Secession: The Storm

by Joe Nobody

  An hour later, Zach’s pickup rolled up next to Sam’s city-issued car. “Was Mr. Garcia single?” the ranger asked.

  “Divorced,” Sam replied, eyeing what should be an empty home.

  They discovered the front door locked, two days’ worth of mail still crammed in the box. Working their way around the exterior of the upscale homestead, Sam was a little surprised when Zach drew his weapon. “What?” she mouthed, reaching for her own pistol.

  Nodding toward the back door, Zach whispered, “The glass is broken out… right above the lock.”

  “I need to get Katy PD out here,” the detective nodded, raising her cell phone.

  After Sam had called for backup, the duo decided to go ahead and enter the Garcia residence.

  From the moment Zach set foot in the rear entryway, it was obvious the place had been tossed. Papers, dishes, pans and the contents of each drawer and shelf were scattered on the floor. Every container of food in the refrigerator had been searched and discarded, the stench of spoiled groceries mixing with a stream of soured milk running across the floor.

  The couch and chair cushions had been dissected, every picture on every wall pitched into the middle of the floor.

  “Somebody was definitely looking for something. I wonder if this was before or after he was murdered.”

  “The forensics team should be able to tell from the spoiled food,” Sam replied.

  They entered what had been Ross’s home office, the paneled walls and built-in shelves lined with books accenting the massive desk, printer, and filing cabinets. Zach peered inside an open closet door and then shook his head. “This happened after he was murdered. The safe is open, and it wasn’t cracked. Whoever was torturing the man managed to get the combination.”

  Sam was at his side a moment later, her eyes scanning the safe and the litter of papers scattered around the opening and floor. “Do you see the copy of the documents you sent him?” she asked.

  Zach glanced around, finally shaking his head. “Nope. Don’t see them. But we have no way of knowing they were ever here.”

  Throwing the ranger a dirty look, Sam bent, her hand seeking a thin coating of white dust she spied on the baseboard. After rubbing a finger through the substance, she took a sniff and frowned deeply.

  “What?” Zach asked, now clearly intrigued.

  “It’s fingerprint powder,” she announced. “We use aerosols nowadays, but I’m sure that’s what this is. Someone with access to a fingerprint database surely can procure aerosols. That’s just weird.”

  “There’s another use,” Zach sighed, rubbing his chin in thought. “You can tell how recent a copy was made if you mix the right chemicals together.”

  “Shit. You’re right. How did you send Garcia those documents?”

  “I delivered them to the Channel 3 offices, slid the envelope through the mail slot.”

  Sam shook her head, deep worry evident in her eyes. “Well, whoever pulled Mr. Garcia apart at the seams now knows those were recent copies. They also know someone has the originals. I’d be watching my back, Ranger.”

  “I have been, Detective. Believe me, I have been.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Zach rubbed his chin, trying to think it all through. “Right now, nothing. The governor is coming to Houston, and from there we’re flying to Washington. At least the trip will give me some time to come up with a plan.”

  “I will keep working this end, but I don’t expect to find much. Whoever did this was a pro. I’ll let you know first thing if I get lucky.”

  Zach removed his jacket, draping it over the hotel chair without ceremony, not giving a shit about potential wrinkles. Next came his boots, shoulder holster, tie, shirt, and finally the soft-sided body armor that was now like a second skin.

  He was in the shower moments later, hot water pounding against his exhausted shoulders and tense neck. The last two days had been a non-stop whirlwind of stress, and Governor Simmons’s itinerary wasn’t even one-quarter of the way complete.

  “At least the Secret Service guys are pros,” he muttered through the warm spray.

  Taking off from Houston had been bad enough, every security man in the world developing a sudden aversion to flying since the incident with Abe’s rifle and President Clifton’s plane. Landing in DC hadn’t been a bucket of beer.

  Then came a seemingly endless agenda of dinners, meetings, diplomatic functions and other activities associated with a man who had recently exploded onto the national stage. The fact that Simmons could soon be a head of state made all the pomp and circumstance even more intense.

  Tomorrow morning, Simmons’s entourage was heading to New York and the United Nations.

  Not only were Zach’s duties mind numbing, his responsibilities allowed for zero personal downtime. The motorcades had driven by some of the Washington landmarks he’d read about since he was a kid, but there wasn’t a spare second to even look, let alone sightsee.

  His boss had visited the White House and Capitol Hill, had been granted access to the innermost sanctuaries of power - places Zach had never imagined he’d see. Now, lathering the day’s toil from his body, he couldn’t remember a single detail of the West Wing. His mental bitch-session continued, the negative thoughts much deeper than a lack of time to snap tourist-type photographs.

  “This is just like becoming a cop,” he mused, rinsing the fancy smelling shampoo from his hair. “It’s not what it seems from the outside at all. No glory. No glitz. No appreciation. Just sore feet, a tired back, and one tiny-ass paycheck.”

