Secession: The Storm (35 page)

“Get him out of here,” Zach demanded. “Call for help. I’ll go take care of Mr. Buffalo.”

After verifying the uninjured deputy was capable of dragging his comrade to safety, Zach scanned the area again and moved out, heading for the spot indicated.

With weapon high and ready, Zach found himself trekking through caverns of stacked, junked cars. Access paths had been left between the rows of scrap metal, the resulting maze providing a thousand places to hide.

Staying close to one wall of the rusting steel hulks, Zach progressed slowly, trying to keep his footfalls silent.
It could take a dozen men all day to find that asshole in here
, Zach thought.
He could be anywhere
.

The ranger proceeded cautiously, not really expecting to locate the suspect, hoping Buffalo was as stupid as most criminals and would make a mistake.

After stalking the first row and finding nothing, Zach’s patience was wearing thin. More than anything, the lawman was mad at himself for being late. His lack of professionalism had damn near cost that young deputy his life.

He was mid-way through the second aisle when the scraping of a footstep sounded across the yard.

“Carter! This is Zachariah Bass, Texas Ranger. We’ve got a battalion of lawmen on the way here. Come on out, and it will go easier. Make us come in and get you, and an accident might happen.”

The lack of a response didn’t surprise Zach. He rounded a corner, wishing his tortured brain could come up with some clever logic to talk the thug into surrendering and save everybody a lot of time.

A shadow of movement caught Zach’s eye, just a hint of discoloration at the peripheral of his vision. The ranger dove for the ground as a spread of buckshot ripped through the air, tearing into the sheet metal door of an old pickup.

He landed badly, his right wrist going numb, his .45 clanging into a nearby pile of rims, fenders, and engine parts.

Zach rolled hard, eyes scanning for any nook that might offer cover. Small geysers of dirt erupted where the ranger had been just a split-second before, the thunder of the second blast echoing through the canyons of discarded steel.

Buffalo, seeing his opponent was unarmed, held his ground. The huge biker flashed an evil grin as he broke the old double barrel in half, the two spent casings arching through the air. Zach saw the man’s hand disappear into his pocket, digging out the bright, red plastic of two more shells.

The ranger charged, roaring a battle cry at the top of his lungs.

The gang leader was startled by the move, fumbling for a moment as he shoved the reloads into the breech. Zach was six steps away when the massive man’s hands snapped the weapon’s fore end back to ready.

Four strides separated the two when the barrel started to rise. As if in slow motion, the ranger’s brain processed every minute detail of the attacker’s movement, very much like the televised replay of a critical sports moment.

The hairy knuckle of a forefinger was moving for the trigger at two steps. Zach dove, his knees and calves protesting at the strain of launching his body with every ounce of energy he could muster.

The ranger’s hand was almost there, his extended arm reaching for the barrel, mere inches away. He wasn’t going to make it, time slowing enough to eye that finger pulling back on the trigger.

Zach felt the barrel’s impact on his outstretched hand at the same moment the skin on his face burned with the heat and light of the discharge. And then his shoulder was slamming into the biker’s chest, either the collision or buckshot originating intense waves of pain through the lawman’s frame.

A blur of clenched hands and punting legs consumed Zach’s field of vision as the two men tumbled across the ground. He thought he heard Buffalo grunt, but the sound could have come from his own throat.

The ranger’s next image was of a sizeable fist flying toward his face. Only an instinctive reflex allowed his jaw to avoid punishment, the blow landing on Zach’s shoulder instead. It was a small salvation, streaks of pain shooting through Zach’s ribs, his lungs struggling to draw air.

A tattooed arm was driving an elbow at the lawman’s nose, the massive, bony appendage moving at incredible speed. The Texan took the majority of the strike on his forearm, the deflection no doubt saving some teeth, but still initiating reverberations of agony through his frame.

Finally, the lawman saw his chance. The biker was off balance, overextended. Zach’s boot landed a savage downward kick on the side of Buffalo’s knee, the popping of tendons accompanied by a deep-throated howl of pain.

The ranger threw his hand at the big man’s throat, the web between his thumb and finger landing solidly against the behemoth’s Adam’s apple with a sickening crunch.

Buffalo went down, collapsing in a heap of panting, wheezing misery.

Sirens sounded in the distance, ambulances and lawmen rushing to answer the call for reinforcements. Zach loomed above the biker, hands on his knees and breathing hard to catch up.

The lawman managed his handcuffs despite the numbness still governing his right arm and hand. A few moments later, Mr. Carter was secured on his stomach, still trying to suck oxygen into his massive girth, the effort hindered by a larynx that was most likely going to require surgery. Zach didn’t give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch died right there in the dirt.

He stumbled off, aiming to retrieve his weapon and at least part of his dignity. He’d just returned the .45 to his belt when a half dozen officers rushed on the scene, weapons drawn.

