Secession: The Storm (23 page)

Abe pushed the target acquisition button, the green brackets flashing on the small gap between the metal vent and stone façade. He felt no guilt, having little doubt that the man on Mrs. Fullerton’s roof would kill him without hesitation.

The laser registered the distance to the target at just over 300 meters, a leisurely shot for the fancy rifle.

For a moment, he considered scanning for additional shooters, but decided the delay was unnecessary. Once he fired on the closest man, the others would give themselves away as they returned fire. He prayed the police snipers would be unable to zero-in on the tiny slot carved in his shutter.

Abe pulled the trigger, the green guidance arrows instructing him to adjust his aim a few inches to the right, less than a foot higher. The electronic crosshairs were actually centered on the chimney when the powerful weapon roared.

Unlike the aircraft, the effect of this shot was nearly instantaneous. Abe saw the concealed government shooter jerk, and then his weapon clambered down the shingled roof. He immediately zoomed the optic out for a wider field of view and began scanning for anyone daring enough to return fire.

Like the shooter on Mrs. Fullerton’s roof, the sniper on the water tower was also well concealed. Somehow, the man had managed to procure an off-white bed sheet that closely matched the paint on the steel tank. Only the appearance of a black rifle barrel gave him away, a mistake that would cost him dearly.

The range finder signaled 820 meters just as the first incoming bullet struck the shutter with a resounding “thwack.” Abe ignored the broken glass and splinters, trusting in his bullet stop to keep him alive. Still, his fingers moved with nervous haste as he repeated the aiming process. Another round plowed into the golf balls at the same moment his .338 reported its deadly discharge.

A spectacular plunge confirmed he’d struck the target, the sniper’s dark image rising briefly to its feet, and then plummeting over 60 feet to the ground. Before the already-dead man slammed into the earth, Abe was scanning for more work.   

Standard law enforcement procedures stipulated a secure perimeter of 300-500 meters around any active shooter. The exact distance established for any operation was up to the local commander’s discretion – terrain, population, and urban density all factors that were to be taken into account.

With Abe’s counterattack on the FBI’s over-watch personnel, he assumed they would rethink how close their assets were positioned. He was right.

From his elevated perch, he could examine movement several hundred yards down the thoroughfare in front of his house. Uniformed police officers were casually stepping to their cars, obviously heeding an order to pull back.

The feds were running this show. They had set up a blocking position along his street, more to keep innocent passersby safe than to confine the distant suspect. Perimeter duty was a boring, mundane assignment – rarely involving direct engagement with a suspect. Given the nonchalant manner of the officers’ movement, they evidently felt secure, removed from the dangerous man who lived so far away.

Abe and the Trackerpoint turned their casual egress into a nightmare.

The fugitive began firing round after round into the helpless police cruisers, each of the 250-grain bullets delivering over 1,000 pounds per square inch of force. Automotive sheet metal was sliced like carbon paper, engine blocks providing only slightly more resistance to the living hell of Abe’s incoming fire. Fuel tanks were punctured like water balloons, the volatile liquid dripping on the ground, elevating the danger even more.

Recovering from their initial surprise, many of the policemen sought cover by going prone or diving for the shallow ditch that bordered the road. It didn’t do them any good.

So accurate was Abe’s weapon, even the slightest exposure meant death. After several men were picked off, some of the survivors scampered from their hides to evade the rifleman’s fury, hoping movement and distance would save their lives. Their escape plans failed.

Others made for the trees after seeing man after man fall to the unbelievably accurate fire being sent their way. The soft pines provided concealment, but little cover. Abe could spot their anxious, frightened, faces peeking from behind the evergreens. It reminded him of Charlie’s expression as the bullets tore into his chest. He would deliver a similar experience to these brothers of the badge.

Even at 500 meters or more, the .338 could blow through a tree trunk and still maintain enough energy to penetrate a cop’s body armor. Two more officers dropped before the others realized they might as well be hiding behind toothpicks.

Only the density of the forest allowed any survivors.

Zach watched her stroll across the hotel’s lobby, resisting the urge to let loose with a proper West Texas wolf whistle.

The Texan wasn’t sure of her genetic composition, had no idea what ancestry had produced Detective Samantha Temple’s legs, but he knew he wanted to visit that country before he died. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be today.

“I’d never guess you were a cop,” the ranger said, a forced professionalism returning to his manner.

They moved to a secluded corner, well away from the constant traffic of guests, porters, and staff.

Moving one leg slightly forward, she lifted the short black skirt high enough to reveal a petite revolver holstered just above the top of her hose. Zach tried to look away, but she caught his glance. “Don’t get any ideas, Mr. Texas Ranger.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t flatter yourself, Sam. I was just checking to make sure your equipment was proper,” he replied, shaking his head.

