Secession: The Storm

by Joe Nobody

  Next was the tricky part. With his new yard tool in tow, Zach returned to his vantage point, trying to decipher the grid being used by the patrolling cops. He was halfway up a small hill, the slope steep enough for the mower to roll a considerable distance unencumbered.

  When the road cleared of traffic, Zach crept to the middle of the street, pulling his makeshift diversion along behind him. Again, the area in front of his trashcan outpost brightened, the headlights of an approaching police car divulging its position. Zach estimated there were at least six units patrolling the small community, probably more on the way. He waited until the cruiser was just in the right location, aligned the mower as best he could, and gave it a good shove.

  The machine hadn’t moved ten feet before Zach was diving back into his hiding spot.

  He watched the little contraption rumble down the street, the white bag giving it a ghost-like appearance as it passed through the shadow of the streetlights. The cop saw it, too.

  The deputy raced forward half a block and then stopped his car, exiting at the same time as drawing his weapon. The lawnmower had disappeared into a dark, shady yard, ramming into a thick line of landscaping bushes and vanishing from the lawman’s sight. Approaching with his gun drawn at the same time as radioing for backup, the deputy never saw Zach sneaking up behind him.

  For just a microsecond, the ranger deliberated the value of introducing the lawman’s head to the butt of his rifle, but that course was dangerous. The local cop had no idea he was working for the wrong side, and it was extremely difficult to knock a man cold without causing long-lasting damage.

  Zach chose a slightly different route, pressing the cold, steel barrel of his rifle against the deputy’s ear.

  Normal human reaction was to the turn. Zach was ready, poking the lawman forward and off balance. “Don’t,” Zach hissed. “Drop the sidearm.”

  The cop hesitated, at which point Zach’s boot struck out, impacting his captive in the back of the knee. The joint buckled, and the man went down with a groan. A half-second later, the ranger wrestled the pistol from the grip of the aching cop.

  Next, Zach pulled the mobile radio’s plug from the battery pack on the officer’s belt, yanking the microphone from his shirt and pocketing the critical electronics. The patrolman’s Taser was next, Zach promptly pointing the disabling device at his captive’s leg and engaging the trigger.

  Before the unfortunate deputy had even stopped vibrating from the current, Zach was sprinting back to the idling squad car. The ranger was behind the wheel and rolling away a moment later.

  Zach estimated he only had a few minutes before the deputy recovered. Maybe a couple more before the officer flagged down one of his comrades. “Give me four minutes,” he whispered. “That’s a four-mile head start. That’s all I need.”

  Zach’s instincts screamed for him to floor the cruiser and escape, but instead he advanced slowly toward the center of town, acting as if he were just another officer joining the hunt for the bad guy.

  Two minutes had passed before he was on the edge of civilization, his boot pushing the gas pedal to the floor. Zach turned off the strobe lights, sure that any other responding units would wonder why his car was traveling away from the scene.

  He was going over 100 mph at the four-minute mark, listening intently to the police radio for the announcement of his hijacking.

  It was actually seven minutes before the near-panicked voice blared over the frequency, informing all responding lawmen that car number 115-8 now contained the fugitive. By then, Zach was looking for a side road that headed west and back to Texas.

  The ranger knew all modern police cruisers were equipped with GPS tracking devices. It would take only few minutes more before the right people, with the correct passwords, could assemble at a computer console and begin vectoring the pursuit onto his stolen unit.

  He spotted a country road heading in a westerly direction. Riddled with potholes, it was barely wide enough to accommodate the car, small limbs and weeds grabbing at the vehicle’s exterior as it raced by. About three years past the point where the gravel should have been topped off, a fine cloud of sediment chased him as he bounced along, but it was the best option available. “I’ll give it five minutes,” he speculated to the empty cruiser. “After that, I’m on foot and praying Texas isn’t too far away.”

  He couldn’t speed as fast on this surface as the blacktop, the washboards and sparse stone layer limiting his pace. At four minutes, he spied a farmhouse and considered stealing another ride. He passed on by instead.

  At five minutes, he slammed on the brakes, sliding to a halt alongside what appeared to be a thick wood. Zach popped the hood and trunk, quickly disconnecting the cables from both the primary and backup batteries. He wasn’t for sure if that would kill the GPS or not.

  The pine forest he entered was difficult walking, every low-hanging branch and vine slapping his face or tangling his feet. He kept pushing, knowing distance was his opportunity for salvation.

  He encountered the game trail less than 400 yards into the undergrowth, the general westerly direction servicing his needs. Initiating a slow jog, the ranger metered his stride, conserving his energy. He estimated it was just over 10 miles to the Texas border.

  Relief recharged Zach’s spirit when he spied the power lines. The utility company had cut a swath through the underbrush and trees, the high-tension towers most likely heading to Beaumont, perhaps Houston. Zach increased his step, scanning his surroundings constantly, hustling for five minutes, hiking for five while he scoured for pursuit.

