The Sheriff (23 page)

“Better than just aimlessly searching through a thousand people dressed as aliens.”

Cord’s phone rang. “It’s Commander Allen.” He answered, “McCrea...Yes, sir.” He punched the speaker button.

“He’s using her to guarantee safe passage for a shipment of drugs,” the Commander said. “Wants to drive straight up Highway 67 through the Port of Entry. He knows most of your men are here and wants me to personally wave the truck through. He’s a brazen son of a bitch, that’s for sure. When he called, I could hear loud concert music. He may be holding her at the festival like you thought. Can you find my girl before his truck gets away from us?”

Music? The band was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. Did they just want them to
think
she was at the concert?

“We might have a chance, sir. Pete dropped a tracker in one of the men’s pockets. It was risky but seems to be paying off. We’re on his trail now.”

“Good thinking, son. I’m less than seven minutes away via helicopter from the Port of Entry. Call when you find her. I want this crazy SOB alive to uncover the extent of his operation. He has to know that I can’t let drugs through even to save my daughter. Out.”

Cord stuck the phone back inside his jacket. Pete couldn’t see his face, hidden in shadow from the brim of his hat. But that meant the Ranger couldn’t see Pete’s, either. If he could, it would be filled with worry and doubt.

It was up to him to save Andrea. The Commander had as much as said there was nothing he could do. He dropped his chin to his chest again to watch the green dot on his screen inch forward.

“He’s on the move,” Pete told his partner. They’d left the vehicle about half a block back. “He’s heading for the festival. If he gets there, it’ll be easier for him to disappear.”

They turned and ran, this time with Cord driving while Pete watched the blip.

“Not if we have anything to do with it.” Cord shoved his foot on the gas.

They both buckled up as they sped through the backstreets. They stopped midblock just ahead of whatever vehicle Jimmy—or his jacket—was in. An old pickup barreled down the street, skidding to a halt when its occupants spied the flashing lights.

Fortunately, it was late at night and Cord was a good driver. He spun the Tahoe, pushed the gas and missed the old vehicles on the side of the street. Within minutes they had Jimmy and his
compadre
in cuffs. Pointing the shotgun out the window at the driver helped.

“Hands flat on the dashboard, you murdering son of a bitch,” Pete yelled from the window as he covered Cord heading toward the truck.

Both men complied. Jimmy was in the driver’s seat. When he recognized Pete, his head dropped backward in defeat. Then he began chattering in Spanish to his passenger, who Pete recognized as one of the other horsemen at Andrea’s abduction.

It didn’t take long to get Jimmy’s story. Hired help for a few days. The guy who had hired him for the trip to the mountains said to meet him at the festival. Everyone helping tonight was to wear an alien mask that covered their entire head. Those were the only instructions. Just show up.

Pete looked inside Jimmy’s truck, picking up an alien mask.
Why the mask? Who does he need to hide from?
“Distractions.”

“What?” Cord looked up from settling the second prisoner into the backseat. The Tahoe had been equipped with handles to handcuff passengers into place.

“Everything this head honcho has done so far has been about distractions. So why tell the head of Border Security that you’re bringing a shipment into the States? Why abduct his daughter and threaten him when you could continue to sneak under the radar?” Pete looked at the crate in the pickup bed.

“If it’s a distraction, then what’s he really up to?” Cord asked, not dismissing Pete’s theory. “Probable cause applies if we open a sealed crate.”

Pete retrieved the tire iron from the Tahoe and jumped into the back of the truck. “We up the security coming into the country and don’t concentrate on what’s going out.” He pried the top off the crate, then lifted a .38 Special to show Cord. “Second possibility is that he’s ferrying guns south just like usual. There’s a variety of handguns here. Not packed well. Probably straw purchases.”

Cord slapped the hood of the Tahoe. “It’s so simple it has to be right. That’s why his men are meeting on this side of the border. Allen should be able to get some air support, but I don’t know how quick. I’m guessing that you’re going to search for Andrea.”

“It’s my job, my primary assignment.”

“And the right thing to do.” Cord clapped his shoulder as he walked around the front of the service vehicle. “I’ll call Allen with the update. We shouldn’t split up, but I don’t see that we have a choice.”

