The Surge - 03 (6 page)

“Of that, ma’am, I have no doubt. Ready?”

They continued up to the second floor, Sam draped on Zach’s arm as if she was leading her prize to the Promised Land.

At the top of the stairs was another hostess, stationed at a small table so as to keep the riffraff from wandering into the restricted area. Ignoring Zach, the girl eyed Sam with suspicion. “I don’t know you,” she said with a hint of bitchy derision.

“I just started tonight,” the lady ranger replied with a smile. Looking up at Zach with a sly grin, she added, “And so far I’m liking my new job.”

The hostess seemed to accept Sam’s explanation. Turning to Zach, she said, “Access to the VIP room requires a bottle of champagne or wine. Which would you prefer, sir?”

Zach, pretending to be slightly intoxicated, slurred, “Which costs more?”

“The champagne is $150 per bottle. The wine is only $100.”

Zach knew he was probably buying a $10 item, but understood the game. It was how the club made money during this little transaction.

Sticking out his chest and smiling down at Sam, he responded, “The bubbly, of course. Only the best for this little lady.”

“Go on in,” the hostess said with a nod. “I’ll have your refreshments delivered in a few minutes.”

The duo entered through a plain door, finding themselves in a huge, open room. It was even darker inside the VIP lounge, the only light coming from a flickering, stone fireplace at one end. The music was far less dominant in this space. While the rhythm of the rock and roll tune still shook the floor, conversation was now possible. Sam assumed the volume was strategically arranged so that private negotiations could take place.

After giving their eyes a chance to adjust, Zach spied a series of leather conversation pits along one wall, the dim outline of men with their female companions barely discernable. Some of the patrons were simply sitting and talking, one man was receiving a seductive lap dance.

Along the other wall were a series of couches and end tables. The arrangement reminded the ranger of a furniture store with its wares grouped so as to resemble a series of individual rooms.

Sam, pretending to kiss Zach behind the ear, whispered, “How are we going to find your friend? It’s cave-black in here.”

“Easy,” Zach whispered back, nuzzling in her neck. “Look for the bodyguards.”

He felt her tense just slightly before the reply. “And just how are we going to get beyond armed security?”

“Don’t worry,” the senior ranger explained. “I’ve got a plan.”

She bit his earlobe just slightly. “That’s what scares me the most.”

The couple began walking toward the far corner, negotiating around the seating and fixtures at a slow pace. There wasn’t any acting necessary, Zach wishing he’d grabbed his night vision before leaving the truck.

Halfway across the room, they spotted Chico’s likely lair. Two brawny men stood with their backs to one of the conversation pits, both of them homing in as Zach and Sam approached.

“This section is occupied,” one of the thugs stated. “Move on.”

“No problem, partner,” Zach replied with the laid-back tone of a man out for a good time. “They need a little more light in here, so a fella doesn’t break a leg.”

Zach led Sam to a nearby couch, the seating providing the ranger a tactical view of the nearby pit and its guards. “We may have a problem,” he announced with concern.

“What?”

“I busted one of Chico’s thugs a few years back on a weapons charge, and I think he’s one of the brutes here tonight. The way he looked at me … he might be on to us,” Zach worried.

After taking a seat, he pulled Sam close to straddle his lap. “Not to pressure you, or anything, but this needs to be especially authentic. Grind against me,” he whispered. “Act like you’re in heat.”

The ranger was a little surprised at Sam’s reaction. Without a snide remark or complaint, she caught the beat of the music and began a slow, exotic forward and back movement against his zipper, each pass accented by a tiny, torturous circle at the end.

It was difficult for Zach to keep his attention on their quarry. Sam smelled good, looked great, and her skin was soft and warm. He felt the familiar stirring in his groin and knew she would detect his arousal at any moment. He was also positive she would never let him hear the end of it.

Just then, one of Chico’s henchmen took a few steps toward the two law officers, a perplexed look on his face. To Zach, it looked like the thug was trying to recall where he’d seen the tall cowboy before.

In an attempt to block the curious guard’s view, Zach pulled Sam in tight, burying his face between her breasts. He braced for her to pull back in anger, but she didn’t. Instead, she squeezed her arms forward to accent her cleavage and melted against him.

The bodyguard gave up, unable to see and evidently unwilling to interrupt Zach’s pleasure. The ranger relaxed as the man returned to his post and shrugged at his co-goon.

“Damn, that was close,” Zach whispered, moving from Sam’s cleavage.

