Yeager's Law

by Scott Bell

  The call-up monitor, a twenty-seven-inch flat screen, sequenced through the views of thirty-two smaller monitors on the wall behind it. Each screen was labeled with the area it showed. PARKING 1 remained on the screen for eight seconds. Nothing moved. The static view of the diesel rig, the one that the big bosses were all in a big shit about, remained unchanged. With the extra guards and the shift supervisor almost peeing himself to look good for the boss, Luis resigned himself to a long delay in his campaign to meet little Serena.

  A ding sounded from the console, and the monitor changed views, flashing the ALERT signal in small text at the bottom. The camera, mounted on a perimeter building, pointed into the barren fields to the north, labeled NORTH FIELD 2.

  Protocol mandated that the monitoring guard notify the shift supervisor at every alert from the analytic software. The cameras had infrared capability and were good down to extreme low light. The picture at night was nowhere near daylight quality, having the characteristics of an old black-and-white television show, but a trained operator could still make good use of the system. The software tried to help by drawing colored lines around the shape it saw moving across the field of view.

  In the case of NORTH FIELD 2, the camera was set to a wide-angle view, covering a lot of territory and making objects appear very small. Movement also confused the image processor to some extent, which meant the shape drawn by the software resembled an amoeba floating across a Petri dish more than it did a human or animal.

  “Hey, boss,” Luis called over his shoulder.

  “What?” the shift supervisor, Marco Garza, asked. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell,” Luis said. He squinted at the monitor. “Moves like a deer, though.”

  The CCTV integrator had promised that the analytic software could be tweaked to eliminate animal shapes and only alert when human forms entered the picture, but Santos had overruled that. He wanted to know about every incursion, down to the squirrel level, into his domain. The end result was that the security staff spent a lot of time chasing mule deer, jackrabbits, and once even a wild horse off the property.

  Garza spoke into his radio handset. “North Guard Post, this is Central. Copy?”

  “Copy,” the guard crackled back.

  “Movement, North Field 2. Could be a deer. Investigate and report. Over.”

  “Roger.”

  Another alert came from the software as Antonio moved out from his position by the stables and headed across the field. The first object stilled, and the software caught up with it long enough to draw a complete line around it.

  “Deer,” Luis and Marco said simultaneously.

  The IR camera feed was clearer, and the tiny form of a mule deer, head up, still as a rock, was easy to make out.

  “Confirmed deer,” Marco radioed.

  “Roger. I’ll send him off. Want some venison steaks tonight?”

  “Negative. We don’t want to be shooting any guns with the big boss here. It might make him wet himself, no?”

  A double-click of breaking squelch signaled Antonio’s acknowledgement. Luis tracked the guard’s movement toward the mule deer, curious how long it would take to spook the deer into motion. The wildlife had to be chased off; otherwise, the CCTV system would keep targeting it as a threat.

  “Move a little to your left, Antonio,” Luis said over the radio.

  “Roger.”

  The small figure of the guard on the screen adjusted course, and seconds later, the mule deer bounded away, heading back out of range.

  “Mission accomplished, Tony,” Marco said. “Return to post.”

  “Roger that.”

  Luis entered the series of commands to log the contact and reset the system. Marco returned to the trashy gossip magazine he’d been reading, and the security office routine returned to normal operation.

  Luis yawned. Maybe I should patrol the dorms. See if Serena needs any protection from rampaging mule deer.

  CHAPTER 28

  Abandoned Convenience Store

  East of Austin

  Skeeter Davis popped the top on another can of vienna sausages and shook them onto his paper plate. Harlan had taken the Coleman lantern, but Skeeter had a chunky Maglite set on the ten-foot laminated counter that ran parallel to the front of the store.

  Skeeter sat on the chipped and dirty surface, facing the interior of the store and eating with his fingers. He alternated sausages with bites of saltine crackers and swigs from a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

  When he looked over his left shoulder, he could see the store’s boarded-over glass door. Over his right shoulder, a narrow window ran the length of the front wall a few feet from the ceiling. If he stood on the counter, he could see outside. It was a cinch that nobody could see in, so he didn’t worry overmuch about being spotted.