  A trip to the hotel lobby seemed in order. He was off duty for a whole 10 hours, a cold beer and a proper dinner sounded like culinary therapy for what ailed him. He’d eaten his last several meals on the go, the short breaks allowing only cold sandwiches and lukewarm coffee.

  He stepped off the elevator, taking a moment to orient himself in the expansive lobby. There were three restaurants and four saloons within the hotel, according to a passing bellman. “These boys in Washington have their priorities straight,” the ranger mused, heading toward the recommended watering hole.

  More than a few eyes redirected Zach’s way as he entered the establishment. His tall frame, western garb, and well-worn boots were out of sync with the $3,000 dollar suits and Rolex watches adorning the locals. But he didn’t care.

  He decided on a seat at the bar rather than occupying one of the many tables, an isolated stool far more inviting than sitting alone at a booth. Besides, there was a baseball game on television above the colorful rows of liquor bottles. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched America’s pastime. I wonder what Texas’s pastime will be?

  The 20-something girl behind the counter was pretty. Damn pretty, with straight teeth, clean skin, and shiny hair. She handed him a menu, enough of her scent drifting past the Texan to cause his mind to wander for a moment. Her genuine smile didn’t help his focus.

  “Are you with that group from Texas?” she asked, clearly plugged into the hotel’s gossip loop.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” Zach replied, desperately straining to keep his eyes above her high-riding breasts.

  “I’ve never been to Texas,” she grinned. “Is everything really bigger down there?”

  Damn, Zach thought, her words catching him off-guard. Either this gal is an expert in the flirt-for-tips trade or she has some weird cowboy fantasy.

  Deciding laid-back and humble was the safest plan of action, Zach smiled and replied, “Texas is just a place, ma’am. Nothing more, nothing less than most states.”

  The bartender seemed momentarily disappointed by the answer. She quickly moved on to explain the dinner special, which was some fancy pasta dish Zach had never heard of and couldn’t spell. The prices printed on the menu were shameful, some of the listed wines more than a week of his pay. Zach nearly panicked before recalling that the state treasury was picking up the tab – as long as it was “reasonable.”

  “I’d like to start off with a c
old draft,” the Texan announced. “And your best steak, medium pink, and throw a reasonable pile of veggies on the side.”

  With beer in hand, Zach watched the baseball game, waiting patiently for his plate.

  “My, my… would you look over here,” a voice sounded over the ranger’s shoulder. “This place has surely gone to hell in a hand basket. They even let criminals sit at the bar.”

  Turning, Zach found himself staring at Special Agent Perkins and two other probable FBI types. “How’s the nose?” Zach responded smugly.

  He hadn’t seen Perkins since their encounter in Abe Hendricks’s front yard. There had been threats of prosecution, nasty letters to Zach’s commander, and even a couple of phone calls from a federal prosecutor. But the incident had never been pursued further.

  Abe Hendricks’s killer had never been found, one of numerous sore spots that festered inside Zach’s head. Like so many things in the ranger’s life, it was still an open chapter – closure unlikely and frustration accumulating over time.

  Any assault on a federal officer was a serious offense, but the lines of authority were blurred between the Texas Rangers and the FBI. Zach had moved on, assuming either his superiors were running interference or the FBI wanted to let the media circus die down given they never identified the shooter.

  Most guys would have walked away, content with the sharp exchange. But Perkins wasn’t that type of fellow. “I’m just standing here thinking I should have you arrested, shackled in irons, and dragged down to the bureau’s headquarters for an intense interrogation session. I still have some questions for you, cowboy,” the clearly agitated man stated.

  “Your dick isn’t big enough, Agent Perkins,” Zach responded, calmly sipping his beer. “Now if you’d like to lay our badges on this bar and go outside for a moment, I’m game. But you don’t have enough political ass to arrest me, and we both know it.”

  “Bullshit,” the FBI man hissed, taking a step forward. “You’re in my territory now, asshole, and I have just the perfect lockup in mind. We apprehended a rather large gentleman just this morning, and I’m sure he would enjoy your company as his bunkmate.”

  Nodding their agreement, the two men bookending Perkins seemed to find the vision amusing.

  Zach stood, uncoiling his frame from the stool and coming nose-to-nose with the FBI man. “Go ahead, numb nuts… whatever sends a tingle through your stones. Cause an incident if you want. It’s your ass.”

  Perkins blinked, not sure what his next move should be. Zach’s imposing posture and sneering expression baiting the fed to make a move.

  Somehow, Perkins managed to move his nose closer to Zach’s, barely any air between the two as it was. Both men continued to stare, hatred filling the narrow gap between their eyes.

  It was one of the FBI men accompanying Perkins who broke the spell, hooking arms with Perkins and pulling him away. “Our table’s ready,” the man stated calmly. “I’m hungry, and this isn’t the place for a showdown.”

  The bartender picked that moment to deliver Zach’s plate, her cheerful voice giving the Texan an excuse to break contact with the slowly retreating agents.