“You can say that again,” she breathed, not sure what had just happened.

While Sam continued the bump and grind, Zach returned to his surveillance. The effort required supreme concentration.

As he focused on Chico’s area, his eyes were able to make out a blonde head of hair next to the darker complexion of the Latino man. They were, it appeared, merely talking.

“He’s only having a conversation right now … nothing more. I hope we aren’t too late,” Zach relayed to his partner in a hush. “I need to catch him with his pants down … literally … for my little scheme to work.”

Sam lifted herself off of Zach’s lap, much to the relief of the stressed lawman. His reprise was short-lived, however, as she simply turned around and began the same motion, this time with her back against his chest so she could see Chico’s lair.

A few moments later, Zach detected movement from Chico’s love nest, the blonde headed dancer standing and removing her top. With the grace that accompanies a well-practiced motion, she dropped down to her knees and began to help her client with his zipper.

“Now we’re talking,” Zach announced.

Sam felt Zach rustle beneath her at the same time that the champagne arrived. After the waitress had left, Zach communicated the next phase of his plan. “Pour us each a glass and then ‘accidentally’ drop mine. We need a distraction.”

“If you say so,” she replied, leaving his lap and reaching for the bottle.

The next thing Zach knew, his partner seemed to stumble, and a frosty, cold glass of the bubbly was poured directly onto his crotch.

“What the fuck!” he shrieked, genuinely shocked by the icy awakening as he jumped to his feet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam giggled. “Let me get you a towel.”

As she backed away, the lady ranger nearly staggered into one of Chico’s boys. Zach was right behind her, both of the guards distracted by the clumsy stripper.

In an instant, Zach’s cell phone was in his hand, “Sam – close your eyes!” he ordered, the command immediately followed by several strobes of bright, blinding light as the camera’s flash illuminated the completely dark room.

The camera’s pulse accomplished two things. First, Zach now possessed a crystal clear image of Chico’s shocked face, a head of blonde hair between his legs. Secondly, both of the bodyguards were paralyzed, unable to see a thing.

“Fuck!” somebody yelled, another voice growling, “What the hell! No pictures!

The bodyguards’ vision finally did clear, and each goon discovered a pistol poking in one of his ears.

“Hello, Chico,” Zach said calmly. “What’s
up
?” he continued with a chuckle, nodding toward the criminal’s now exposed manhood. “Not much, huh?”

“Who is that? Do you know what I’m going to do to you … when …” the angry voice from the pit snarled.

“It’s Ranger Bass, Chico,” Zach broke in with authority. “I need to talk to you.”

“I got nothing to say,” sounded the harsh response. “You can go fuck yourself and the horse you rode in on.”

“Why so angry, my friend,” Zach taunted back. “I just want to have a conversation. Why don’t you order these two boys to hand my partner their pea shooters and take a seat over yonder?”

The blonde dancer decided she had business elsewhere, and with a dart, she scampered toward the door with a bundle of clothing under her arm. The other patrons, seeing the guns, decided to follow her.

“I ain’t doing shit,” Chico replied. “If you’re going to arrest me, then do it. Otherwise, fuck off.”

“Now, now,” Zach said as if scolding a misbehaving child. “I think you should reconsider. You see, I have a rather telling photograph here on my cell phone. It’s an image I am sure your wife … or her brother … would find disconcerting.”

The once tough voice from the pit suddenly sounded rattled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Zach glanced at Sam, the lady ranger’s pistol still tight against the nearest bodyguard’s head. “You see, Ranger Temple, our friend here is what is commonly referred to as an ambassador. He is a go-between the Gulf and Zetas cartels. A short time ago, the two sides finally realized they were killing not only each other but their profits as well. Someone with more brains than ammunition decided that talking was cheaper than murdering. There was even an arranged marriage of sorts. Chico’s wife is Maria Botanize, the younger sister of Carlos Botanize, more commonly known as Carlos the Hammer. Now, Mr. Hammer is widely known as one of the Zetas’s most notorious enforcers. The man supposedly favors a carpenter’s claw hammer and believes in taking his time with the victim. Word has it that Mr. Botanize is also extremely protective of his younger sister.”

“I see,” Sam replied with a snicker. “I bet Maria wouldn’t appreciate seeing her husband getting his knob polished by that little blonde-headed cutie.”

“Just so happens I have Maria’s cell phone number. Since Chico doesn’t seem interested in talking with us, I guess I’ll text her this picture.”

