by Joe Nobody
“It hurts to breathe,” groaned the downed man. “Hurts like hell.”
“Drag him out of here,” Zach ordered. “Go back to your car and call for an ambulance. Where’s the suspect?”
“He gave us both barrels and then scrambled around the building,” came the rushed response. “I think he was making for the junkyard out back.”
“Get him out of here,” Zach demanded. “Call for help. I’ll go take care of Mr. Buffalo.”
After verifying the uninjured deputy was capable of dragging his comrade to safety, Zach scanned the area again and moved out, heading for the spot indicated.
With weapon high and ready, Zach found himself trekking through caverns of stacked, junked cars. Access paths had been left between the rows of scrap metal, the resulting maze providing a thousand places to hide.
Staying close to one wall of the rusting steel hulks, Zach progressed slowly, trying to keep his footfalls silent. It could take a dozen men all day to find that asshole in here, Zach thought. He could be anywhere.
The ranger proceeded cautiously, not really expecting to locate the suspect, hoping Buffalo was as stupid as most criminals and would make a mistake.
After stalking the first row and finding nothing, Zach’s patience was wearing thin. More than anything, the lawman was mad at himself for being late. His lack of professionalism had damn near cost that young deputy his life.
He was mid-way through the second aisle when the scraping of a footstep sounded across the yard.
“Carter! This is Zachariah Bass, Texas Ranger. We’ve got a battalion of lawmen on the way here. Come on out, and it will go easier. Make us come in and get you, and an accident might happen.”
The lack of a response didn’t surprise Zach. He rounded a corner, wishing his tortured brain could come up with some clever logic to talk the thug into surrendering and save everybody a lot of time.
A shadow of movement caught Zach’s eye, just a hint of discoloration at the peripheral of his vision. The ranger dove for the ground as a spread of buckshot ripped through the air, tearing into the sheet metal door of an old pickup.
He landed badly, his right wrist going numb, his .45 clanging into a nearby pile of rims, fenders, and engine parts.
Zach rolled hard, eyes scanning for any nook that might offer cover. Small geysers of dirt erupted where the ranger had been just a split-second before, the thunder of the second blast echoing through the canyons of discarded steel.
Buffalo, seeing his opponent was unarmed, held his ground. The huge biker flashed an evil grin as he broke the old double barrel in half, the two spent casings arching through the air. Zach saw the man’s hand disappear into his pocket, digging out the bright, red plastic of two more shells.
The ranger charged, roaring a battle cry at the top of his lungs.
The gang leader was startled by the move, fumbling for a moment as he shoved the reloads into the breech. Zach was six steps away when the massive man’s hands snapped the weapon’s fore end back to ready.
Four strides separated the two when the barrel started to rise. As if in slow motion, the ranger’s brain processed every minute detail of the attacker’s movement, very much like the televised replay of a critical sports moment.
The hairy knuckle of a forefinger was moving for the trigger at two steps. Zach dove, his knees and calves protesting at the strain of launching his body with every ounce of energy he could muster.
The ranger’s hand was almost there, his extended arm reaching for the barrel, mere inches away. He wasn’t going to make it, time slowing enough to eye that finger pulling back on the trigger.
Zach felt the barrel’s impact on his outstretched hand at the same moment the skin on his face burned with the heat and light of the discharge. And then his shoulder was slamming into the biker’s chest, either the collision or buckshot originating intense waves of pain through the lawman’s frame.
A blur of clenched hands and punting legs consumed Zach’s field of vision as the two men tumbled across the ground. He thought he heard Buffalo grunt, but the sound could have come from his own throat.
The ranger’s next image was of a sizeable fist flying toward his face. Only an instinctive reflex allowed his jaw to avoid punishment, the blow landing on Zach’s shoulder instead. It was a small salvation, streaks of pain shooting through Zach’s ribs, his lungs struggling to draw air.
A tattooed arm was driving an elbow at the lawman’s nose, the massive, bony appendage moving at incredible speed. The Texan took the majority of the strike on his forearm, the deflection no doubt saving some teeth, but still initiating reverberations of agony through his frame.
Finally, the lawman saw his chance. The biker was off balance, overextended. Zach’s boot landed a savage downward kick on the side of Buffalo’s knee, the popping of tendons accompanied by a deep-throated howl of pain.
The ranger threw his hand at the big man’s throat, the web between his thumb and finger landing solidly against the behemoth’s Adam’s apple with a sickening crunch.
Buffalo went down, collapsing in a heap of panting, wheezing misery.
Sirens sounded in the distance, ambulances and lawmen rushing to answer the call for reinforcements. Zach loomed above the biker, hands on his knees and breathing hard to catch up.
The lawman managed his handcuffs despite the numbness still governing his right arm and hand. A few moments later, Mr. Carter was secured on his stomach, still trying to suck oxygen into his massive girth, the effort hindered by a larynx that was most likely going to require surgery. Zach didn’t give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch died right there in the dirt.