  The Maker’s Mark, along the anticipation of putting his meat to Miss High Tone back there in the cooler, lit a warm glow in his belly. The gals from the rich side of town were the best. They didn’t fight as much. Oh, they might scream and kick a little, pretend they didn’t want it, but once they got into it, they settled down. The trophy bitches from the nice houses weren’t getting a good sticking from their banker or lawyer hubbies, so when Skeeter came along, they had to be damn near grateful.

  The redhead in the cooler was a real classy lady, but she also liked to fool around with the hired help. Look how she took up with that trucker. Oh yeah, she was really going to enjoy getting a taste of his meat.

  A wash of headlights painted the wall of the store. Skeeter snagged the flashlight and killed it, dropping the store into darkness. Tires crunched the gravel of the parking lot, bringing with them a sound he didn’t want to hear: a cop radio crackling and squawking.

  Skeeter scrabbled to his knees on the counter, careful to keep his balance, and peeked up over the windowsill. A Texas Department of Public Safety squad car rolled to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, driver’s side facing the store.

  He slipped the Ruger Blackhawk .44 out of his waistband and kept his head still. The state trooper turned on a tiny light at the end of a flexible arm and started writing on a clipboard.

  Another pair of headlights flashed across the window. Skeeter twitched.

  The second trooper pulled up to park door-to-door with the first guy. It looked as though they wanted to have a palaver, two good old boys on night shift sharing some dirty jokes or talking about who they fucked last. They sure picked a hell of a time and place for it.

  I hope to shit Harlan don’t go nuts and start a shootout. That’d pretty much do it for the fucking I mean to do later on. Skeeter settled on his haunches, dropping below the sill. It didn’t matter if the cops yakked it up outside for a few minutes. He could wait.

  The redhead in the cooler wasn’t going anywhere.

  Deserted farmhouse

  Northern Mexico

  Yeager turned himself into a walking Soldier of Fortune advertisement. Black tactical pants bloused into jump boots, a black shirt, vest, harness, and ball cap. M4 Carbine, HK MP5SD with suppressor, a Wilson Combat .45 semi-automatic pistol, magazines for all of them, a K-bar combat knife, a Fairbairn stiletto, and assorted grenades. Camo paint striped his face, and he carried a radio with boom mike. And a partridge in a pear tree.

  “Here we go,” Victor said, “waddling off to war.”

  “No shit. Here, hold this.” Yeager handed off his M4 and climbed into the driver’s seat of the pickup.

  Victor passed both rifles to Yeager, ran around to the passenger side, and heaved himself in with a grunt. The old pickup threatened not to fire, chugged away for a few nerve-racking seconds, then caught with a roar. Yeager slipped into low gear and rolled away from the farmhouse, lights out, bumping along the dirt track by starlight alone. The GPS glowed inside the cab, the muted voice saying: “Drive one-point-six miles.”

  Their first waypoint. One stop to make before the target. Time to get his game face on.

  “Have I mentioned,” Victor asked,
“how much I don’t like this plan?”

  The cops in front of the convenience store had been gabbing it up for a good thirty minutes. Skeeter was close to going outside and popping both of them in the head, to shut them up. What in the hell could they be gossiping about that was so damn important? Shouldn’t they be fighting crime or handing out speeding tickets?

  Skeeter pulled at his bourbon every now and again, the tip of his nose starting to go numb. He slid into that stage between sleepy and mean. “Y’all g’won,” he muttered, peering through a gap in the butcher paper covering the door. “Git on home to the little wifey, give her a pokin’. Go eat a fuckin’ donut.”

  “Aw no, Mr. Skeeter,” he answered himself in a high falsetto voice. “We gotta sit our fat, lazy asses right’cheer in front of this here store and fuck up all yo’ best-laid plans.”