  He happened upon the roadway, not sure if he had crossed the border or not. His feet were aching, legs tired, and throat dry. He decided to risk using the pavement, the early hour unlikely to produce any traffic.

  The deputy was sitting just over a short rise, his car idling at an intersection as if he lay in wait of the inevitable speeder to blast past his position. Zach ventured close enough to identify the emblem on the side of the cruiser, recognizing the name of the county as belonging to the Lone Star State. “Home, sweet home,” he whispered.

  Zach observed the unmoving patrol car for several minutes, finally determining the deputy inside was taking a nap. Slow night, Zach mused. I’ll fix that.

  Reaching in his pocket, Zach pulled out his cell phone and unwrapped the tin foil. Despite his exhaustion, he had to smile at Detective Temple’s antics. He found the number in his contacts, noting the 4 AM time and shaking his head at the need to make the call. He’d never dialed this number before.

  The phone rang four times before the voicemail kicked in. Displeased, but not discouraged, Zach didn’t leave a message, but disconnected and then immediately redialed. A drowsy, male voice answered the second attempt. “This is Colonel Bowmark.”

  “Colonel, this is Ranger Zachariah Bass, Company E. I have an emergency, sir, a situation that requires your personal attention.”

  “Why are you calling me instead of your commanding major, Ranger?” growled the man who controlled the oldest state law enforcement body in the United States.

  “Sir, my major is the emergency. The man has turned, sir. Gone rogue, and I can prove it.”

  Zach’s accusation was unheard of in ranger tradition and lore. Not since the 1800’s had one of their own gone off the reservation.

  “Son, you better have your shit in one single, neatly-packed bag before making that allegation. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sir, I have multiple, direct witnesses that will testify Major Alcorn has been involved in extortion and kidnapping. Furthermore, he is the prime suspect in at least one murder.”

  “And why are you making this my business at 4 AM, Ranger?”

  “Because Major Alcorn is trying to kill me, sir. I need help getting in and didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Where are you?” the colonel asked.

  Zach watched the nearby deputy flash his headlights once, then a second time. Returning the cell phone to his ear, Zach said, “T
hanks, Sheriff. Please make sure your man knows I’m walking in from the east.”

  Despite the colonel’s attentions, it had taken almost an hour to roust the local sheriff, another 15 minutes before a radio dispatcher contacted the deputy Zach had been watching.

  Strolling up to the patrol car, Zach nodded to the young officer behind the wheel and flashed his badge. Sorry to interrupt your nap, buddy, Zach mused.

  “Have you heard anything about HPD Detective Temple?” Zach asked as he opened the passenger door, the dome light illuminating the cruiser’s interior. The ranger couldn’t help but notice the fellow sitting behind the wheel seemed barely old enough to shave.

  “Yes, sir. She is at the sheriff’s department in Orange, Texas. I’ve been instructed to take you there,” replied the nervous rookie. It felt good to sit down, Zach taking the opportunity to lean back and close his eyes for a moment.

  No sooner had he gotten comfortable than his cell phone sounded an annoying tone. The caller ID informed him it was Detective Temple.

  “Glad you made it,” he answered.

  “Same back at ya, Ranger. We are safe and sound here, surrounded by adoring men in uniform who seem to be concerned over our every need.”

  Zach grunted, picturing Samantha Temple and Cheyenne descending upon the remote department in the wee hours. He was sure the few male personnel working the graveyard shift were convinced they’d died and gone to heaven.

  Before he could think of a clever retort, Sam continued. “Any word about Alcorn?”

  Zach sat upright, the mention of his rogue boss killing any comedic creativity. “No.”

  “The Louisiana State Police are looking for him. So is half of Texas. The last anyone laid eyes on him was over 20 minutes ago. Better watch your back.”

  After digesting the news for a bit, Zach nodded his head as if Sam could see his nonverbal response. The adrenaline rush was wearing off, his mind finally processing the irrational data it absorbed in the last few hours. The man he had reported to for years was as dirty as they come. Finally, he responded, “Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “You got any idea what you are going to do with those documents?” Sam asked.

  “Right now, I need to sleep for about two days. I’ll figure it all out after that.”

  The car slowed for an intersection, the deputy glancing both ways for oncoming traffic. Zach was stuffing his cell phone back in a pocket. The car started to roll.

  It seemed like only a fraction of a second before Zach heard the driver’s surprised voice, “What the hell….” And then the world exploded.

  Zach’s entire frame was slammed against the seatbelt, the nylon material cutting into his flesh like a dozen sharp blades. Before his body could react, the ranger’s skull smashed into the window, white lines of agony pulsating through his jarred brain.

  His vision returned a few moments later, the interior of the police car bathed with brilliant white light. Dazed and disoriented, Zach’s head throbbed with even more vigor as he attempted to get a look at what had just happened.

  For a moment, the ranger thought he was awaiting admittance at the pearly gates. Fluffy shadows and billowing silhouettes surrounded him. Those, combined with the ultra-bright light, reminded Zach of Bible school images of heaven. The pain surging through his body quickly dispelled that notion, immediately followed by the realization that the pillow-clouds were airbags, and the heavenly illumination was generated by the vehicle that had just rammed their car.