He stumbled off, aiming to retrieve his weapon and at least part of his dignity. He’d just returned the .45 to his belt when a half dozen officers rushed on the scene, weapons drawn.
“He’s going to need an EMT,” Zach announced, his voice raspy and low. “And I need a fucking cup of coffee.”
Pivoting to return to his truck, Zach ran headlong into Major Alcorn, the presence of his commander shocking.
“What the hell happened here, Ranger?” Alcorn snorted.
Zach didn’t respond at first, still getting over the surprise of seeing his boss in the field, 50 miles from where he was supposed to be… and at just after sunrise.
“Do you require medical attention, Ranger Bass?” Alcorn asked.
“No, sir. I require coffee.”
Zach half-staggered back to his truck, every muscle in his body protesting the stroll. The sight of the EMTs working on the wounded deputy prompted him to detour for a prognosis. Feeling more than a little guilt over his tardiness, the ranger was glad to see the man clear-eyed and responding to the medical technicians.
“Did you get that fucker?” the cop asked when he saw Zach approaching.
“Yes, he’s in custody… probably on his way to the ER any minute now,” the ranger responded.
“Good… I hope you kicked his ass good and proper,” the injured man croaked.
Zach patted the man on his unharmed shoulder and started to turn away when the deputy called out. “Ranger,” he said, trying to rise up from the stretcher. “I don’t think you understand. He knew we were coming.”
“Huh?”
“Buffalo knew we were coming. He was waiting on us…. I heard a cell phone ringing as we approached the door. A guy like that sleeps in…. His business doesn’t actually encourage his being a morning person.”
Zach nodded, “I’ll make a note of that, deputy. You work on healing.”
The ranger watched the EMTs shove the stretcher into the rear of the ambulance, one of the medics crawling in to ride with the patient while the other rushed to the front to drive.
Zach turned, continuing back to his pickup, stopping only to borrow a bottle of water from another officer. The ranger drank the refreshing liquid quickly, sitting in his truck and trying to regroup. He kept replaying the wounded man’s words over in his head.
At first, Zach concluded that the
guy was just trying to justify a sloppy approach. The ranger had seen many people attempt to explain away bad luck, stupidity, or improper techniques with theories of conspiracy or skullduggery.
But the deputy did have a fair point – the entire reason why warrants were exercised at the break of day was to catch suspects unaware. Most people weren’t at the height of alertness at such an early hour – an advantage for the lawmen.
Now curious and recovering, Zach made for where he’d left Buffalo. He wanted to see if the man had a cell phone hidden somewhere on that massive body.
The ranger was halfway to the spot where he’d left his captive when he spotted the EMTs struggling to push a heavily burdened stretcher across the dirt surface. There was a sheet completely covering their cargo. Buffalo was dead.
“What the fuck happened?” Zach snapped, stepping in front of the medics.
“He was dead when we got there,” one of them answered. “Looks like he suffocated by the color of his face.”
Stunned, Zach stepped out of the way and let them pass. Major Alcorn and the other officers followed, the senior ranger making a beeline for Zach. “Was that man breathing when you cuffed him?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t hit him hard enough to close his throat… at least it didn’t feel like that. He was wheezing, but still breathing.”
Alcorn looked Zach up and down, the ranger’s dirty, torn clothing a visible indication there had been a serious scuffle. “Make sure you get pictures of any wounds, bruising, or other signs that he resisted,” the major ordered.
“Yes, sir, will do. Did the suspect have a cell phone on his person, sir?”
Alcorn tilted his head, “No. I’m sure he didn’t. After I found him unresponsive, I patted him down personally.”
Another deputy approached the two rangers, a twinkle of excitement in the man’s eyes as he pointed toward the clipboard in his hand. “We found a bunch of stolen merchandise inside,” he proclaimed. “There’s even a truckload of flat screens from that warehouse robbery over in Midland. Another of the trailers is stuffed to the gills with electronics that appear to have been destined for New Mexico. Looks like these guys were regional players.”
“Did you find the suspect’s cell phone?” Zach asked, his reaction bursting the officer’s excited balloon.
Looking down at his papers, the deputy responded, “No… no cell phone listed here. We’re still going through the storage rooms though. It might be back there.”
“Thanks,” Zach replied, wondering if the wounded cop had actually heard a phone at all.
“You better get to the ER,” Alcorn stated. “I want pictures and a doctor’s report detailing your injuries. Since our friends were doing business across state lines, the feds might be joining our little party. I want everything dotted and crossed.”
Zach nodded, pivoting to return to his truck. The major’s voice stopped him mid-stride. “Ranger Bass,” came the stern voice. “From now on, I’d appreciate a clean, shaven face and ironed clothing. Carry on.”
