugly, the Texan recognized instantly.

  As the suspect brought his weapon to bear, Zach’s fist slammed into the guy’s nose. In rapid succession, two more powerful jabs from the ranger ended all resistance, the stunned crook slumping to the floor as blood poured from his mouth and flattened snout.

  “Well, that was a pleasant surprise,” Sam remarked, rubbing her sore leg.

  “What?”

  “I thought all you West Texas cowboys shot first and asked questions later,” came the detective’s response.

  “Nope,” Zach answered with a grin. “We save our ammo for the interrogation. The state’s on a tight budget, and bullets are expensive.”

  Sam grunted, staring down at the unconscious Mr. Terrebonne. “You may need those bullets to get this guy to talk. Looks like you broke his jaw.”

  “We’ve got wounded men lying all over the place up there,” one of the officers shouted, his face flush with fear and anxiety. “We’ve got to get them out!”

  Special Agent Perkins peered at his watch and shook his head, “We will have to wait. The Harris County armored vehicle won’t be here for another 25 minutes. I can’t order more men into the kill zone.”

  Another cop stepped forward, his expression and tone divulging the tortured nature of his soul. “Those guys will bleed out in 25 minutes. Even if they aren’t hurt that bad, that fucker might decide to start taking out the wounded. We’ve got to get our people out of there.”

  Perkins was just as disgusted as anyone. “I know; I know. I’ve got people up there too. Anybody got any ideas?”

  “We could form a wall with the shields,” somebody suggested. “Put up a barrier while we carry the wounded out of his range.”

  “His range?” a deputy snorted, “That son of a bitch nailed my commander at 800 yards. I saw another constable fall beyond that, and he was at a dead run. How in the hell are we supposed to carry our guys that far? He’s good enough to pick us off if there’s even the smallest opening. I think it’s suicide to go in there without armor.”

  Perkins had to agree, but was out of ideas. He continued to scan the anxious faces, hoping the law enforcement brain trust would generate a solution from its collective experience. It was then that he noticed the line of traffic that had formed, waiting to enter the now closed neighborhood. An oversized vehicle in the gridlock caught his eye.

  Pointing, the FBI agent suggested, “What about the garbage truck? Can we use that as cover to go in and get our people out?”

  Several heads turned to inspect what sparked Perkins’ suggestion. “That might work,” came a voice from the throng. “Let’s see if we can get two or three of them. Give the EMTs some room to work on our guys,” suggested someone else.

  “Let’s hurry,” Perkins added, “They are going to need some modifications for this scheme to succeed. It’s going to be night soon. I don’t want our folks walking around with flashlights.”

  Ten minutes later, Abe recognized the sound of a large diesel motor in the distance. He’d moved to one of the other upstairs bedrooms, thinking any remaining snipers would have zeroed in on his previous shooting position.

  “Finally,” he proclaimed to the empty house, “Took them long enough to get some armor up here.”

  Again moving to a shooting slit, he scanned the street, expecting to see one of the county’s armored cars. A questioning frown formed on his face when instead of a heavily plated battlewagon, he spied a short parade of trash trucks rolling slowly up the road. There were lines of policemen walking behind them.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Agent Perkins,” Abe observed. “That was clever… very creative.”

  Raising the Trackerpoint, he zoomed in on the lead truck, thoughts of plinking the driver circulating through his mind. He had to study the oncoming convoy before he realized the cops had up-armored the garbage haulers. He could see police shields tied to the windshields and grills, a sage tactic to protect the engines and drivers.

  Mrs. Fullerton’s residence was also active. Switching his angle, Abe observed three officers appear from the rear of his neighbor’s home, each man brandishing a riot shield, together forming a wall of protection. Two additional officers crouched behind the barrier. Like crabs crossing beach sand, the little huddle moved forward as one, eventually reaching the downed sniper. Abe saw them quickly snatch up their comrade and then scuttle back to the safety of the backyard.

  “The brotherhood of blue,” Abe nodded. “I wonder if they would have done the same for my father and brother?” he whispered. “I bet they wouldn’t be so brave if there had been just regular old Americans bleeding on the grass.”

  Zach sat on the hotel bed, absentmindedly listening as the Houston cops went about processing the scene.

  He was profoundly perplexed.

  They had discovered the money, part of the stash in the briefcase, a bit more buried in the closet. The manager, pissed that one of his better rooms would require new carpet, had discovered the rest of the bribe-loot in the hotel’s safe.

  But it was the bankroll’s container that rattled the Texan’s cool. The manager produced an old gym bag, faded from wear and age, sporting the emblem of the NY Jets. The Texas Ranger was sure it was identical to the satchel Tusk had been carrying … the same bag Major Alcorn claimed vanished with the only witness.

  The bad guy’s gun appeared to be the perfect match for Sam’s open homicide, the ballistics test likely to confirm the weapon had been involved in at least one murder.

  While Sam’s case was surely wrapped up tight and adorned with a pretty, pink bow, Zach’s life had just gotten entirely more complex.

  How in hell had that gym bag gotten back into circulation? What possible connection did a dead Latino girl and long-expired cartel henchman have with an H-Town conman? None of it made sense.

  The crook had been watching television when the smoking hot detective entered his room, the muted set streaming a breaking news update during the entire forensic process. Zach’s eye was suddenly drawn to the screen, the news station displaying a picture of a guy that seemed familiar. The name under the grainy photo read, “Abraham Hendricks.”

  “What the hell,” the ranger mumbled, upturning couch cushions in his scramble for the remote.

  One of Sam’s coworkers was standing close by, Zach’s flurry of activity diverting his attention from the laptop in his hands. “You haven’t heard what’s going on up north of the city? There’s a standoff involving an active shooter happening right now. I heard over the radio that they’ve got a least 16 officers down. The nut job that tried to kill Clifton is holed-up and has the entire place booby-trapped.”

  “I know that guy from somewhere. Who is he?” Zach replied.

  The officer started tapping on his keyboard, spinning the machine around to show Zach the screen.

  “Says here he was born in Louisiana, moved to Texas a little over 10 years ago. No warrants, no arrests. Probably one of the Katrina transplants.”

  That was it! It all came flooding back to Zach. That was the bloody man he’d carried out of the house
in New Orleans.

  Turning to Sam, he pointed toward the television and asserted, “Hey, you are not going to believe this, but I know that guy… the holdout. Do you have any contacts working that scene right now?”

  Turning to the television, Sam watched the broadcast for a few moments without comment. Finally staring down at the floor, she said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Sal, the head FBI agent, and I have been dating on and off for a while.”

  Zach shook his head and thought, I knew I should have gone with the FBI. They get all the perks.

  Memories of New Orleans circulated through Zach’s head as Sam and he drove north toward the standoff. While the episode in Louisiana entered his mind now and then, he’d never taken the time to follow-up. The backlog of cases in the overworked El Paso office simply hadn’t allowed it.