by Jon Land
“Anybody got a match?” Tepper still hadn’t moved, continuing to address the lead marshal. “Son, I got a news flash for you. I’m a Texas Ranger captain and this case is under Ranger jurisdiction.”
“Not anymore, sir,” the man said, sweating up a storm and looking like his nerve endings had been cut. “My orders come from Washington, where this has been declared a national security issue.”
“Who in Washington?” Caitlin asked him.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You can’t say or don’t know?”
“All of you, please vacate the premises as ordered or you’ll face federal arrest,” the lead marshal said, instead of answering Caitlin’s question.
Tepper still didn’t budge. “Son, you realize if it came to guns you boys wouldn’t stand a chance, right?” He surveyed the six armed marshals who’d fanned out through the room. “Any of you ever been in a real gunfight?”
None of the men responded.
Tepper chuckled and blew out some breath. “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he said, finally rising. “When I find out who signed that order, maybe I’ll shoot them instead.”
* * *
“Eckles,” Caitlin said under her breath, as yet more men wearing FEDERAL MARSHAL Windbreakers ripped the entire medical examiner’s office apart, as much out of spite as to look for something.
“You snap at Washington,” Cort Wesley told her, “Washington bites back. What did you expect?”
“I’m not used to being on the defensive. I feel stupid for baiting Eckles the way I did, trying to get a rise out of him.”
“Well,” Tepper said, drawing up even with them, “I’d say you achieved that much. But look on the bright side, Ranger: this wouldn’t be happening if we didn’t have the sumbitch nailed six ways to Sunday.”
“Where’s Jones?” Cort Wesley wondered, scanning the office floor for him.
Caitlin joined his gaze. “Beats me. My guess is he hightailed it out, so as not to run afoul of anybody with F-E-D in their title.”
“Some things never change,” Tepper groused, “and he’s still a son of a bitch.”
“That surprises you?”
“Easy there, Hurricane. Save your winds for the boys we’re going to bring down.”
“That’s the spirit, D.W.”
“That’s why I still carry a good ol’ forty-five. It might only take seven in the mag and one in the chamber, but I never saw anybody get up from the first.”
They rode the elevator to the ground floor.
“What now?” Caitlin asked, as the cab door slid open.
To reveal Jones standing in front of them.
“What was it you needed, exactly, Ranger?”
* * *
Outside, Caitlin laid out for Jones what she expected the satellite photos of the area around Camino Pass, going back as far as possible, to show.
“Tell your contacts I need a radius of ten—no, fifteen miles around the town.”
Jones rolled his eyes. “Anything else? After all, your wish is my command.”
“Can they get drones up, too?”
“When?”
“Five minutes from now would be great, but I’ll settle for as soon as possible.”
94
TEXAS-MEXICO BORDER
Senator Lee Eckles hadn’t been inside the manufacturing facility since it went operational. It had been no small trick, figuring out how to appropriate the hundreds of millions of dollars required for its construction, especially when cost overruns necessitated him finding even more. That’s where the cadre willing to swap dollars for power came in. Even with so much Washington experience under his belt, it still amazed him no end how few people truly wielded actual power and influence—the kind of men who could make you jump with a simple snap of their fingers. And several of them were involved in this project in a big way. That said, he didn’t believe a single one of them had ever spent a second inside this facility. They were content to stay clear until the return on their original stake started rolling in. They were faceless entities to him, dancing bar grids and talking snow globes. When push came to shove, though, they were the men really running this country, and now they could practically own it as well.
The presence of all the machines their money had paid for made the massive facility seem much smaller, even though it remained likely the largest pharmaceutical manufacturing plant ever constructed. Eckles had heard various estimates easily exceeding one hundred thousand square feet, though it was difficult to tell with the naked eye, given the structure’s unusual contours, which were built to conform to the existing landscape.
The warehouses registered under shell companies owned by Roland Fass were operating at far below peak capacity. The last few months had mostly been about launching some trial balloons prior to the full rollout. So another section of the facility, virtually equal in size to the manufacturing section, was strictly devoted to storage. That area was the cause of the vast bulk of those cost overruns, given that even Fass’s own meticulously detailed specs had greatly underestimated the required needs. As a result, construction crews, who thought they were building something else entirely, had to punch through vast amounts of soil, rock, limestone, and shale to erect the extension.
Looking back, Eckles now realized that the problems with water seepage from a punctured aquifer must have somehow leached cyanide into the production process somewhere along the way. He recalled commenting to someone that the walls and ceiling were, literally, dripping wet in the area of the production line where chemicals were cut and mixed. In retrospect, he figured that’s what had done the trick, and the limited reach of the water dripping off the walls and ceiling explained why only a portion of the inventory of pills on hand had been contaminated, as opposed to the entire lot.
Eckles watched the pills come off the rolling, automated assembly line in a constant stream that emptied into similarly rolling vats that were whisked away atop conveyor belts as soon as they reached a certain weight. At last count, there were now five hundred million pills stored here in rectangular, state-of-the-art storage drums, with automatic temperature and moisture sensors rigged to an alarm that would sound if either exceeded the limits. That amount was staggering on the surface, but lawmakers like Eckles knew it was the same amount that had been shipped into Florida around five years back. As he recalled, that amount was the equivalent of twenty-five pills for every resident of the state, regardless of age, in a single twelve-month period, made possible by the Sunshine State’s lax medical clinic laws, which had allowed hundreds and hundreds of pill mills to flourish unimpeded.
