Dog Read online

  “Will there be food?” asked Farrell.

  “I’ll let Carm know y’all are coming.”

  Coulter-Ross Ranch. La Grange.

  JESSE knocked on the door at Coulter-Ross with Charity in his arms. It felt strange knocking on this door when he had lived here as Annie’s husband such a short time ago. He was still torn, thinking he’d made the wrong choice, leaving his wife in favor of raising his daughter on her own land, her own ranch—Quantrall Oil and Quantrall Appaloosas being her heritage.

  It’s done now. Nothing I can change.

  Annie let him in reaching for the baby. She held Charity in her arms and cuddled her. “Let’s see how big you are today, pretty girl.” Annie kissed both Charity’s cheeks.

  “Mama,” said Charity and wrapped her chubby arms tightly around Annie’s neck.

  “I miss you so much,” Annie whispered, and she couldn’t hold back the tears.

  Jesse moved quickly into the kitchen, so he wouldn’t get caught shedding a few himself.

  You can’t have it both ways, asshole.

  Annie carried Charity into the nursery and sat her down on the rug to play with Jackson and Lucy. She’d recently taken them out of public school for safety reasons and was having them tutored at home. Jackson loved school and he’d protested saying he missed riding on the big yellow bus, but if anybody chose to retaliate against Annie for any reason, the kids outside the compound were easy pickins.

  Out of breath, Jesse plopped down at the harvest table hoping Annie would get him a coffee. Ty was right. He shouldn’t carry Charity now that she was so heavy. He couldn’t get his head around the fact that he couldn’t carry his own baby girl.

  “What are you looking so glum about?” asked Annie when she whizzed into the kitchen.

  “Aw, shit, Ace. I’m short of breath every fuckin time I pick the baby up or carry her up the stairs and Ty was lecturing me on it just this morning. I’m fuckin useless.”

  Annie laughed. “You will never be useless, cowboy. You have so many skills it’s downright frightening.” She stroked his dark hair. “I’ll love you till they bury you six feet under.”

  Jesse grinned. “Thanks, for that, Ace.”

  “Are you here for a reason, or just to let the baby play?”

  “I’m on mission,” said Jesse. “Someone sent me.”

  “Oh, Jeeze, already?”

  Jesse nodded.

  Declan appeared in the hallway pushing Dougie the Dog in a wheelchair, his bandaged leg, splinted and sticking straight out in front of him pointing the way.

  Jesse stood up. “Hey, there Mr. Robertson, just the man I want to see.”

  Dougie stared at Jesse and looked him over. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

  Jesse got behind the wheelchair and turned the Dog around. “Let’s have a little private talk in the office.”

  “What if I don’t want to talk to you, whoever the fuck you are?” growled the Dog.

  Jesse pushed Dougie into the office and locked the door behind them. He parked Dougie in front of the big cherry desk and sank down in Annie’s leather chair.

  DOUGIE sucked in a breath, not knowing what in hell he was in for with this big dark-haired son of a bitch of a cowboy locking him in the office. Taking into account the condition of his ribs and his right leg, without a weapon he was damn close to defenseless.

  “Let’s start off with some introductions, Dougie. I’m Jesse Quantrall. I’m a Texas Ranger on special assignment and I’m a partner in the Blackmore Agency. We deal with violent crime in Texas.”

  “You’re partners with the Latino kid? Annie’s kid?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, what do you want with me? For saving me from the cartel and protecting me, I know there’s some goddam shit thing I’ve gotta do. Nobody gives you something for nothing. Specially no fuckin cops.”

  “I’m speaking for some people who would like information. Information they feel you have.”

  Dougie shook his head. “I don’t know shit from nothing.”

  “Maybe you do and maybe you don’t,” said Jesse. “You could have the information they want and not realize it. For now, I’ll just call them ‘the people’ because this is classified—between you and me.”

  “More of this ‘classified’ bullshit that Annie has been trying to snow me with?”

  “She’s not snowing you, Dougie. She works for a higher power.”