  Alcorn!

  Zach managed the door handle, rolling out of the undamaged passenger side of the cruiser. Barely overriding the ringing in his ears, he recognized what sounded like distant popping noises. The door glass erupted in a blizzard-like shower, the fragments reminiscent of a snowfall blurring the headlights as bullets tore through the patrol car. The ranger kept moving, his tortured intellect screaming commands to his body to move away from the incoming fire.

  The soft, fresh grass of the roadside ditch soon replaced the hard, hot pavement. Zach stayed low, coaching his numb right arm to draw his weapon. The limb wouldn’t respond.

  It took superhuman effort to reach his .45 with his left hand. At the same moment that he finally managed to pull the weapon, he spotted the profile of someone moving by the T-boned sheriff’s car. He recognized Alcorn’s outline, the major creeping cautiously around the wreck, his pistol directed at the passenger compartment.

  Zach chanced movement. He had to chamber a round into his pistol and was unable to use his free hand. For a split-second, the ranger’s mind returned to his training, the instructors compelling the recruits to practice charging their weapons with only one working limb.

  Rolling onto his back, Zach pinched the .45’s slide between his boots and pushed, the pistol’s action doing its job and loading the first round into the chamber. Alcorn saw it, too.

  Both men fired at the same moment, both working their trigger fingers over and over. The firefight’s thunder rolled through the pines, flashes of muzzle-lightning shattering the rural Texas night.

  And then it was quiet.

  Zach’s automatic locked back empty, the eight rounds in his magazine expended in less than two seconds. His first thought was to reload, but that reaction was quickly overridden by the hot streaks of burning fire that seemed to be consuming his right shoulder.

  Dropping the useless firearm, Zach reached with his good hand to soothe the agony. Warm, sticky thickness of blood oozed through his fingers. His blood. He was hit.

  It required every bit of willpower to scramble to his feet. He had to get away – Alcorn would be coming. Straining against the protests of agony blaring from every nerve in his body, Zach started to stumble away. He glanced up, expecting to gaze into the muzzle of Alcorn’s weapon pointed at his temple, but the major wasn’t there.

  Zach’s head needed to clear before he spied the body lying beside the wrecked police car, the prone outline backlit by the still shining headlights. It wasn’t moving.

  Zach limped over, his worthless right arm making the short trip difficult and unbalanced. Alcorn moaned as his subordinate approached, as much from the dreaded anticipation of verbal confrontation as physical misery.

  There was a crimson hole in the major’s chest, another in his stomach. Zach knew the man at his feet claimed no hope of survival. The senior officer’s eyes were open but unfocused, his chest heaving to draw in air.

  Zach kicked away the empty pistol lying next to the immobile man.

  The movement prompted Alcorn’s attention, his stare boring into his adversary’s face. “I guess I fucked this up royally,” the dying man gasped.

  “Why, Major? I just have to know why,” Zach demanded, the question burning through his mind since he realized who had kidnapped Cheyenne.

  Alcorn actually smiled, then his frame racked with a deep spasm of coughing. The red spots on his torso seemed to grow larger. “My first leave as a ranger… New Orleans… the French Quarter. There was a girl, Zach. A beautiful woman. I didn’t know until a year later that I had a son.”

  Zach didn’t understand. “Sir?”

  “I couldn’t do right by her. The department was so tight-assed about that sort of thing back then, and she didn’t want to marry anyway. I had to watch him grow up from afar. I sent money… ran interference when I could.”

  The major paused, a painful hack so strong his whole body seemed to convulse. Zach took a knee, watching the dying man gather himself to finish his confession.

  “He did well, Zach. I helped now and then… but he did it mostly on his own, despite not having a father around,” the senior officer explained, his eyes searching for some sign of compassion from his charge. “You see, he always hated me… always thought I was some sort of Neanderthal completely out of place in his modern world. Now, I fear he was right. I’ve destroyed everything for him. I ruined it all.”

  “How so, Major?”

  “You are going to release those documents, Zach. I
know you are. They will ruin my son’s life. I’d ask you not to, but I know you will.”

  Zach shook his head, still trying to clear the brain fog. “I don’t understand, sir. I’m sorry, but I still don’t get it.”

  The major hacked again, a thin line of spittle and blood now running down the man’s cheek. “Aaron Miller… the president’s chief of staff… is my son.”

  Zach was stunned. Despite the exhaustion and wound, his commander’s statement sent the ranger’s mind on a quest to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle.

  “The cartel money… in the NY Jets gym bag… the girl?”

  “I kept that money for a rainy day,” Alcorn coughed. “When Hendricks went nuts, I was desperate to get those sealed records to protect Aaron. I could just see some reporter getting a tip and making the connection that tied it all together,” he explained, pausing to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. “I hired a con I knew to bribe the clerk in Baton Rouge and end this, but he fucked it up….”