Strong As Steel

by Jon Land

  Tepper looked down at the pistols. “My guess, they weren’t from the Welcome Wagon of New Braunfels. Give me your assessment of what went down here, the short version.”

  Caitlin studied the bodies anew. “Well, whoever did it was a pretty damn good shot. No powder burns, no scoring. If I had to guess, I’d say soft twenty-two-caliber rounds fired from ten feet at minimum.” She looked toward the back side of the alley. “From there, maybe.”

  “Notice anything else?”

  “Not off the top of my head, Captain.”

  “How about that, from the naked eye, it looks like those bullets took these boys in the same exact spot. Not close; exact. I’m guessing that would be hard even for you at fifteen feet, Ranger.”

  “Instinct in a gunfight hardly ever leads to that kind of precision,” Caitlin agreed, “unless a robot was doing the shooting. That means we’ve got a shooter who’s as close to a machine as it gets. Someone who’s grown up around guns and was firing the real thing when other kids were playing cowboys and Indians.”

  “You’re describing yourself,” Tepper noted.

  “It takes one to know one, I guess.”

  “You’re a lot of things, Ranger, but an assassin isn’t one of them. Let me show you something else.”

  Tepper took from his pocket his first real smartphone, a birthday present from his grandchildren, as Caitlin recalled, and jogged it to the photo icon.

  “You know how to use that thing, D.W.?”

  “Grandkids taught me, Ranger. Plenty simpler than I thought it’d be, too.” Tepper worked the picture on the screen and zoomed in on the bullet wound centered over the victim’s brow. “Here,” he said, holding the phone so she could see the screen. “What’s that look like to you?”

  “A starburst, like cartoon drawings of the sun.”

  “Here’s a shot of the second victim.”

  “Another starburst. Tells me the pattern’s not random, that the shooter went through great pains carving striations into the inside of his gun barrel—fine lines normally produced by tiny chips of steel pushed against the barrel’s inner surface.”

  “I know what striations are, Ranger.”

  “And I’ve got a sense you’ve seen these particular striations before, D.W. You want to tell me what this all means?”

  Tepper snapped his gaze on her. “It means here we go again, Hurricane Caitlin’s winds are picking up to gale force.”

  “The only thing I had to do with this was show up.”

  “Let’s get back into the sunlight, Ranger.”

  * * *

  “I’m about to tell you something you don’t already know for a change,” Tepper told her, the sun burning into his worn-looking eyes. “Those star-shaped bullet holes? I’ve seen them before. In classified reports pertaining to intelligence on the cartels, distributed to all Ranger companies.”

  “And you didn’t think to share this with me before?”

  “What did I just say about it being classified, Ranger? Need-to-know basis only, and you certainly need to know now. I’m going to assume the name el Barquero means nothing to you.”

  “The Ferryman?” Caitlin said, translating from the Spanish.

  “As in Charon, the mythological figure who ferried the dead across the River Styx. Or, in this case, a legendary Mexican assassin. A hall of fame hitter working for the cartels to eliminate their common enemies in government, the courts, and law enforcement. A spook story that just happens to be real.”

  Caitlin ran all that through her mind. “Last time I checked, D.W., we were still in Texas, and the bodies of those gunmen in the alley don’t fit the criteria of el Barquero’s typical victims.”

  “Well, we know one thing for sure, don’t we? If el Barquero did the deed, it was somebody in Mexico, somebody in the cartels, who gave the order.”

  “Maybe somebody by the name of Luna Diaz Delgado, Captain?”

  “That thought had crossed my mind, Ranger, and I’ve changed my mind about telling you the tale of what happened after your dad and me ran into her in that train station.”

  43

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS; 1994

  Jim Strong didn’t say a word on the drive back to Texas, leaving D. W. Tepper to do all the talking in the truck. Jim seemed to be someplace else altogether, snapping alert to respond to a question Tepper had already asked him three previous times.

  “So you figure this is all on Delgado?”

  “I’m of a mind to take the lady at her word, D.W.,” Jim said, as if realizing for the first time that he was in the passenger seat.

  “How’s that?”

  “Her cargo ended up inside a supposedly empty freight car at an unscheduled stop along the route that terminated in Chihuahua, with a pair of guards packing pearl-handled forty-fives.”

  “Okay.” Tepper nodded. “I’m with you on that much. The train stops in Fort Stockton, her guards are executed along with the train crew by the Angel of Death, and something kills three men I make as coming from the professional mercenary category, before the cargo they came for gets stripped.”

  “By this Angel of Death, you figure? Could be he didn’t come alone,” Jim said, picking up on Tepper’s thinking.

  “I think he came with the mercs, gave them a job to do, and they dropped dead before completing it, leaving him to finish things himself. A job for somebody who should be setting Olympic strength records instead. That doesn’t tell us what killed the mercs, though.”

  “Well, something in those crates for sure, as I see it, Ranger Tepper.”

  “As in the mercs being exposed to something that somehow spared the Angel of Death.”

  “And there’s only one person who can tell us what that was, and we just left her down in Mexico.”