  “Do you know that guy?” the barkeep asked.

  “Yeah… we go back a long way.”

  “If he’s bothering you, I can call hotel security.”

  Zach grunted, wondering exactly how Agent Perkins would handle such an interruption of his meal. “No,” the ranger finally replied, “that won’t be necessary.”

  As he sat and enjoyed what was a medium quality, vastly overpriced steak, Zach replayed the confrontation in his head. He didn’t blame Perkins for being upset – being bushwhacked in front of your subordinates tends to do that to the alpha-types in law enforcement. But there was more to it than just ego.

  The federal guys had always considered themselves a notch above any state employed comrade, regardless of skills, position, or performance. And it wasn’t just the FBI.

  Zach had seen ATF, the IRS, NSA, BOLM, and other alphabet soup agencies conduct themselves as if they were not only the ultimate legal authority, but also the moral sovereigns of the species. Nowhere was that attitude more evident than with Department of Justice prosecutors.

  Forking a mouthful of stir-fried vegetables into his pie hole, Zach chewed slowly, wondering if he needed to be concerned about Perkins causing more trouble during the Texas delegation’s visit.

  He’d noted much of the nation’s capital seemed to have its nose out of joint, especially when it came to Texas. The reactions he’d witnessed ranged from a thin veneer of dislike to outright hostile glaring. Even the staff at the White House had seemed unwelcoming.

  Twice, Zach had found himself in the same room with Aaron Miller. After the first encounter, Zach’s untrusting mind was convinced that the president’s right-hand man knew the ranger possessed Abe’s documents.

  Don’t be silly, he’d finally convinced himself. There’s no way that guy knows what you’re holding.

  The second brush with Miller had left the ranger more at ease. Major Alcorn seemed to hit it off with the powerful politician, Zach having observed the two men laughing privately in a back hallway.

  The humor between Alcorn and Miller had seemed genuine, dispelling Zach’s suspicions of the chief of staff. If he were really onto me, Zach thought, he would try to discredit me with my boss instead of swapping jokes with him. Someone else must want my head on a silver platter.

  The plush mattress and white noise of the hotel’s air conditioning allowed a fitful night’s rest, and Zach awoke before dawn.

  By sunrise, he’d had downed the hotel’s continental breakfast of fruit and coffee. There were still two hours before he was scheduled to report to Alcorn.

  He pondered a trip to the facility’s gym, but decided a run through the streets of Washington would be the better option. A little sightseeing along the route would satisfy the tourist in him.

  It was still reasonably cool when he exited the front doors in sweat pants and sneakers. After a series of stretches, he began a slow jog toward the National Mall.

  Traffic was already heavy, despite the wee hour. Zach had been in town long enough to know absolute gridlock was only an hour away.

  He picked up the pace after four blocks, working at what he estimated was a six-minute mile. It felt good to use his muscles, the circulation and deep breathing like a drug to the Texan. He actually smiled when the first drop of perspiration ran down his forehead.

  Just then, a DC cabbie with a bad case of road rage angrily honked his horn while slamming on his brakes hard enough squeal the tires… all the while screaming profanities at a black SUV. Turning and running backwards so he could see what sounded like an accident, Zach watched as the driver of the massive vehicle continued through the red light, ignoring the oncoming traffic that clearly had the right-of-way. One offended commuter was shaking a fist out his window, smoke still curling off the guy’s tires.

  The SUV’s behavior drew the Texan’s eye. Using the reflection provided by the glass storefronts, Zach watched as the suspicious vehicle seemed to be tailing him. Perkins, he thought, that man just can’t leave well enough alone.

  It was another block before Zach spotted the opportunity to test his theory of surreptitious surveillance. He was approaching a small park, an area with enough foliage around its perimeter to block the view from the street.

  Zach cut off the sidewalk, increasing his speed as he sprinted through the well-manicured grounds.

  Chancing a casual glance, Zach relaxed a bit as the SUV passed on by. Paranoia will destroy ya, the ranger mused, slowing his pace again.

  He continued his trek out of the park, still on edge, but enjoying a good laugh at his own expense. Six blocks later, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end, his sixth sense fully engaged. The black SUV was back, trailing behind him.

  Somehow, he’d missed the other car. It was an old surveillance trick, employing more than one vehicle, each taking turns in clo
se proximity to the suspect. He should have been more careful – if the tail were Perkin’s Feds, they would be pros.

  Zach dropped out of his running stride, thinking he should conserve energy and take a little time to think. He wasn’t doing anything illegal, and while he’d been bluffing in the hotel’s bar, any headline involving the delegation from Texas was bound to stir a reaction neither side wanted. Still, it bothered the Texan that someone would put a team on him.

  The more he walked, the greater the resentment grew. Perkins was an ass, no doubt about it. Guys like that gave law enforcement a bad name. Zach decided to have a little fun.

  The first step was to identify the second vehicle. There might be three, but that was unlikely given how fast the SUV had returned to the close-in position.