Snorting, she looked away with rolling eyes, “I’ve never had any complaints about my equipment, Ranger. Don’t concern yourself.”

Zach believed her.

He’d met this example of Houston’s finest just the previous day. He was trailing a suspected con artist, a rather crafty fellow whose most recent sin was an attempt to bribe a government official in Louisiana. When his offer of significant monetary exchange had been rejected, gunplay erupted, and the perpetrator allegedly bolted for the Lone Star State. Major Alcorn had assigned Zach to hunt the criminal down.

The trail had led Zach to a dead body and one very tall homicide detective. Sam’s investigation of the murder made a temporary partnership unavoidable.

Zach’s first impression of Detective Temple hadn’t been a positive one. While the homicide gumshoe was clearly an intelligent, experienced investigator, she came across as big-city sophisticated - and more than a little snooty.

Nearly six-feet in height, she was definitely a tall drink of water, but from Zach’s perspective, she used that stature to look down her nose at the planet’s lesser creatures.

That first day, he’d watched her scold two uniformed officers at the crime scene, barking a harsh reprimand over a minor misstep with an evidence envelope. A few moments after she’d finished belittling the patrolmen, he overheard a lab technician receive a professional ass chewing via Sam’s cell phone.

The local cops dubbed her the “Amazon Queen,” a fitting handle if the ranger had ever heard one.

She was, as Zach would soon discover, the ultimate professional. Highly intelligent, detail oriented, and exuding boundless energy, Detective Temple had been issued a golden shield in record time. Her interpersonal skills, however, sucked.

Until this moment in the hotel hallway, he’d never considered her female attributes. On an average day, she dressed like a librarian, her casual work attire accented by hair pulled back into a neat bun and thick rim glasses. To complete her work uniform, she typically donned the kind of low-slung flats purchased more for orthopedic comfort than a heel’s ability to glorify the line of a girl’s leg. Now, going undercover as a call girl, he was beginning to wonder what else he’d overlooked concerning this complex woman.

Their suspect, as it turned out, had an appetite for high-end escorts. The boys over at vice knew the man by name and reputation – he favored tall, lithe-limbed beauties who weren’t afraid to show a little thigh. The ranger had to agree with the gent’s preferences – he had demonstrated a weakness for the same body type, as well.

The lounge at the Metro Hotel was well known as a welcoming location for professional women to advertise their wares. It had been Samantha’s idea to go “under cover.” Zach suppressed the nearly infinite string of one-liners forming in his throat. His partner had a temper, and she carried a gun.

Zach had staked out the hotel’s lobby while Sam rushed home to change. She strolled into the lobby half an hour later, gussied up and sporting leg. A lot of leg.

Wearing 4-inch heels and dark, thigh-high stockings, Detective Temple did indeed command the room like an Amazon queen. She sashayed into the bar, selecting a stool like it was an old friend. The male population held its collective breath, spellbound as she ordered a white wine and crossed those seemingly endless limbs.

Zach had to admit he’d never seen God issue such a long shin to any human being. The distance between her kneecap and ankle was mesmerizing, the flesh of her calf seductively proportional.

Shaking his head in an effort to get back to business, the ranger continued scanning the lobby, waiting for the suspect to make a shopping trip to the bar.

While they waited, Sam found herself being approached by practically every cowboy in that watering hole. Zach watched from his distant perch, amazed at how deftly she dismissed each suitor with a smile and minimal conversation.

And then the man they lay in wait for appeared, stepping off the elevator dressed to the nines, and looking like he was ready to party.

Poot Terrebonne’s stride indicated he was a man who was clearly pleased with himself. As the suspect strolled through the lobby, Zach had to wonder how the recently released convict could afford such fine duds, let alone a room at the Metro. This definitely wasn’t a low rent, no-tell motel. And from what Zach could ascertain, the felon had been living pretty high on the hog in the French Quarter too… that is, of course, after he vacated the Lone Star State’s hospitality suite at the Huntsville correctional facility.

It didn’t take long for the flesh-hound to zero in on Sam. When she stood, leaning to reach for a bar napkin, Zach thought the fellow’s head was going to explode. He was seated next to the detective in seconds, buying Sam a drink in record time.

Fifteen minutes passed before he rose, heading back to the elevator with a confident gait. Zach didn’t understand, but didn’t want to approach and blow their cover either.

Moments later, Sam sauntered to the lawman’s perch as if she were reviewing one of the fancy canvases that adorned the lobby. “Follow me to the ladies' room,” she whispered.