“Don’t. Please,” sounded a rather weak voice from the pit.

The plea was immediately followed by Chico ordering his men to stand down and hand over their weapons to the rangers. A minute later, both henchmen were seated nearby on a couch, Sam’s pistol covering their muscular, oversized frames.

Zach’s voice dropped low and nasty. “Who came across, Chico? Who was trying to sneak into Texas and ran into our Marines?”

“I don’t know.”

If it weren’t for the fact that she was covering two massive thugs while standing half-naked in a topless bar, Zach’s next move would have caused Sam to burst out in hysterics. Like an old black and white gangster movie, Ranger Bass held up his cell phone with a finger hovering over the “trigger.” The fact that he was threatening the villain with a text as opposed to a hailstorm of bullets from a Tommy gun was just surreal.  

“Don’t! Please! I’m telling the truth; I don’t know who came across,” Chico begged, his eyes bulging as Zach’s finger started to descend on the send button.

Ranger Bass relaxed but kept up the pressure. “I don’t think you’re being straight up with me, Chico. Stop fucking around before I lose interest and move on to someone who won’t waste my time.”

“I don’t know who came across. Really, I don’t.”

“Do you know why?”

“I’ve heard stories,” the cartel go-between answered in a quieter, protective voice. “Ever since Texas started letting anyone cross the Rio Grande, the organizations have been losing money. There’s been a rumor going around that new alliances have been formed.”

“So? What’s that got to do with the price of coffee beans in Guadalajara?”

Chico seemed really nervous now, his eyes darting right and left. Zach made another show of preparing to hit the send button and launch the incriminating text message along with the attached picture.

“Okay! Okay! Stop that!” the ambassador snapped. “I heard a few whispers that there’s a coup in the works. The cartels are banding together to overthrow the government.”

Again, Zach was cynical. “Pardon this stupid, old cowboy’s lack of gray matter, Chico. But I still don’t understand what some hair-brained, cockamamie scheme down south has to do with a guy sneaking across the border and killing a bunch of our kids along the way.”

“They need weapons to pull off a coup. Lots of weapons and ammunition. Can you think of a better place than Texas to acquire such firepower?”

Zach now understood, the pieces of the puzzle coming together quickly. With an abrupt pivot, he turned to Sam and announced, “Time to change clothes. We’ve got work to do.”

“Are you going to delete that picture?” Chico called as the two rangers made for the exit.

“Nah,” Zach called over his shoulder. “A man never knows when something like that might come in handy.”

President Simmons sighed, frowning at the intercom while setting his glasses down on the baroque desk. “Send them in,” he instructed his secretary.

Major Putnam and Colonel Bowmark were shown into the office, both men’s expressions painted with several coats of seriousness as they removed their hats.

“What is so important that it can’t wait for our staff meeting in the morning, gentlemen?” the republic’s chief executive asked.

“Sir, we’ve received information concerning the massacre at Langtry,” the ranger commander began. “While the source is somewhat dubious, the major and I felt the ramifications were serious enough to warrant your immediate attention.”

“Go on,” Simmons replied.

For the next three minutes, Putnam and Bowmark took turns briefing their boss on what Rangers Bass and Temple had uncovered. No mention of the specific methods employed by the officers was included.

Simmons stood, turning to gaze out at the Austin skyline through the large, curved window behind his desk. “Damn,” the politician initially remarked, soon followed by, “The timing of this couldn’t be worse.”

“Sir, the obvious thing to do would be to delay or put a hold on the sale of automatic weapons until this can all be sorted out. I’m no politician, but I can’t imagine it would be good for the republic to be providing arms and ammunition used to overthrow a neighboring government.”

“I wish it were that easy, gentlemen. As I’m sure both of you are aware, the House and Senate have been vigorously debating that law, as well as the merits of a dozen major pieces of legislation due to expire, for the past several months. Texas was formed on the conservative principles that promised a small, non-intrusive government. The people want a federal presence that keeps its nose out of their business. Somehow, the gun control issue has become the litmus test to determine if we’re going to keep our promise.”

Simmons was pacing now, obviously deep in troubled thought. The two senior rangers watched, both knowing it wasn’t wise to interrupt.

The president finally resumed, “This is a complicated issue, gentlemen. For example, I could sign an executive order delaying the new law by 30 days. That act, in my opinion, would lead to enormous public unrest, perhaps outright disobedience. Even the people who don’t care about gun control would then be watching Austin with a suspicious eye. We have to keep the promises made before the secession.”

