Authors: Rick Mofina
63
Lubbock, Texas
T
he FBI’s jet continued its dive.
Oxygen masks dropped from overhead. Grogan and Quinn heard alarms humming from the cockpit. Hail pinged on the fuselage. Quinn’s fingers dug into the armrests. Her stomach was pressed into her seat before the pressure suddenly eased and the alarms stopped.
Mercifully the crew had pulled the aircraft out of its steep descent and leveled it. Relief rolled through the cabin, and minutes later the Gulfstream landed at Lubbock’s Preston Smith International Airport.
“Sorry about the rough ride,” the pilot said as they taxied. “We’ve come upon a tornado watch, just bad luck. Be safe out there, guys.”
The jet came to a stop at an isolated hangar where a line of idling police vehicles from the FBI’s Resident Agency, Lubbock PD and the Hockley County Sheriff’s Office waited in the rain.
The SWAT members carried their gear down the plane’s gangway. After a quick round of greetings, the convoy roared along U.S. Route 84 for the thirty-minute trip to Anton, a small rural town of about twelve hundred people northwest of Lubbock. Soon the grain elevators, which stood beside the Santa Fe Railroad line rose from the flat terrain. Tires hissing in the rain, the vehicles rolled through the drowsy town, passing the beauty shop, the gas station and farm equipment supply store.
Along the way, Grogan and Quinn had slipped on their body armor and checked their weapons. The convoy was bound for a long-abandoned homestead known properly as the Vickerson Ranch, and a place to avoid. According to DEA intel, an outlaw motorcycle gang with ties to ex-cons operated a meth lab there. All of the best information and investigation gave the FBI reason to believe that the suspects in the kidnapping of Caleb Cooper had taken the baby to this location.
The vehicles had gone about a mile west of town when they’d stopped by a line of trees and a dirt road that ran adjacent to it.
Agent Steve Elling stepped into the rain and set up the command post. Steadying himself on the hood of an SUV, he found the target building in his scope through the distant trees. Keeping radio contact, he directed his squad to move quickly to set up a perimeter around the old residence. Hockley County deputies and members of Lubbock PD helped form an outer perimeter.
No other houses were in sight.
Next to Elling, Grogan and Quinn used binoculars to sweep the property as they braced themselves. Quinn’s stomach tensed at the thought of the baby being held here.
There was no phone associated with the residence.
Everyone was in position. FBI negotiator Andre Kuper was with the forward team. Elling radioed Kuper to call to the occupants over the bullhorn, and the air crackled.
“This is Special Agent Andre Kuper with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like the occupants to please walk slowly out the front door with your hands above your head now.”
No response.
With the weather-warning fresh in her mind, Quinn glanced at the darkening sky.
The clouds looked menacing.
As Kuper called a second time, SWAT team members tightened on the house, peeking inside windows with miniature dental mirrors.
No signs of movement.
Kuper called a third time.
Nothing happened.
Elling checked with his sharpshooters. None reported any movement; none had a clear shot. Several moments passed and Elling made a decision.
“Throw in some flash-bangs then assault and extraction. Go!”
Seconds later came the sounds of glass shattering, then the deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades followed by white smoke billowing from the house as the team kicked in the front door. Two SWAT members dived through the broken glass and rolled on the floor before coming up on their knees with the automatic guns pointed to fire. The rest of the team moved in a quick coordinated search of the building, breathing hard through the gas masks. Room after room yielded nothing.
“No sign of life here,” the team leader radioed Elling.
Elling turned to Grogan and Quinn. “Nothing.”
The two case agents then walked to the house in disappointment and joined the search. Discarded take-out food wrappers, yellowing newspapers and the layers of dust confirmed that the property had not been inhabited for months.
“Looks like we got this one wrong, Phil,” Quinn said.
Grogan stood there inhaling the acrid air of defeat. “What about that Varno guy you were telling me about, Nicole?”
64
Near Lubbock, Texas
M
ason ended his call with Garza.
From under the tree he glanced at the charcoal sky. The rain had stopped, but the worst was still to come.
Looks like a bad one’s gonna hit us. Well, bring it on. I don’t care. It’s all good for me. The deal’s sealed with Garza. I’m gonna pull this off.
Mason returned to the cabin and the kitchen for a beer.
He was still riding his blissful crack high.
He stood at the open rear door watching the clouds boil while drinking in his future and his sweet setup in Belize. Garza and his investors were going to buy a nightclub in Belize City near the harbor where the cruise ships docked.
Garza had it all set up with his ties to the crews. They’d use the club and the ships as transit and distribution points for drugs. The return on Mason’s investment would be huge. Along the way, Mason would create an identity and a whole new life. Given what had happened to Lamont and Arlen, it should be enough to keep DOA away.
All Mason had to do now was ensure the selling of Remy’s kid to Hedda. Then he’d take care of Remy. For good.
The stupid bitch
. Mason took pride in how he’d parlayed his painful relationship with that whack job into a hundred-thousand-dollar ticket to paradise. The other cons used to mock him when she’d visited Hightower, pregnant.