“I’ll pose as Jimmy, find out what’s going down and where if I can. But I will find Andrea.” Pete dropped his hat onto the front seat for safekeeping. It wouldn’t fit on top of the alien mask he intended to wear when he found Andrea. “Keep your head down, man.”

“You, too, and good luck,” Cord called out as he got in the Tahoe. He’d take Jimmy and his partner with him to the border crossing. He’d meet up with Commander Allen to see if either man had more information about their unnamed opponent or his plans.

Saving Andrea was Pete’s duty, but much more than that. He’d promised to find her and he meant to keep his promise. The first step was to infiltrate wherever they were gathering.

He drove Jimmy’s truck to the outskirts of the festival. The concert was in full swing. If there were any people attending not in costume, he couldn’t see them. But since both the men they’d arrested were supposed to wear identical masks, he’d look for more of the same. Jimmy was slightly larger around than Pete, but the extra fabric of his denim jacket covered the pistol at the small of Pete’s back. He was ready to pull the mask over his head when his cell rang.

“Pete, I found it,” Hardy yelled excitedly. “The camera was hooked under the seat and stuck clear up at the top of the metal springs. I guess it got wrapped there during the crash. There’s a recording with a picture before the car rolls. Shoot, that dude was messed up bad. Then there’s only sound... Man oh man, the guy you found had a lot to say about a drug operation and a Mr. Rook who runs the whole dang thing. He lives in Mexico, but he’s supposed to be there in Presidio tonight. You want me to bring it to you?”

“Hardy, slow down. Lock the camera in evidence. Did he say where they’re meeting?”

“Something about masked men and a stage. Oh, and the password is...I have it here in my notes. I wrote it down. There, king’s rook checkmate.”

“Thanks, Hardy. You’ve done a great job. Secure the camera and you can get back to patrol now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pete stowed his phone in the truck along with his identification and county-issued shirt. His white tee fit in with the crowd better and he couldn’t risk being spotted as the sheriff. He pulled the mask over his head and drove the perimeter of the parking lot, searching for more green aliens.

The plastic mask was hot, hard to breathe through and limited his line of sight. But it did its job protecting his identity. He passed right by two of his deputies without a second glance. The variety of costumes—some elaborate and some just face paint—were impressive. The people impersonating aliens posed for pictures with those who weren’t. Some took it seriously, beeping a make-believe language in the background.

On the edge of the crowd, an identical alien spun full circle. Trying to find something or someone? Pete hung back, waiting for the fellow to lead the way.

A couple of minutes later he was following four or five little green men and a woman. These were most likely ordinary people purchasing guns with cartel money. The smaller crates they carried weren’t disguised. No bogus labeling. Different sizes and styles. Most weren’t crates at all, just plastic tubs. He stayed at the back of the group. No one asked him for a password. No one acted like he was there at all.

At the back of the stage were half a dozen men all in the same masks, loading wooden crates, boxes or tubs like what was in the back of Jimmy’s truck into a twenty-foot steel shipping container. Mask or no mask, he recognized the big guy from the ATV earlier. He was wearing the same clothes and carrying the same shotgun.

Where was Andrea?

The boxes brought in were stored in wooden crates that were then loaded inside the steel containers on the big rigs. But where were the trucks going? No one would be stupid enough to drive across the border so openly. Of course, he wouldn’t think that the cartel would so openly gather the guns they were going to smuggle at a concert where county deputies and Presidio cops were stationed.

“Hey, you,” the big guy said in his direction. “Where’s your shipment? Get it loaded in the second rig.”

Pete acknowledged him with a nod and ran back to Jimmy’s truck. He had to send a message to McCrea. He dialed, and another alien tapped on the window, and a guy pulled off his mask to talk.

“Hey, man. You need help carrying— You ain’t Jimmy.”

Pete dropped the cell on the seat and shoved the door open, knocking the alien back a step. “Sorry, man. Jimmy said I could charge my phone.”

“You’re lying. No way Jimmy lets you in his truck.” The guy’s alien mask dropped to the ground.

“No, really. I don’t want trouble.”