“What if you informed the general pubic the delay was due to a credible, international threat?” Putnam offered. “Tell the people that law enforcement needs the additional time to round up some very dangerous men?”

Simmons waved off the suggestion. “We’ve had quite enough of law enforcement weighing in on this debate. If I were to sign such an order, a lot of people would proclaim we were stalling to keep the police happy and safe, all at the cost of personal liberties. There are about 100 police chiefs I wish had kept their mouths shut about this entire affair. All they’ve managed to do is gin up emotions on both sides of the argument.”

The colonel weighed in, “Sir, if there is a coup in Mexico, it is likely to be an extremely violent affair with unprecedented amounts of bloodshed. Even if the cartels fail to overthrow the government, having a bunch of Texas weapons involved in the attempt can’t possibly be good for the republic. There has to be something we can do.”

The argument didn’t seem to carry much weight with the Commander in Chief. “Even before the secession, Mexico constantly complained that the United States was arming the cartels. I remember one study that claimed over 90% of the weapons seized by the Mexican authorities were from America. I’m not convinced the Lone Star Republic’s disallowing such devices would make all that much difference.”

Putnam upped the ante, “If the cartels do win, many experts believe there will be a civil war in Mexico within a year. Perhaps more than one. I’ve seen models that predict our neighbor to the south will eventually end up like Europe in the 1600s, separating into a bunch of smaller, independent states that are constantly fighting amongst themselves. It doesn’t take a Ph.D. from Texas Tech to see how such conditions south of the Rio Grande would spill over into our nation. The worst case scenario is that we would be drawn into those regional conflicts.”

“Yes, I’ve read those same prophecies,” Simmons nodded. He then began counting on his fingers, “First, Texas would be inundated with refugees trying to escape the violence. Then, the losing side would retreat across our border for sanctuary. They would be pursued by those with the upper hand, and our towns and cities would become battlefields. And that is just the first wave of contact; the forecasts continue with repercussions that last for years, perhaps decades. And yet, we can’t impact the lives of our citizens based on the expectations, estimates, and the potential actions of another country. Believe me, gentlemen, I understand the ramifications. It’s an extremely troubling paradox because there is no workable solution.”

The three men sat in silence for some time, each running the private gauntlet of his own thoughts. The atmosphere in the president’s office was fouled with both an air of foreboding and a deep-seated vein of frustration. All of them knew trouble was brewing on the horizon, the threat from their southern neighbor looming large in the new nation’s path to prosperity. Yet, there wasn’t any course of action, policy, or plan to avoid a collision.

“I feel like I’m stuck on a railroad track, and I can see the train in the distance,” Putnam offered in a distant, monotone voice. “I know the engine is going to crush me. I can see the train’s light, barreling my way. The only hope is that I come up with a plan before it’s too late.”

The colonel nodded, “I understand. I feel the same way. Yet, I was always a firm believer in the phrase, ‘Hope is not a strategy.’”

Their words seemed to motivate the republic’s highest official. Simmons stood again, his face brightened by a potential solution. “We’ll close the border,” he announced with a firm voice. “While I’m sure this decision eliminates any chance I have at a second term, sometimes a leader has to do what is right, no matter how unpopular.”

“Are you sure, Mr. President?” the colonel asked, surprised by the abrupt turn. “A large part of our economy is exporting goods and services to Mexico. A lot of very wealthy individuals aren’t going to be happy with that course of action.”

“We can’t be a catalyst for a civil war, gentlemen,” the president stated. “All that I ask is that the rangers pull out all the stops to find any revolutionaries on our soil and bring them to justice.”

Both of the lawmen rose to leave, each already thinking of the orders they would issue once back at headquarters.  Simmons stopped them before they reached the door. “Hurry, my friends. I’ve just made our government the enemy of every factory, bank, rancher, and citizen along the border. If this situation drags on for too long, we may have our own civil war to worry about.”

Four days had passed since the massacre, Sam and Zach working and reworking every lead, source, and potential. So far, they had nothing other than Chico’s vague story. The ambassador had disappeared, the two rangers uncertain if his absence had been arranged so that he could avoid them, or Carlos the Hammer.

Chico’s tale had sent hundreds of lawmen on a mission to find the who, what, when, and where of any mass purchase of weaponry. The task had not only been daunting, but fruitless.