How big a fool are you, bro, letting someone bang your woman on the outside?
Mason grinned, shaking his head.
Who’s laughin’ now, huh?
Remy was a piece of work, no doubt about that. She’d bought his BS about wanting to be a carpenter, have kids, be a daddy and live that white-picket dream. Well, he had plans for her. Garza had told him once about the unmarked graves at the edge of the property.
Ain’t nobody gonna find her there. End of story. Tomorrow Remy’s dream ends and mine begins. I’ll drink to that.
Mason guzzled the last of his beer, crushed the can and tossed it out back. Better go check on her. Make sure that she’s on board to hand over the baby tomorrow.
“Remy!”
She wasn’t in the living room. The place seemed quiet. Maybe she was sleeping with the kid? But she wasn’t in the big bedroom when he checked there, or any of the other rooms.
There was no sign of the baby.
What the hell?
“REMY!”
He rushed back to the big bedroom. Some of the bags were gone. He looked through the window. The pickup truck was still there. Did she just walk away? Maybe after all that’s happened she had one of her spells? Damn, that baby was his ticket.
Grabbing his keys Mason hurried to the front of the house, looking through the window, scanning the property. If she was walking, she couldn’t have gotten far. He’d get in the truck and look for her, talk sense into her like last time, he thought.
When he went through the kitchen to get to his pickup, he heard what sounded like something heavy knifing through the air as the blade of a shovel came at his face.
65
Near Lubbock, Texas
“I
t’s not Anton!” Kate said.
“What?”
In the chaos following the attack on her, Kate had forgotten that she’d jotted notes of the dying man’s last words on the back of a business card she’d jammed into her pocket. Studying the card, she’d deciphered her notations as “A-F ton,” not “A-N ton”—and the map confirmed it.
Blake and Jenna turned to look at Kate in the backseat of the SUV. They were on U.S. Route 84 coming up on Post about forty miles south of Lubbock when Kate circled a spot on her map.
“It’s not Anton. It’s Afton! Take the exit here at Post for Afton!”
“How did it become Afton?” Blake entered the town’s name into the GPS. “Are you sure?”
“I took notes, just a couple of the wounded man’s last words.” She held up the business card. “I completely forgot when the suspects hit me. I was wrong about Anton. The wounded man was trying to tell me that it was Vickson’s Farm in Afton!”
“Look.” Blake was tapping the GPS. “There’s Afton, there’s
East
Afton, there’s Anton, there’s Anson, there’s Arden! Christ, how can we know now where to go?”
“Blake.” Jenna touched his shoulder and looked at Kate. “How do you know it’s Afton?”
Kate shut her eyes. “I’ve replayed it a million times, and when I saw Afton on the map it connected with me. I can’t explain it, Jenna, it just did. That’s what he was trying to tell me. It’s Vickson’s Farm in Afton. You’ve got to trust me.”
“All right,” Jenna said. “Take the exit, Blake.”
He shook his head as he consulted the GPS.
“It’s at least sixty miles each way,” he said. “We’re going to lose two hours if it turns out to be Anton all along.”
“Do it, Blake,” Jenna said.
“Why?”
“Because I trust her. Kate found Caleb’s blanket...she found the house in Fate. She got us this close. I trust her.” Jenna cupped her hand to his face. “Do it, please, Blake.”
They left U.S. Route 84 at Post for Afton.
It rained off and on as they took a number of connecting state county roads with Blake driving as fast as he could wherever he could.
As they traveled farther, the area became sparse; the land was flecked with tired-looking farms and ranches. They followed the weatherworn signs to Afton, which was little more than a collection of a few lonely homes, an old school and a store: L. T. Smith’s Store and Gas.
“Stop at the store,” Kate said. “We’ll ask for directions to Vickson’s Farm.”
Blake parked in front by the gas pumps. Gusting winds blew dust down the deserted street and a heavy blanket of clouds churned above them when they entered the store.
No one seemed to be around.
A radio somewhere was broadcasting storm updates.
“Hello,” Kate called.
A man in his sixties came from the back with a cat in his arms.
“Hello, folks,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m closing up now because of the coming storm. They say there could be a bad twister headed our way.”
“We’re hoping you can give us some directions?” Kate said.
“For shelter? Because you’re welcome to come to my storm cellar. It’s in the backyard of my house across the street. Buttons and I won’t mind.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Kate said. “But we’re looking for a Vickson’s Farm, or Vickson’s Ranch? Would that be near here?”
The man stroked the cat and looked at the ceiling for an answer then shook his head. “No, there’s no place called Vickson’s. I’m sorry.”
Blake shook his head and cursed under his breath. His keys jingled. “Let’s get going to Lubbock,” he said.
At a loss, Kate searched the store. “Okay, thank you,” she said, joining Blake and Jenna at the door.
“There’s Dixon’s, though,” the older man said.
Everyone froze at the door and turned back.