  “If y’all don’t leave,” he muttered in his own voice, “I’m gonna taken this here pistol, and I’m gonna put a .44 cabiler… uh, caliber hole in yo’ head. You heah me, boys?”

  “Why, yessir, we be nothin’ but stupid cops, don’ know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”

  Skeeter carried on his two-sided conversation for a while longer, then got tired of it, and stretched out on the floor. He sucked at the Maker’s Mark bottle. A dribble came out, and he held up the bottle to see the thing was nearly empty. “Well, shit. Who drunk my liquor?”

  He tipped the last of the bourbon down his throat. “Well, fuck ’em if they’s gittin’ any mo’.”

  He closed his eyes, rested his head on the cool floor.

  And passed out.

  Hacienda Del Norte

  Northern Mexico

  Enrique DaSilva and Emilio Santos enjoyed their cigars and cognac in the library. Santos had promised him a choice of fresh, young bed-warmers, and with a big meal inside him, DaSilva relaxed and breathed the fumes from the palm-sized snifter.

  The cartel troubleshooter felt a little better about getting the money back, since he knew who had taken it. The men were two hours away from the Cruz residence, expected to arrive there about one in the morning. They would capture Oscar Cruz, and he would give up the money.

  Once DaSilva delivered the cash, his next step would be to track down those in his organization who had leaked the info to Cruz. Setting up a new route would take time and effort, but fortunately, that wasn’t his problem. The logistics chief bore the weight of that effort.

  DaSilva’s job was to find people who needed to be found and to kill them.

  Unnamed road

  Northern Mexico

  Yeager and Victor bounced around on the front bench seat of the pickup. The old truck’s twin I-beam suspension transmitted every rut and bump in the dry mud track right up into their butts.

  “A bumpy ride,” Victor said, “but at least it’s taking forever.”

  “You got a date?”

  “Yeah. With a cheep.”

  They topped a rise and rolled over into a shallow valley. At the base of the valley, barely visible in the starlight, stood an adobe farmhouse with its accompanying outbuildings. The cheep ranch. Yeager aimed the truck directly for the dark and silent house. Brush raked the sides of the pickup, scratching and clawing.

  The first dog started barking at one hundred yards out. It was joined in chorus by two others within seconds. By the time Yeager stopped in the farmyard, they were surrounded by a half dozen baying mutts barking and leaping around the pickup as if they’d discovered the doggie messiah. The light over the porch came on, and the door opened a crack.

  Victor slipped out, slamming the door behind him. He rattled off something in Spanish, using a calming tone and holding his hands out to the sides. Dogs jumped and tangled around his ankles, trying hard to love him to death, all at once. Yeager looked at the puppy love and shook his head. “You have a way with animals, Por Que.”

  “Is why I’m your friend.” Victor stepped to the open door of the farmhouse and spoke to someone inside, presumably the shepherd that he had photographed earlier that morning, or rather yesterday morning.

  Cash changed hands. That eight hundred dollars was the last of Yeager’s emergency stash. The shepherd came out, carrying a pump-action shotgun, happy with his newfound wealth and ready to be helpful. He led Victor to the stock pen, waving for Yeager to follow.

  Yeager cranked the wheel around, gritting his teeth at the squeal from his power steering pump, which started the dogs to barking again, and bumped across the yard. With a three-point turn, he backed the Ford up to the gate of the sheep pen and cut the engine, which rattled for a few seconds before dying. The eager dogs continued to bark and circle, trying to get attention or food. As soon as he stepped out, one of the friendlier mutts planted both feet on his chest, nearly knocking him back into the truck.

  “Some guard dog you are.” Yeager ruffled the floppy ears and scratched the dog’s neck. The black-and-tan long-haired dog had gray eyebrows and a frenetic tongue. He obviously agreed that he was a good dog indeed.

  “You have made a friend, Señor,” the shepherd said in Spanish. He stood eye to eye with Victor but was more Jupiter to Victor’s Mars. He hasn’t missed many free tortilla Sundays at the local taquería.

  “What kind of dog is this?” Yeager asked.