“He’s going to need an EMT,” Zach announced, his voice raspy and low. “And I need a fucking cup of coffee.”

Pivoting to return to his truck, Zach ran headlong into Major Alcorn, the presence of his commander shocking.

“What the hell happened here, Ranger?” Alcorn snorted.

Zach didn’t respond at first, still getting over the surprise of seeing his boss in the field, 50 miles from where he was supposed to be… and at just after sunrise.

“Do you require medical attention, Ranger Bass?” Alcorn asked.

“No, sir. I require coffee.”

Zach half-staggered back to his truck, every muscle in his body protesting the stroll. The sight of the EMTs working on the wounded deputy prompted him to detour for a prognosis. Feeling more than a little guilt over his tardiness, the ranger was glad to see the man clear-eyed and responding to the medical technicians.

“Did you get that fucker?” the cop asked when he saw Zach approaching.

“Yes, he’s in custody… probably on his way to the ER any minute now,” the ranger responded.

“Good… I hope you kicked his ass good and proper,” the injured man croaked.

Zach patted the man on his unharmed shoulder and started to turn away when the deputy called out. “Ranger,” he said, trying to rise up from the stretcher. “I don’t think you understand. He knew we were coming.”

“Huh?”

“Buffalo knew we were coming. He was waiting on us…. I heard a cell phone ringing as we approached the door. A guy like that sleeps in…. His business doesn’t actually encourage his being a morning person.”

Zach nodded, “I’ll make a note of that, deputy. You work on healing.”

The ranger watched the EMTs shove the stretcher into the rear of the ambulance, one of the medics crawling in to ride with the patient while the other rushed to the front to drive.

Zach turned, continuing back to his pickup, stopping only to borrow a bottle of water from another officer. The ranger drank the refreshing liquid quickly, sitting in his truck and trying to regroup. He kept replaying the wounded man’s words over in his head.

At first, Zach concluded that the guy was just trying to justify a sloppy approach. The ranger had seen many people attempt to explain away bad luck, stupidity, or improper techniques with theories of conspiracy or skullduggery.

But the deputy did have a fair point – the entire reason why warrants were exercised at the break of day was to catch suspects unaware. Most people weren’t at the height of alertness at such an early hour – an advantage for the lawmen.

Now curious and recovering, Zach made for where he’d left Buffalo. He wanted to see if the man had a cell phone hidden somewhere on that massive body.

The ranger was halfway to the spot where he’d left his captive when he spotted the EMTs struggling to push a heavily burdened stretcher across the dirt surface. There was a sheet completely covering their cargo. Buffalo was dead.

“What the fuck happened?” Zach snapped, stepping in front of the medics.

“He was dead when we got there,” one of them answered. “Looks like he suffocated by the color of his face.”

Stunned, Zach stepped out of the way and let them pass. Major Alcorn and the other officers followed, the senior ranger making a beeline for Zach. “Was that man breathing when you cuffed him?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t hit him hard enough to close his throat… at least it didn’t feel like that. He was wheezing, but still breathing.”

Alcorn looked Zach up and down, the ranger’s dirty, torn clothing a visible indication there had been a serious scuffle. “Make sure you get pictures of any wounds, bruising, or other signs that he resisted,” the major ordered.

“Yes, sir, will do. Did the suspect have a cell phone on his person, sir?”

Alcorn tilted his head, “No. I’m sure he didn’t. After I found him unresponsive, I patted him down personally.”

Another deputy approached the two rangers, a twinkle of excitement in the man’s eyes as he pointed toward the clipboard in his hand. “We found a bunch of stolen merchandise inside,” he proclaimed. “There’s even a truckload of flat screens from that warehouse robbery over in Midland. Another of the trailers is stuffed to the gills with electronics that appear to have been destined for New Mexico. Looks like these guys were regional players.”

“Did you find the suspect’s cell phone?” Zach asked, his reaction bursting the officer’s excited balloon.

Looking down at his papers, the deputy responded, “No… no cell phone listed here. We’re still going through the storage rooms though. It might be back there.”

“Thanks,” Zach replied, wondering if the wounded cop had actually heard a phone at all.

“You better get to the ER,” Alcorn stated. “I want pictures and a doctor’s report detailing your injuries. Since our friends were doing business across state lines, the feds might be joining our little party. I want everything dotted and crossed.”

Zach nodded, pivoting to return to his truck. The major’s voice stopped him mid-stride. “Ranger Bass,” came the stern voice. “From now on, I’d appreciate a clean, shaven face and ironed clothing. Carry on.”

Zach did as he was ordered, driving off in a huff. As he motored toward the ER, he contemplated the source of his ire. It wasn’t the scolding by his boss, nor was the violence at the junkyard to blame. It was a nagging, little voice in the back of his head telling him that something just didn’t quite make sense.