  “You wanna turn this truck around, Ranger Strong, I’m game. But just don’t expect the Red Widow to greet us with open arms this time.”

  “Those open arms were holding Thompsons this morning. So unless we’re gonna have to face off against tanks next time, I’m not concerned.”

  * * *

  When Jim Strong and D. W. Tepper arrived back at Company F headquarters in San Antonio, they found a sharply dressed man waiting for them in their captain’s vacated office, standing at the wall, reviewing an assortment of commendations the company had received. He wore Italian loafers and a suit so perfectly fitted that it showed the edges of his narrow, bony shoulders, and he had the soft, tanned complexion of someone who’d never spent a day working outside in his life.

  “Name’s Maurice Scoggins, special assistant to the governor,” he greeted them, shaking each of their hands. “I imagine you’re Rangers Tepper and Strong, but I don’t know which is which. Call me Mo.”

  “I’m Strong, he’s Tepper,” Jim said. “So what brings the special assistant to the governor all the way from Austin?”

  “It involves your latest case,” he said, both his voice and expression struggling to remain casual. “It’s been referred out to federal jurisdiction.”

  Jim Strong and D. W. Tepper exchanged a taut glance. They tended to view the presence of any politician with suspicion, but that was especially so whenever the term “governor” was employed, given Ann Richards’s thinly disguised distaste for the Rangers in general. Almost invariably, whatever followed wasn’t good, and today turned out to be no exception.

  “And you needed to come all the way from Austin to tell us that?”

  “Consider it a professional courtesy, gentlemen, one I’m hoping you’ll return in kind.”

  “And how might we do that, Mr. Special Assistant?” Tepper quizzed.

  “Austin is aware of the trip you made down to Chihuahua, Mexico. For starters, could you tell me on whose authority that was?”

  “Our own,” Jim answered him, stealing a glance at Tepper that basically said What the hell? “Who else’s authority did we need?”

  “We have information that you met there with Luna Diaz Delgado, subject of several federal probes being conducted
in cooperation with Mexican authorities.”

  “We didn’t know we’d be meeting with her until she showed up at the Chihuahua train depot,” Jim explained, “obviously alerted to our presence and our interest in the contents of a certain train car. And if you don’t mind me asking, sir, how was it exactly you found out we were down there?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Because,” Jim rolled right on, ignoring him, “it occurs to me that, for you to have driven all the way here, you must’ve left around the same time we left Chihuahua. Have I got that right?”

  Scoggins looked like somebody who got caught pinching a five from a cash register. “Let’s just say that your presence south of the border raised some flags almost immediately.”

  “Did whoever was raising them express any concern over the ten bodies recovered from the Fort Stockton train station last night?” Jim asked him.

  Scoggins settled himself with a deep breath, tried to hold both men in his stare. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”

  “One of us did, anyway,” Tepper said.

  “I’m here because the federal authorities asked me to intervene before any damage is done to the case they’re trying to build against Delgado, in conjunction with their Mexican counterparts.”

  “You kind of said that already,” Jim noted. “And it doesn’t change the fact that five of the victims from Fort Stockton, the entire train crew, are Texas residents, and three were born and raised here. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that doesn’t cut any mustard with you.”

  “This isn’t about me or you, Rangers,” Scoggins told him. “It involves a jurisdictional matter that is more or less typical.”

  “I’m going with ‘less,’” said Jim, “given I don’t know how Washington, or Austin, even found out we were in Mexico.”

  “You might consider that there’s a mole planted inside Delgado’s organization. His call set many a Department of Justice ass on fire, I shit you not. The DOJ is concerned that your continued involvement could set their investigation back significantly.”

  Tepper sneered at that. “Ten men died last night, Mr. Scoggins. That’s the source of our continued involvement.”

  “Seven of whom were clearly murdered,” Jim Strong added, “the other three victims from entirely different circumstances.”

  “This would be three bodies recovered from the train car,” Scoggins interjected.

  “That’s right,” Tepper affirmed.

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment any further on that particular subject.”

  “The subject of the ten dead,” Jim wondered, “or only the three?”

  “I can’t comment on that, either. Look, Rangers,” Scoggins said, starting to take a step closer to Strong and Tepper before thinking better of it, “I came down here to pay you the courtesy of hearing the governor’s instructions in person.”

  “You see the governor anywhere about, Ranger Tepper?”

  “No, I do not, Ranger Strong.”

  Jim looked back at Scoggins. “Then I guess we’re hearing those instructions from you, not her, aren’t we?”

  “I’m ordering you boys to stand down,” Scoggins said, with the voice of a man who’d already lost his patience. “I’m going to ask you to unsee whatever it was you saw last night. I’m going to ask you to forget all about whatever wasn’t in that freight car or the three bodies that were. You won’t see nothing about any of this in the papers or on the television, and the governor feels that it’s imperative to keep it that way. We must ensure that nothing is done to jeopardize the case we’re building with the Mexican authorities against Delgado.”

  Tepper rolled his head from side to side, considering those words. “So, even though the Red Widow is our best lead, we’re supposed to just make believe five Texas families didn’t lose their dads last night.”

  “I believe I’ve made myself clear, Ranger.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Tepper persisted.