  “What the hell do these higher power people want? Lay it on me cowboy Ranger.”

  “What they want is simple. Information you’ve learned about border crossing points, which cartels are supplying most of the drugs that are coming into the country, names and locations you can provide, and details on how the B team obtains it’s constant supply of drugs from down south.”

  “You want me to rat out my own club? Are you fuckin nuts?”

  “No, I’m not nuts.” Jesse grinned. “The people I represent are willing to give you protection in return. If you give them what they need, they’ll make it known—and it will be convincing—that you’re already dead. They can give you a new life.”

  “Bullshit,” hollered the Dog. “I’m not going into witness protection. US Marshalls hovering around all the time and in the end the people you’re hiding from always find you and take you out. You spend your whole fuckin new life scared shitless that they’ll find you and then they do. They find you and blow you apart. I’ve seen Criminal Minds.”

  “If you choose not to enter into the witness program you have another choice.”

  “What’s second prize?” Dougie fidgeted in the wheelchair. He needed a smoke bad and if he didn’t get one soon, he’d kill this guy behind the desk.

  “You stay here with Annie and work for her.”

  Dougie let out the breath he was holding. “I could work for her? Doing what? I don’t have any skills.”

  “You have skills well-suited to being a bodyguard.”

  She was in love with her last bodyguard. That’s an option I could live with.

  Dougie nodded his head. “That might be okay.”

  “I’ll arrange for Blacky to come and take your deposition,” said Jesse.

  “The kid cop?”

  “He’s an attorney too, but chances are he’ll bring a credible witness—maybe Chief Calhoun or someone else of suitable rank—maybe Governor Campbell.”

  “Fuck that,” said Dougie. “I’m no hell around rich people.”

  Jesse grinned.

  “What the fuck are you smiling about? Did I say something funny?” Dougie felt the heat rising in his neck and he wanted to reach across the desk and close his hands around this guy’s neck.

  “You seem to be okay around Annie.”

  “I figured she had money when we played poker, then I saw this place and I was pretty sure she was loaded. She told me she had a big company.”

  “Powell Corp.,” said Jesse. “She needs a full-time bodyguard.”

  “Powell Corp? I saw that goddam building when I lived in San Antonio. She owns it?”

  “She and Blacky are the principals.”

  “Fuck that,” said the Dog.

  “Think about it, Dougie. Get yourself healed and feeling better and we’ll talk again in a couple of days.”

  “Okay, got it. I’ll think it over. I’ve never ratted anybody out before, so this is gonna go against my nature. Got to look at it from every angle before I go spilling my guts to the fuckin government.” He stared at the big cowboy for another thirty seconds and he was sure he didn’t like him. “You seem to know a lot about Annie.”

  “Uh huh. I do know a fair bit about her,” he drawled. “She’s my wife.”

  The Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE hunkered down in his office with a fresh mug of coffee and found a Michael Fogarty in New York that ticked all the boxes. Forty-three years old, born in Waco, worked as a financial adviser on Wall Street and his father was Herman Fogarty of Austin, Texas. He punched the num
ber into his phone and called.

  “Michael Fogarty,” a voice on the other end barked. “Who’s this? I don’t recognize the number.”

  The guy sounded rushed and out of breath. “This is Ranger Blaine Blackmore calling from Austin, Mr. Fogarty. I’m afraid I have some bad news for y’all.”

  “Texas Rangers? Jesus, what has my father done now?”

  “He died, Mr. Fogarty. I regret to tell you your father was killed during an armed robbery.”

  “No.” Fogarty didn’t speak for a moment. “Thank you for calling, Ranger. I’ll be on the next flight.”

  “Contact me at this number, sir, for any information you might need.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  He ended the call to New York and the black cat showed up on his screen. “Governor, que pasa?”

  Cat giggled. “I saw you on the news standing in front of the flea market barn.”

  “The owner, Herman Fogarty, was robbed and murdered. His helper said it was a gang of kids.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve been out there a few times with friends and seen him chatting to customers.”