There were “only” 112 companies manufacturing complete shoulder-fired weapons in Texas. While that number was manageable, it soon became clear to the various law enforcement organizations that they were facing a much larger beast.

Another 500+ firms manufactured or resold kits that would convert existing weapons to “fully automatic” blasters. That figure didn’t count the unknown number of garage-based businesses with 3D printers, or the importers who were having trigger mechanisms produced overseas.

“Our friends in the cartels don’t have to buy complete rifles,” Zach informed his partner. “They can buy, make, or source small, inexpensive parts just about anywhere. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s a worthless endeavor.”

The pressure on the two lawmen was made even more intense by the fact that it had been Zach’s source that had initiated a rather large, extremely controversial ball rolling.

As promised, President Simmons had closed the border, and the outrage was quickly mounting on both sides of the international boundary.

The news was filled with a virtual parade of victims, everyone from human rights watchdogs to farmers and factory owners crying, bitching, threatening, and infuriated by the president’s executive order.

It seemed like every broadcast was filled with folks from one side or the other telling a reporter their tales of woe. “My mother is dying in a Brownsville hospital,” one teary-eyed woman claimed. “They won’t let me across to be at her side when she dies.”

One of the worst was a Texas woman who was obviously near term with her pregnancy. “I’m a citizen of Texas, born and bred,” she sniffled into the Mexican news microphone. “I came south to visit family before the baby came. My child is due any day, and if it’s not born in Texas, I don’t know what we’re going to do!”

“Our business is going to fail if the borders are closed for much longer,” claimed a nice looking man in a business suit. “We depend on exports to Mexico and Central America. Our product is sitting on trucks at the border while our customers are trying to find other sources for the parts they need. We will have to lay off over 90 workers if this situation isn’t resolved soon.”

On and on, droned the tales of the hardship and trauma being imposed by Texas’s unexplained act. It seemed like every day new video of yet an even greater tragedy was broadcast over the airwaves.

Zach was just finishing his burger when the television behind the bar began another in a series of heart-wrenching reports. This time, it was a sobbing, older man standing beside a small truck overflowing with rotting vegetables. “I’m not going to be able to pay our mortgage to the bank,” he wept. “The rest of my crop is decaying in the field. We’re ruined.”

The ranger peered at his partner, the discomfort evident on his face. Motioning to the bartender, he said, “Is there anything else on, Pete? That shit could ruin a man’s appetite.”

It took the barkeep three presses of the remote to find a channel that wasn’t covering the situation on the border.

Sam, seeing her partner’s scowl, repeated the same statement she’d already made several times during the last few days. “You didn’t tell the president to close the border, Zach. It’s not your fault.”

Just like the half dozen times before, she braced for his moody, harsh response. She was spared by the ringing of Zach’s cell.

The disgusted ranger glanced at the caller ID and then shook his head. “Not now, Cheyenne. It’s not a good time,” he whispered, returning the phone to rest beside his plate.

“You should talk to her,” Sam advised. “As grumpy as you’ve been lately, a little personal time with your girl might improve that shitty mood.”

Zach ignored the remark, stabbing a French fry deep into a puddle of ketchup.

Again, his cell buzzed, Cheyenne determined not to be denied. With a frown, Zach answered the call. “What’s up?” he grumbled.

“I’m in trouble, Zach. I hate to bother you, but I don’t know who else to turn to,” came the rushed response.

The ranger’s demeanor changed instantly, something in the woman’s voice putting him on alert. “What’s wrong?” he said, throwing Sam a look.

“I took out a loan… to consolidate my credit cards. And… well… the bank is getting really nasty with me, and I don’t know what to do.”

Zach relaxed, visions of someone breaking into her apartment or threatening her with a gun pushed from his mind. “I can lend you some cash if that’s all it is,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone. “How much do you need?”

Now it was Chey’s turn to be frustrated. “It’s not that. Not like that at all. I’m convinced this banker dude is up doing something very illegal. He’s threatening my career, my family … everything.”

“How much do you owe them?”

“I took out a loan for $65,000 Texas Greenbacks,” she responded.

Before Zach could stop himself, a long whistle left his throat. “What on earth do you need with that much money, Chey? I know my birthday’s coming up, but that’s a ton of cash.”

Her voice grew impatient. “I bought a new car and paid off all of my credit cards,” she answered with a snarl. “The payments were supposed to be a little over $1,200 per month, which I can handle, no problem. After I made the first installment, the bank sent me a statement saying I owed $3,500 next month.”