“Dixon’s Ranch,” he said. “It’s an old abandoned place about a mile down that way,” he nodded.
“Thank you!” Kate said.
“Funny,” the man said, “but not too long ago a young woman was in here, and I think she was headed that way, too.”
Kate exchanged excited looks with Blake and Jenna. “Did she have a baby with her?”
“No, but there was red pickup truck out front and I think people inside it waiting for her.”
“Was there a baby in the truck?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“A man with tattoos? I’m sorry, but this is important.”
“Goodness, no, I couldn’t see.”
Jenna pulled an FBI poster from her bag, showing sketches of a woman with short spiky red hair and with shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.
“Did she look like this?”
“Oh my, are you with the FBI?”
“No,” Kate said. “Please help us. Did she look like this?”
The man shook his head. “She had long blond hair.”
“Long blond hair?”
“Yes.”
“It’s her,” Kate said to Blake and Jenna. “It has to be her.”
66
Near Afton, Texas
S
tars swam around Mason.
His head lolled as he floated to consciousness.
His skull throbbed, and tears mingled with the blood and snot laced on his swollen face. He tried to reconnect with his thoughts and memory while working to register reality.
He’d been looking for Remy and the baby when everything stopped.
What happened?
He felt air on his body.
He was sitting upright in a kitchen chair, stripped to his underwear. His ankle holster was gone. He strained to move but it was futile. His legs, arms and hands were bound with electrical cords torn from the toaster, the coffeepot, the clock and several lamps that had all been smashed on the kitchen floor. Blood was webbed down his chest.
“You are Mr. Mason Varno?” said an accented voice.
Mason’s eyes flicked to a man leaning against the kitchen counter casually studying something in his hands. He was in his sixties and had a muscular build.
How did he miss this guy coming up on the cabin?
Mason’s gaze went through the window to the distant line of trees and glimpsed a green car parked there. This guy was good, coming up to the cabin unseen. He must’ve been watching us. Mason searched in vain for any sign of Remy and the baby. Did he have them? Who was this guy? He couldn’t be a cop, not with that weird accent. Be cool, he told himself. He could find a way out of this. Mason worked his jaw to speak but something was grinding in his mouth. A tooth. He spat it out.
“Did DOA send you because of Lamont and Arlen?” Mason managed.
The man kept searching through whatever it was he was holding in his hands. Mason couldn’t tell because he was still woozy.
“Tell him I have the money. It’s coming. It’ll be here tomorrow.”
The man tossed what he was holding into Mason’s lap. It was Mason’s wallet. The man positioned a chair before him, his small eyes burning with rage.
“Where’s your girlfriend, Remy Toxton, and the baby, Mr. Varno?”
Mason thought fast. He couldn’t risk losing the baby. Not after all they’d been through, not when he was this close.
“There’s no baby here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The stranger offered the hint of a smile.
“Yanna!” he called, then let out a stream of Russian and a young woman appeared holding up a soiled diaper. She must’ve been searching the place. The man sighed, stood, looked out at the darkening sky. There was a metallic jingle as he opened the kitchen drawer containing spoons, forks and knives. He selected a bird’s beak paring knife. Good for precise carving. He ran the tip of his finger over the edge.
“Where is the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
The man lowered himself, swiftly seized Mason’s head, inserted the blade’s tip into Mason’s left nostril then sliced up, then did the same with the right nostril. As Mason cried out, blood splattered down his mouth, chin and neck.
“Jesus! I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know.”
A tree branch struck the house, followed by a peppering of dirt and brush as the clouds bubbled in black and purple across the sky.
“Again, Mr. Varno, where is the baby?”
Blood droplets splashed as Mason shook his head.
The man seized Mason’s right ear. Mason screamed as the man sliced half of it off and showed him the bloodied piece.
“The truth, please, Mr. Varno.”
The woman turned her head. “You must tell him,” she pleaded to Mason. “Or he’ll kill you.”
“Remy left with the baby! I don’t know where she is!”
“Tell me about the baby,” the man said.
“She took it from the flea market. We’re the people police are looking for.”
The man and woman turned to each other momentarily, puzzled looks on their faces.
“But she conceived a baby through a clinic in Moscow,” the man said. “Where’s that baby?”
“Moscow?” Breathing hard in pain, Mason realized that his situation had now taken a turn. “That baby died.”
“Died?” the man repeated.
“Stillborn. It’s buried in a cemetery in Shreveport, Louisiana.”
The man blinked at what Mason had said. “How can I know this is true?”
“Remy has a death certificate in her bag and some baby items the hospital let her keep. She went crazy after it happened. She was afraid she’d lose her deal with the agency—that’s why she took the other kid.”
The man said nothing.
“It’s true. I swear it’s true,” Mason said.
The man set the bloodied paring knife on the kitchen table, and as he turned to the window, branches and fence posts pelted the house. The ground shook as though a freight train were bearing down on it then a deafening rumbling sounded, the windows shattered and the house exploded around them.