  “Nice old guy,” said Blaine. “Helped me more than once.”

  “You have a personal interest?”

  “I do. This is the kind of crime that’s preventable if we get hold of the younger generation in time. Pisses me off because sacrificing a life during a small time robbery like this one is so fuckin senseless.”

  “Will you be making a statement?”

  “I just talked to Herman’s son in New York and he’s flying home right away. Now that the notification has been done, I’m writing something up and waiting for Mary to come over.”

  “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Later.”

  Police Headquarters. Austin.

  TRAVIS and Hammer sat in vinyl chairs that were a size too small for them in Lieutenant Cooke’s office. Travis asked the questions of the head of the gang squad and Hammer scribbled down the answers in a grubby little black notebook.

  “You like the Double E’s for the old guy’s murder at the flea market?” asked Cooke. His voice was tinged with doubt. “They aren’t much of anything. Definitely not tier one. A bunch of young high school kids who call themselves a gang. No street smarts. Maybe they’re working up to something like that, but my guys have never given them much notice.”

  Travis shrugged. “Only lead we have, so we’re chasing it down.”

  “Of course, you have to.”

  “Do you guys have a file on them?” asked Travis.

  “Uh huh. Always a file on any group of organized criminals in the city. This one is mostly on the leader, nothing much on any of the members.”

  “Are the E’s highly organized?” asked Hammer.

  Cooke shrugged. “I don’t know about highly organized, but their mentor, a guy named Kyle Teckford, aka Basil Bernard, has teams hanging around all the schools in the east end recruiting. They draw kids in, get them using, then the kids are forced to sell to pay for their habits. They drop out of school, become full-time gangers and it’s game over—they’re committed to a life of crime.”

  “Shit,” said Travis, “but you haven’t nailed this Teckford guy for anything yet?”

  “Not this time around. Bernard is a two-time loser and he’s careful. He’s slick and we’ve heard he’s a hard task master. The kids follow his rules, shape up and obey orders—same as all the gangs. If they don’t measure up, they ship out—dead.”

  “Surveillance?” asked Travis.

  “Would love to have the money for it, but we don’t. Patrols are all we can do. This is a lesser gang. We’ve got bigger problems than the East Enders.”

  “Mug of the leader?” asked Hammer.

  Cooke shoved a dingy-looking sheet of paper across the desk. Basil Bernard stared up at them with narrowed dark eyes. Black moustache and matching goatee. Shaved head with tats all over his skull, the top of his head just under the five feet ten mark on the wall behind him in the photo.

  “Ugly looking fucker,” said Travis.

  “Talk to Ortiz when he’s on shift. He’s close to putting something together. If you guys put them out of business, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  Hammer grinned. “I’m up for it.”

  “We’ll cruise east to their turf and get the lay of the land,” said Travis. He put his card on the desk. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

  “If Blackmore and company tunes the E’s up like y’all did the inner city Latino gangs, I’ll be thanking you guys.”

  Ranger Headquarters. Austin.

  FARRELL set the Starbuck’s tray on the Chief’s desk and took his container and Fletcher’s out. He put Calhoun’s coffee in front of him along with a bag of cinnamon crullers.

  Chief Calhoun was a big man who seemed even more imposing in his sharply pressed uniform. His hair had turned a little grayer and he’d gained some weight over the past couple of years, but overall, he was fit and as ready to rock as he ever was. “Don’t know when a killing has pissed me off this much,” said the Chief. “A damn shame, that’s what it is.”

  “I wasn’t happy about it myself,” said Farrell, “and Blacky is steaming mad. Whoever did the deed will be on a slab.”

  “Did he find the next of kin?”

  Farrell nodded. “Yeah, he texted me. The son is flying home from New York City.”

  “And y’all talked to Bart?” asked the Chief. “That guy has worked at the barn since it opened. I think he started fresh out of high school.”

  “He’s pretty broken up and angry,” said Farrell. “Super pissed and he wants those kids to pay. He mentioned the needle.”

  “Hope he doesn’t do anything foolish,” said the Chief.