Putting the drug distributors and manufacturers responsible for such egregious behavior effectively out of business had created a void of opiates on the streets. The plan undertaken by the powerful group the senator had spearheaded was to fill that void and put the resulting profits to far better use.
The storage portion of the facility looked like something out of a science fiction movie, with those rectangular steel drums stacked upon one another like a bunch of kings in a checkers game. The light was overly bright in some places, practically nonexistent in others, depending on the height of the stacks and position of the LED bulbs recessed overhead.
“How is it none of the contaminant warning systems worked—not a single one?” Eckles asked Fass, looking forward to the moment where he’d say good-bye to the asshole forever.
“Our tech guys think the contamination occurred on the manufacturing line, not here.”
Eckles looked toward those dripping walls and ceiling again, while judging their proximity to that line. “Then how come none of the work crews got sick? And cyanide has a smell, like almonds, right?”
“They were wearing respirators and suits designed for astronauts,” Fass told him. “The storage containers, meanwhile, are airtight, so, once sealed, no smell can push out of them.”
“So we never installed contamination detectors on the actual line?”
“
On your instructions, remember?”
“No, Roland, I don’t, because I never gave them.”
“You said we needed to cut a few corners, that there was no more money coming. We had to cut pretty much everything from the original plans that hadn’t been installed yet.”
Eckles was left shaking his head, picturing his fist rammed down Fass’s throat. “And you never thought to tell me?”
“You’re a busy man, Senator. We had things under control.”
“Is that what you call it?” Eckles gazed around him again, his mind fogging up when he tried to estimate the number of shiny drums glowing under the harsh light. “We need to move these out of here yesterday, not give the Texas Rangers any time to regroup.”
“We’ll need to find one mother of a structure to handle the load.”
“Don’t worry, Roland, it’ll just be a way station. The contaminated pills won’t be there any longer than necessary.”
“Headed where?”
Eckles had stopped in a dark patch of floor where the light shining down didn’t reach, leaving him shaded in darkness, so that he looked more shadow than man. But his teeth reflected what little light reached him, revealing the biggest smile Fass had ever seen the senator flash.
“Where do you think? Maybe I’ll just throw a bunch of names of our worst enemies into a hat. Let fate decide which country’s streets are flooded with opioids toxic enough to take down a bull.”
“You’ll have to get your would-be victims to buy them first.”
The senator flashed another smile that chilled Fass to the core. “Who said anything about selling the pills, Roland?”
PART NINE
MANUEL “LONE WOLF” GONZAULLAS
He rode a black stallion named Tony and often sported two pearl-handled, silver-mounted .45 pistols. On his chest was a shining Texas Ranger star, recalled Wise, who moved to Texas in 1925 and founded several successful independent oil companies.
Wise said news about the wiry Texas Ranger spread; everyone in Kilgore soon knew Gonzaullas was in town.…
The 1930s East Texas oil boom brought all kinds of people to Kilgore as the town’s streets sprouted oil derricks. Buildings were shortened to accommodate new wells—even the bank was torn down for one, recalled Engel in 1985. A petroleum engineer, Engel headed the East Texas Salt Water Disposal Company in Tyler beginning in 1976. He remained active with the company even after his retirement in 1989.
As Depression-era oil discoveries multiplied, Kilgore’s population increased from 700 to 10,000 in two weeks. The nearby communities of Tyler and Longview also grew—located about an oilfield 43 miles long and 12.5 miles wide. The East Texas field remains the largest and most prolific oil reservoir ever discovered in the contiguous United States.…
According to Herman Engel, the lawman was highly suspicious of anyone without callused hands. To make his presence known, Gonzaullas paraded his suspects down Kilgore’s muddy, crowded streets on a “trotline.”
One evening, after two weeks of investigation and raids, Gonzaullas triumphantly marched more than 300 men before the town’s law-abiding citizens.
“He chained them to a long steel cable,” Engle said. “Their identities were checked. They were told they could go free—if they left town in four hours; most left in ten minutes.”
—“Petroleum History Almanac,” American Oil & Gas Historical Society, aoghs.org
95
SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
“Let me handle this, Cort Wesley,” Caitlin said, when she saw Nola Delgado drinking a Corona in one of the parking lot’s few shady spots.
“I was thinking we double-team her.”
“Better I do this alone.”
“Why?”
“Because we share the same blood.”
“But not the same heart, Ranger. Yours is as big and strong as your name. Hers most likely resembles a spoiled peach pit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Head over to headquarters with the others. I’ll meet you all there soon.”
Cort Wesley held his gaze on her as they moved in separate directions. Caitlin looked back toward him once but found his eyes tilted toward Nola Delgado instead; he started to sidestep, as if he expected her to do something he needed to be ready for. Nola tipped her bottle of Corona at him and smiled, barely acknowledging Caitlin until she came to a halt, blocking Nola’s view of anything else.