The man punched him hard in the stomach, stealing Pete’s breath for a second. He straightened, fighting the pain. “You got this all wrong.”

Pete didn’t want any attention. If law enforcement broke up the fight, his deputies would recognize him. Then the smugglers would know. He’d never find Andrea.

Pete allowed Jimmy’s friend to grab his collar and drag him back to the light of the truck cab. He reached for his gun when the man saw the badge on his shirt. Before the guy could open his mouth, Pete had the barrel shoved under his chin.

“Not a damn word. Where do they have the girl?”

His prisoner shook his head and shrugged. Which was probably the truth. The likelihood that she was here was slim to none. What was he going to do with him? He cuffed the guy’s hands behind his back and shoved him to the pickup seat. “Now what?”

“Now you’re a dead man. That’s what.”

“Pete? Did you find something?” McCrea had answered and was still on the phone.

Pete clicked the speaker button and shoved the tail of his shirt into his prisoner’s mouth. “Yeah, they’re smuggling guns across the border on big rigs. Don’t know the route yet. Send men behind the concert stage and locate Jimmy’s truck in the lot. Out.” He tied the sleeves behind the man’s head, effectively gagging him before he shoved the door shut and dropped the cell in the jacket pocket, then grabbed the guns.

This area would be swarming with law enforcement, alerting the smugglers to the bust. He had to find Andrea’s location in the next few minutes or it would be hopeless. Disguised and carrying the tub of handguns, he fell into a short line and set it inside the shipping container. It was easy to get a good look inside in spite of the late hour because of the concert lights. But there was nothing but boxes of guns or ammo. Four steel containers and very few people in masks left around. He sneaked around to the opposite side.

“Andrea?” He knocked on each container, wanting to shout at the top of his lungs, but keeping his voice normal. “Come on, you’ve got to be in one of these.”

The first rig pulled away, and Pete ran behind the second. If Andrea wasn’t inside, he had to stay with the containers in order to find her. He pulled himself on top of the second rig and used the tie-down straps to hold on. He didn’t wait long before the second truck slowly bounced across the field, west a few minutes and then south onto Rio Grande Road. The trucks turned toward the border at the railroad.

Above the roar of the wind and road noise, he heard the loud rotation of giant helicopter blades as the trucks came to a halt before the ground dropped away.

He dialed McCrea. “They’re at the burned-out rail bridge. There’s a heavy-lifting chopper hovering over the water. How fast can you get here?”

“Back off, Pete. We’re spread thin on four fronts. We can notify the Mexican authorities to pick them up.”

“I’m not leaving. She has to be here.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and pulled his weapon. He crawled forward using the cover of the engines to beat on each of the containers, shouting her name, “Andrea!”

“Pete? Pete! It’s about time you guys showed up. Let me out of here!”

“It’s just me. Pipe down and hold on while I figure out a way to get us out of here.”

Men climbed atop the first container, hooking cables so the helicopter could airlift it over the river. Pete ducked his head, desperately trying to come up with a plan. Before he could free Andrea, he needed keys to the padlock on the door.

Ten guys would come crashing down on him if he fought the big guy shouting orders. He couldn’t get close without being recognized as the sheriff. He climbed down the tail end of the truck. Mimicking the smugglers, he tugged at the tie-downs, keeping his face hidden.

Across the river, he saw a train arrive. The chopper stayed low until the last hooks were in place, then took off transporting the first container to the train. At this rate, the exchange wouldn’t take long and the smugglers would be out of reach before authorities could track them down.

Pete didn’t have much time.

Taking on the leader would only get his head blown off. The solution was dangerous. His timing would have to be perfect and he’d most likely get shot. But he was willing to risk it for Andrea. He couldn’t live with himself if he did nothing.

He coiled a tie-down and casually dropped it by the last container. By the time Andrea’s was being hooked to the chopper, everything was in place—including himself. The leader gave a thumbs-up to the pilot just as he had for the previous three containers.

Gun in hand, Pete tackled the leader to the ground while everyone was looking up. He threw a punch, connecting the grip of his 9mm with the man’s jawbone. Pulling the key ring, he ran to the back of the container. It was a stretch, but he caught the loop he’d tied for a handhold.