  The short man looked confused. “A black one, Señor.”

  “Ah. Gracias.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Victor told the shepherd. He circled one finger around his ear. “He is a gringo from Texas, you know?”

  “Ah,” the shepherd said, nodding. “I see.”

  “Shut up and load the sheep,” Yeager told Victor.

  “Yes, boss.”

  Over forty sheep blatted and scurried around in the pen like a dingy, fluffy pillow fight. Victor slipped through the gate and made a grab for the closest animal, only to fall flat on his face, cursing, when the fuzzy beast let out a bleat of terror and darted away.

  Yeager and the shepherd laughed.

  Victor scrambled to his feet. “You think this is so damn funny, you big German asshole, you come and do it.”

  “But, Por Que,” Yeager said, “my people were blacksmiths in the old country. You have a sheep-raising heritage. This shit’s in your blood.”

  “Fuck you, Yeager. This ain’t funny no more.”

  “Depends on what side the fence you’re standing on.”

  With the portly shepherd’s assistance, they managed to corral and load twelve loud, obnoxious sheep into the back of Yeager’s pickup. Afterward, all three men smelled of sheep dung and sweat.

  “Pee-eew!” Victor said. “Did I tell you how much I hate this shit? I wasn’t raised to deal with no animals, esé. Uh-uh, no way, Jose. Fuck, you better not say nothin’ about this cheep bullshit ever, so help me God.”

  “Damn, Por Que.” Yeager stood next to the tailgate. In the truck, the sheep milled around, confused and nervous. He reached out and patted the closest ewe. She rolled her eyes and bleated at him. “I think this chunky one here has her eye on you.”

  Victor crawled up into the passenger seat and pulled the groaning door shut with a bang. “Just drive the truck, pendejo. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Yeager shook hands with the farmer, who grinned and bobbed his head. Ever since he’d figured out the two heavily armed men at his door wanted to buy his sheep, rather than shoot him and steal them, the man had become very happy. The farmer followed him to the driver’s side, as did the black dog and three other mutts, tongues lolling and tails wagging.

  “Vaya con Dios,” the farmer said, shaking Yeager’s hand again.

  “I hope He’s with me, amigo,” Yeager replied in Spanish. “I’m going to need all the help I can get.” He opened the driver’s door, and the black dog jumped into the cab and scrambled over to lick Victor’s face.

  “Gaah! Get off me, you stupid mutt. You wanna blow us all up?”

  The dog sat down in the middle of the bench seat, tail wagging.

  “Not this trip, buddy,�
� Yeager said.

  The farmer whistled, and the dog jumped down, tail between his legs.

  Charlie would probably like a dog like that.

  Yeager jumped in and slammed the door before any other animal could join the party. He started the truck and pulled out, followed by the pack of baying dogs. Yeager lifted a hand in parting, and the farmer waved back then called to his dogs, who peeled off one by one. At the lip of the rise, the black dog stopped and sat in the dirt, tail still wagging.

  Yeager kept glancing in the rearview mirror.

  The dog stayed there until Yeager lost sight of him in the darkness and the dust cloud trailing behind them.

  CHAPTER 29

  Abandoned Convenience Store

  East of Austin

  Something metallic had skittered across the floor. Charlie was certain of it. The darkness was almost complete, so she didn’t see what it was, but something had broken loose when she stumbled into the boxes. And metal might mean a weapon.

  The cardboard crunched under her feet as she crept across the pile. She kept her head down, eyes wide open, soaking up every inch of floor and seeing nothing. Night outside and no lights but for the kidnapper’s flashlight made her little convenience store prison as dark as a storm cellar.

  When she reached the edge of the flattened boxes, she got down on her hands and knees. She swept the floor with her fingers, moving in short arcs from left to right and touching every inch, every millimeter of floor space. If she could see the floor, she would no doubt be disgusted with the dirt and grime she was picking up. She wasn’t exactly prissy, but there were limits to how much filth she could tolerate without gagging. Or there used to be.