“Sorry, I didn’t bring you one, sis.”
“You keep showing up places where you’re not welcome, Nola. And it’s barely ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Hey, go easy on all the judgment shit.” The killer known as el Barquero rolled her eyes halfway. “I do something to upset you?”
“Plenty, but that’s not all. You drag trouble behind with you. Seeing you lurking about has become like spotting the Grim Reaper in the area.”
“You call this lurking?”
Caitlin held her ground—and Nola Delgado’s stare. “Shavano Park, the park where the shooting happened, and now here.”
“Yeah, well, the only reason you know who plugged that kid in the back is because of me. When Yarek Bone gets the death penalty, I should get a medal, sis.”
Caitlin didn’t bristle at being addressed that way today. Maybe she was getting used to the truth. Maybe that was part of what Cort Wesley was getting at, being strong from the heart.
“The likes of Yarek Bone don’t get the death penalty, Nola. They cling to the fringes, only to disappear when the need arises, so they can live to kill another day.”
“He shot a kid,” Nola said, as if Caitlin needed to be reminded. “You trying to tell me you’re going to let that go?”
“I was speaking in general. Men like Yarek Bone spend their lives crossing lines. But sooner or later they cross one they can’t go back from. Before this is over, he’s going down. Roland Fass and Senator Lee Eckles, too. My way, not yours.”
Nola drained the rest of her Corona and smacked her lips as if thirsty for another. “You come over here to tell me that?”
“Maybe I just wanted to make conversation.”
“How about some compliments for restraining myself when those feds showed up? They could all be stuffed in a trunk right now.”
Caitlin stepped farther into the shade and took off her Stetson. “You want me to thank you for not killing federal officers?”
“That could’ve been a disguise. I could’ve taken them out just to be on the safe side.”
“You kill with the ease most people drag their trash to the curb.”
“And you don’t, sis?” Nola’s expression was trapped somewhere between derision and playfulness. “Face it. The only difference between us is you don’t enjoy it as much as I do. Or maybe you’re just pretending not to.”
“For me, killing is a last resort, not a first.”
“Sure, call it whatever you want, but you still end up in the same place I do. We’ve got the same blood pumping through our veins, the difference being the entire Strong family has been hiding behind that Texas Ranger badge for five generations.”
“While you hide behind the myth of el Barquero.”
Nola’s expression turned smug, as if Caitlin had just made her point for her. “What myth was our great-grandfather William Ray Strong hiding behind at that gold mine in 1898?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Glad to, sis. Glad to…”
96
MEXICO; 1898
“Right now, I want to know what’s so important here for Wong to have a pair of Gatlings to make sure nobody gets in and nobody gets out.”
“Gold, Ranger,” Villa said, taking the binoculars from William Ray’s grasp. “Felipe Wong is mining for gold.”
William Ray took the binoculars back and pressed them against his eyes. “Those Gatlings are gonna be a problem, amigo. But I suppose they could prove helpful in your revolution.”
Villa’s eyes glinted. “Do we have a deal, Ranger?”
“I want to mak
e sure I get what I came for out of this too.”
Pancho Villa handed the Ranger the binoculars. “Look down there and tell me what you see.”
“Those the kids from Camino Pass?” William Ray asked, watching a half dozen kids distributing food to the Mexican peasant workers, as rifle-wielding Chinese men looked on.
“Some of them.”
“Since you, or your men, have obviously scoped this place out before, how many kids we looking at in total, amigo?”
“I’d say fifty, but this is just one of many mines Wong is working. There’s likely another hundred in the area of the border.”
“A lot of kids.”
“And a lot of gold to end up in the hands of a man like Felipe Wong.”
William Ray turned his body all the way around to look at Villa, as if he were still holding the binoculars at his eyes. “’Course, I imagine that gold ore might be even more helpful to your cause than those Gatlings.”
“That’s possible.”
The Ranger turned his gaze downward, seeing all he needed to with the naked eye. “But this isn’t just about guns and gold, amigo, is it? I could tell there’s something else just by the way you kept eyeing Wong. Care to tell me what that is?”
Villa’s expression turned utterly flat. “The man who raped my sister, the man I killed, I worked for him, Ranger.”
* * *
William Ray trusted his horse as much as he did his gun, blessing the fact that he’d managed to ride out of Felipe Wong’s camp on Jessabelle, just as he’d ridden in. He trusted his horse enough to lie limply across the saddle with arms and legs left to flop in rhythm with the horse’s stride, knowing the animal would continue straight in the direction they were moving.
Toward the gold mine.
He didn’t know if the children abducted from Camino Pass were still delivering food to the laborers, because he didn’t dare move his head to look. He imagined the Chinese guards, maybe the gunners behind those fearsome Gatlings, had already spotted the horse coming with what looked a dead body splayed over the saddle. William Ray was actually counting on that, since it would command all the focus of Wong’s men and allow Pancho Villa and his bandits to draw as close as they dared, to position themselves for a final charge, utilizing the fall of dusk to further mask their approach.