  “I wasn’t aware you asked me one.”

  “Let me try it this way, sir,” Jim Strong interjected. “We believe Luna Diaz Delgado has information extremely relevant to the murders we’re investigating. She’s the only one who call tell us what went missing from that freight car and why what went missing from the train car is directly responsible for five dead Texas residents.”

  “Priorities,” Scoggins told them both, his skin so processed, smooth, and tight that it looked more like a doll’s.

  “And those priorities don’t include catching the killer of five Texans. Can you believe that, Ranger Strong?”

  “I cannot believe it, Ranger Tepper.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe or what you don’t believe, Rangers,” Scoggins said, his use of the word this time sounding caustic instead of laudatory. “All that matters is what Austin believes.”

  “You forget about Washington, Mr. Special Assistant?” Tepper chided.

  “Same thing, in this case. Your chief, head of the whole Texas Rangers, has been briefed on this as well. He’s aware of my coming here and supports the governor’s efforts one hundred percent.”

  “Funny how we haven’t heard from him directly,” Jim noted.

  “Again, Rangers, it comes down to a jurisdictional matter.”

  “Rangers never paid much attention to such matters.”

  “And look how well that worked out for you, what with Governor Richards calling for the whole organization’s reduction or even dissolution. What she, and I, know is that the gunfighter and lone gunman days are long gone. Civil rights, Miranda rights, equal opportunity rights, finished them once and for all.”

  “Oh, Ranger Tepper and I believe in equal opportunity rights, don’t we, D.W.? As in equal rights to die for anybody who spills the kind of blood in Texas that got spilled last night.”

  Scoggins nodded, as if weighing the implications of Jim’s words. “I hear told you’re known to frequent the funerals of those whose killings you’re investigating, Ranger Strong.”

  “I do indeed, sir. Partly as a comfort to the family, but mostly as a way to make me remember who I’m bringing justice for.”

  “Well, that won’t be necessary in this case, Ranger, will it?”

  “It sure won’t, Mr. Scoggins. And please give the governor our best.”

  * * *

  Through a window across the hall from their captain’s office, Jim Strong and D. W. Tepper spied Mo Scoggins climb into the backseat of a black livery car with state government plates. They watched it head up the road until it disappeared around a corner up the street.

  “We’re not giving up this case at all, are we, Ranger Strong?”

  “I’m not, Ranger Tepper, but you are.”

  “Come again?”

  “No sense I can see in risking two careers.”

  “Well…”

  “And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “If something happens to me,” Jim Strong told him, “there’ll be somebody to fry the grits of whoever did it.”

  44

  NEW BRAUNFELS, TEXAS

  “Why did Scoggins, and the governor, call you off the case?” Caitlin asked, once Tepper had finished. “Somebody got to them, right? But who? Who calls off the Texas Rangers?”

  Tepper stamped out a cigarette she hadn’t even recorded him lighting. “I never found out.”

  “That’s hard to believe, Captain.”

  “How many times have you disobeyed my orders?”

  “What’s your point?”

  Tepper popped a fresh Marlboro into his mouth and flicked his lighter to life, looking bewildered over Caitlin doing nothing to stop him. “That it runs in the goddamn family—that’s my point. Jim didn’t care about risking his own career, but he wasn’t about to let me ruin mine. So not even an hour after the assistant to Governor Richards, or whatever the hell he was, ordered us to stand down, Jim was back on the case.”

  “You know how they
say kids follow in their parents’ footsteps, D.W.?”

  “I don’t like where this is headed, Ranger.”

  “Well, I know where I’m headed.”

  Tepper’s expression tightened, taking on the contours of a dried-out tea bag. “You’re not authorized to travel south of the border, Ranger.”

  Caitlin swiped a shirtsleeve across her brow to clean off some of the sweat that had started to bead up. “There you go, putting ideas in my head, Captain.” She turned her gaze back on the alley, where forensic techs had begun working the scene around the dead bodies. “How long does el Barquero go back?”

  “A century at least.”

  “It was a serious question, D.W.”

  “So was my answer, because that’s how far the legend dates back.”

  “Around the time Mexico became the drug-dealing capital of the universe,” Caitlin reflected. “Look, D.W., I’ve seen just about everything, but a hundred-year-old assassin? That’s pushing things, even for me.”

  “You asked a historical question and I answered it,” Tepper said tersely. “I wasn’t making a case for anything beyond that. Near as I can figure, el Barquero has clearly worn plenty of faces. Stand-ins for the original. Or maybe there never was an original. Maybe the whole myth was perpetrated just so folks like us would waste our time chasing our tails. We’re best off forgetting about what happened a hundred years ago and thinking about two hours back instead, because that’s when el Barquero took out those two gunmen in the alley.”

  “The better question being, Who the hell were they? Same guns as Dallas suggests they’re all part of the same group. And it’s clear as day they had Cort Wesley and me in their sights.”

  “Until el Barquero showed up and stopped them in their tracks.” Tepper scratched at his scalp again. “Boy oh boy, Ranger, it’s getting to the point where your friends are worse than your enemies.”