Zach did as he was ordered, driving off in a huff. As he motored toward the ER, he contemplated the source of his ire. It wasn’t the scolding by his boss, nor was the violence at the junkyard to blame. It was a nagging, little voice in the back of his head telling him that something just didn’t quite make sense.
The deputy’s remark about the warning call was troubling. Suspects generally fled when they got warnings; they didn’t stay to shoot it out with law enforcement. So why didn’t Buffalo run? He had time, given that the deputies waited a few minutes before entering, waiting for Zach. And if the ranger had not been tardy, he would have been the man in front. It was always that way, the senior man taking the lead, especially if he was a Texas Ranger. If someone had made a warning call, he might have been the intended target.
It was all too much. Considering the hangover, sleeping through his alarm, forgetting his lifeline-cell, and the enormous pressure of the Hendricks documents, Zach’s reasoning arrived at the worst-case conclusion. “Somebody is trying to kill me,” he hissed, an internal rage growing by the second. “I don’t know who, or why, but they better eat a big breakfast before coming after me. I’ll be watching now… I’ll be ready.”
Governor Simmons followed the state-provided sedan as it entered the half-circular drive, eventually passing the uniformed Department of Public Safety officer stationed at the gate. A few years ago, while the governor’s mansion was under renovation, some asshole had tossed a Molotov cocktail and damn near burned the place to the ground. Ever since, the people had been burdened with the cost of protecting the national historic site.
It wasn’t long before the visitor was mounting the front steps. Simmons, stepping from between the Greek Revival columns, extended his hand.
“Thank you for coming so late, Doris. This exhausted public servant surely does appreciate it.”
“No problem, Governor. My staff has finished the evaluation of the state’s global corporations, and I knew you wanted this report as soon as possible.”
They entered the foyer, grand marble, historical artworks, and an assortment of antiques from the proud past aesthetically displayed. Neither party paid much attention, the governor passing through almost every day, the state’s comptroller nearly as often.
They stepped down the hall, eventually arriving at the mansion’s library, both taking familiar seats. Digging through her attaché case, the state’s financial wizard dug out two copies of a report.
A smug smile formed on the governor’s lips. “I bet all of our corporate friends are as giddy as we are about the possible reemergence of the Republic.”
Frowning, Doris shook her head, “Surprisingly enough, sir, that’s not the case. I had my people double-check the results, and quite frankly, the numbers are all a little troubling.”
“Troubling?” grimaced Simmons, “What do you mean? I figured all those big business honchos would be chomping at the bit, waiting for our independence day. What’s got their saddle blanket in a wad?”
“It seems the majority of the CEOs interviewed were very concerned about infrastructure and bureaucracy. They mentioned tax law, collection, and processing. Others wondered about Food and Drug regulation and enforcement. All of the federal agencies, administrations, and bureaus that are part of their everyday business processes have no Texas equivalent. That means they would face an unknown, and nothing worries executives more than uncertainty.”
The governor rubbed his chin, clearly puzzled. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Face-to-face, they all buck and moan about the mammoth federal bureaucracy in Washington, how it eats profits and gives nothing but headaches in return.”
“Yes,” replied the comptroller, “That’s true. But they know Washington. They know the game. If Texas becomes an independent nation, the dust won’t settle for quite a long time, and they are well aware of that fact. Their operating environment would become an unknown.”
Nodding his understanding, Simmons seemed disappointed, “We’ve been working with the assumption that all the major corporations in America would be stampeding our borders, anxious to get the heel of Washington’s boot off their throats. From what you’re saying, our friends in the business world are going to hang back for a bit and see how we set things up.”
“It’s more than just the bureaucracies, sir,” she added, flipping through the report. “Several mentioned the court systems. They seem concerned that the existing state infrastructure isn’t prepared to take on the federal workload. But… the single largest concern in their minds was currency and banking. Practically every interviewee asked if Texas would print its own money or if there would be a system like the Euro. Will we have a central bank, insurance like the FDIC, and a stock market? How long will all of that take to establish? What happens in the meantime?”
“Those are reasonable apprehensions on their part, no doubt about it,” the governor agreed. “I wonder if all those people who went around demanding Texas pull out of the union
had any clue how complex all this was going to be. Here they were, signing petitions and writing Internet blogs like this was as easy as baking a batch of cookies.”
“It is an enormous undertaking, Governor, no doubt about it. And if we simply duplicate what Washington has created over the years, aren’t we going to end up in the exact same place? Out of control debt, overregulation, and an infrastructure that is self-destructing?”
Simmons nodded, “I understand. What would be the point if we simply mimicked Washington? They might as well stay put if there’s no advantage in pulling up stakes and moving south.”
“Whatever the experts decide, sir, it has to be new and improved. But aren’t we all hoping for that very thing?”