  Shady River Estates. East Burbs.

  TRAVIS piloted his silver-gray F-450 to the east end of city where subdivisions gave way to farmland and ranches. Hammer read him the directions to the trailer park where the East Enders were supposed to be holed up.

  “North on route one eighty-three for about three miles and we should see a sign for Shady River Estates.”

  “Estates?” asked Travis.

  “Hey, I’m just reading what’s in front of me.”

  “Okay, we’ve gone about three miles. See anything?”

  Hammer tapped on his window. “Yep, that looks like a gateway, although you can hardly see the fuckin opening.”

  “Is there a sign?”

  “Don’t see one.”

  Travis flicked on his blinker and eased right onto the narrow trail. They rolled over a culvert with a thump and passed a ditch with long brown grass stretching up at least three feet high.

  “I think there’s an old wooden sign lying there in the weeds,” said Hammer. “Fell down, I guess.”

  “Convenient if they don’t want company.” Travis drove on, past the first few abandoned single wides that looked ready for the scrapyard. “This place stinks.” Travis made a face. “What’s that smell?”

  Hammer lowered his window and stuck his head out. “Fish smell or maybe stagnant water. Could be both. We might be near that shady river like the sign in the ditch was supposed to tell us.”

  “Might be a dry wash, except in the spring,” said Travis. “The owners only wished it was a river.”

  “Wonder who owns this land now?” asked Hammer. “It’s possible the owner doesn’t know he’s got himself a big gang of squatters.”

  “I’ll make sure Blacky gives him the good news,” said Travis.

  “Bernard gave his address to his parole officer as seventeen Lincoln Drive.”

  “Lincoln Drive, you gotta be fuckin kidding me. My wheels are on grass,” hollered Travis. “Ain’t no roads in this place.”

  Hammer chuckled. “I saw a couple street signs still standing and they were both presidential.”

  “Fuck that,” said Travis.

  Hammer wouldn’t let it go. “McKinley Crescent and Van Buren Boulevard.”

  “I’m gonna de
ck you, Hammer.”

  Hammer tossed his head back and laughed.

  “Over there where the three Harley’s are parked.” Travis pointed, “Is that it?”

  “Must be. It’s the only trailer in the whole goddam mess that has human inhabitants,” said Hammer. “Let’s cruise it.”

  “I can see why they’re holed up in here. He’s flying solo and has the run of the whole goddam park. He can stash runaway kids in any fuckin trailer he wants. Nobody lives here no more.”

  “Here comes a couple kids on bicycles,” said Hammer. “Looks like they’re heading for the leader’s digs. “Wanna grab them?”

  “Sure. Jump out and stop them.” Travis rammed the truck into park and hopped out as Hammer exited his side of the truck and hollered to the kids.

  “Hey, y’all. Talk to you for a minute?”

  “Don’t think so, asshole. Get outta the way or I’ll run you down.”

  Hammer grabbed the handlebars of the bicycle and said, “Get off. I want to talk to you.”

  “We don’t talk to cops,” shouted the other kid. “Number one rule.”

  “Oh, yeah?” asked Travis, “Who’s rule would that be?”

  “The boss,” said the shorter of the two, his brown eyes darted towards the trailer to his right. He looked about thirteen.

  “Any drugs or weapons on y’all?” asked Travis.

  The bigger kid let his bike fall to the ground, grabbed at his jeans and lunged at Travis. Travis heard the click and saw the switchblade the kid had pulled from his pocket just in time. Travis grabbed the kid’s small wrist and gave it a quick twist. The kid hollered in pain. A high-pitched squeal like a stuck pig.

  “You goddam son of a bitch. You’ll be sorry you did that.”

  Travis grinned. “I bet I will.” He snapped cuffs on the kid’s scrawny wrists and patted him down. Baggies of drugs in both pockets of his jeans and another knife in his worn out boot. Travis loaded the kid in the back seat of the truck and slammed the door. He stuck his right hand in a latex glove, picked the knife up off the road and bagged it.