And so he did.

“It’s all set,” she reported, examining her appearance in the oversized mirror. “I told him I had to use the facilities and would meet him in his room in a few minutes. He’s supposed to be freshening up and ordering champagne,” she announced, reapplying a layer of pale pink lipstick and arranging her exotic tresses before making a slight adjustment to her stockings. Finally satisfied with her presence, she puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. “Ready, cowboy?”

“How much?” Zach asked, unable to stop himself.

“How much for what?” she smiled coquettishly.

“Your services.”

Grunting, she batted her eyelashes and responded, “$2,000 for two hours. Nothing rough.”

“Damn,” Zach replied as they strolled toward the elevators. “This guy must have more money than sense.”

“Fuck you,” she whispered as they entered the car. “I let him talk me down from my normal rate of $1500 an hour.”

Again, remembering the pistol strapped to her thigh, Zach decided silence was the better part of valor… and his health.

They exited into a plush hall, thick carpeting and tasteful art adorning the passage. “I’ll wait out here with my ear against the door. As soon as you see that the money’s inside, yell. If he gets the drop on you, yell. If anything goes wrong.…”

“Yell,” she finished for him. Then with a sly smile, her accent became laced with southern charm, her tone that of a helpless belle, “I think it’s sweet that you’re so worried about little ole’ me. How nice it is to have a big, strong, Texas Ranger to protect me.”

Without another word, she glided toward the crook’s room, an exaggerated swagger in her hips. Zach ducked behind the ice machine.

Her knock was answered immediately. Light spilled out into the hall as she was invited inside. Zach waited a few moments after the lock had clicked and then stalked to the threshold to eavesdrop. He’d acquired a universal keycard from the front desk while Sam had been changing. He withdrew the plastic from his pocket … just in case.

“Show me the money,” Sam urged, getting right down to business.

Poot glanced up from his champagne pouring and smiled at the crass demand. “Show me your tits first. I don’t like fake ones.”

“You don't see anything until I see the money,” Sam countered.

Handing her a glass of bubbly liquid, his eyes lustily swept up and down her frame as he began to circle her like a ravenous lion preparing to pounce on an antelope.

Towering over the shorter man, Sam did her best to imitate how a real escort would react. “Okay, I’ll flash the glands, but that’s it. No more freebies.”

“Deal,” he responded, moving to the edge of the bed and taking a seat for a better view.

Sam unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her bra. Without unsnapping the undergarment, she pulled it up to expose her breasts. “Satisfied?”

Poot reached to examine a sample, but she backed away, covering the merchandise as she withdrew. “I thought we had a deal,” she protested. “Show me the cash, or I’m out of here.”

But he kept on coming, a greedy gleam in his eye. It was a mistake.

As he extended both arms to grab the detective, Sam ignored his left hand, focusing all of her attention on his right. Before Poot could react, she had a grip on his wrist and thumb, bending the digit back as she twisted the joint.

The Cajun conman howled in pain, Sam’s downward pressure forcing him to his knees. She was just twisting his arm behind his back when Zach burst into the room, pistol drawn, barrel sweeping right and left.

“It’s okay,” she snapped. “I’ve got it under control.”

“Where’s the money?” he asked, ignoring the menu of smart-ass remarks that filled his throat at the sight of her unbuttoned blouse.

“I don’t know. Mr. Horny here decided to get frisky before I saw the cash.”

“Shit,” Zach spit, glancing around the room for any sign of the evidence they so desperately needed. He finally spied a briefcase in the corner.

As he stepped to retrieve the leather attaché, Sam’s prisoner surged with an angry roar, “Noooo!”

His elbow slammed into Sam’s knee, causing the high heel-clad detective to lose her balance. Zach spotted the man reaching for the small of his back and realized his partner hadn’t had a chance yet to search her captive.
This is going to get ugly
, the Texan recognized instantly.

As the suspect brought his weapon to bear, Zach’s fist slammed into the guy’s nose. In rapid succession, two more powerful jabs from the ranger ended all resistance, the stunned crook slumping to the floor as blood poured from his mouth and flattened snout.

“Well, that was a pleasant surprise,” Sam remarked, rubbing her sore leg.

“What?”

“I thought all you West Texas cowboys shot first and asked questions later,” came the detective’s response.

“Nope,” Zach answered with a grin. “We save our ammo for the interrogation. The state’s on a tight budget, and bullets are expensive.”

Sam grunted, staring down at the unconscious Mr. Terrebonne. “You may need those bullets to get this guy to talk. Looks like you broke his jaw.”