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“It was only the one time,” she said, comforting him. “It could have been somebody who carried a grudge because their apple pie wasn’t served with ice cream or something.”
He smiled. “Dream on. You even make the ice cream you serve with it. Your pies are out of this world.”
“Don’t you have an in-house seminar coming up at work?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Why don’t you take a couple of pies back with you?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She pursed her lips. “Does Gwen like apple pie?”
He turned and stared at her. “Gwen is a colleague. I never, never date colleagues.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
He went back to work on the tomatoes. This could turn into a problem. His mother, well-meaning and loving, nevertheless was determined to get him married. That was one area in which he wanted to do his own prospecting. And never in this lifetime did he want to end up with someone like Gwen, who had two left feet and the dress sense of a Neanderthal woman. He laughed at the idea of her in bearskins carrying a spear. But he didn’t share the joke with his mother.
When he went to work the next day, it was qualifying time on the firing range. Rick was a good shot, and he kept excellent care of his service weapon. But the testing was one of the things he really hated about police work.
His lieutenant, Cal Hollister, could outshoot any man in the precinct. He scored a hundred percent regularly. Rick could usually manage in the nineties but never a perfect score. He always seemed to do the qualifying when the lieutenant was doing his, and his ego suffered.
Today, Gwen Cassaway also showed up. Rick tried not to groan out loud. Gwen would drop her pistol, accidentally kill the lieutenant and Rick would be prosecuted for manslaughter …
“Why are you groaning like that?” Hollister asked curtly as he checked the clip for his.45 in preparation for target shooting.
“Just a stray thought, sir, nothing important.” His eyes went involuntarily to Gwen, who was also loading her own pistol.
On the firing range, shooters wore eye protection and ear protection. They customarily loaded only six bullets into the clip of the automatic, and this was done at the time they got into position to fire. The pistol would be held at low or medium ready position, after being carefully drawn from its snapped holster for firing, with the safety on. The pistol, even unloaded, would never be pointed in any direction except that of the target and the trigger finger would never rest on the trigger. When in firing position, the safety would be released, and the shooter would fire at the target using either the Weaver, modified Weaver, or Isosceles shooting stance.
One of the most difficult parts of shooting, and one of the most important to master, was trigger pull. The pressure exerted on the trigger had to be perfect in order to place a shot correctly. There were graphs on the firing range that helped participants check the efficiency of their trigger pull and help to improve it. Rick’s was improving. But his lieutenant consistently showed him up on the gun range, and it made him uncomfortable. He tried not to practice or qualify when the other man was around. Unfortunately, he always seemed to be on the range when Rick was.
Hollister followed Rick’s gaze to Gwen. He knew, as Rick did, that she had some difficulty with coordination. He pursed his lips. His black eyes danced as he glanced covertly at Gwen. “It’s okay, Marquez. We’re insured,” he said under his breath.
Rick cleared his throat and tried not to laugh.
Hollister moved onto the firing line. His thick blond hair gleamed like pale honey in the sunlight. He glanced at Gwen. “Ready, Detective?” he drawled, pulling the heavy ear protectors on over his hair.
Gwen gave him a nice smile. “Ready when you are, sir.”
The Range Master moved into position, indicated that everything was ready and gave the signal to fire.
Hollister, confident and relaxed, chuckled, aimed at the target and proceeded to blow the living hell out of it.
Rick, watching Gwen worriedly, saw something incredible happen next. Gwen snapped into a modified Weaver position, barely even aimed and threw six shots into the center of the target with pinpoint accuracy.
His mouth flew open.
She took the clip out of her automatic, checked the cylinder and waited for the Range Master to check her score.
“Cassaway,” he said eventually, and hesitated. “One hundred percent.”
Rick and the lieutenant stared at each other.
“Lieutenant Hollister,” the officer continued, and was obviously trying not to smile, “ninety-nine percent.”
“What the hell …!” Hollister burst out. “I hit dead center!”
“Missed one, sir, by a hair,” the officer replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “Sorry.”
Hollister let out a furious bad word. Gwen marched right up to him and glared at him from pale green eyes.
“Sir, I find that word offensive and I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from using it in my presence,” she said curtly.
Hollister’s high cheekbones actually flushed. Rick tensed, waiting for the explosion.
But Hollister didn’t erupt. His black eyes smiled down at the rookie detective. “Point taken, Detective,” he said, and his deep voice was even pleasant. “I apologize.”
Gwen swallowed. She was almost shaking. “Thank you, sir.”
She turned and walked off.
“Not bad shooting, by the way,” he commented as he removed the clip from his own pistol.
She grinned. “Thanks.” She glanced at Rick, who was still gaping, and almost made a smart remark. But she thought better of it in time.
Rick let out the breath he’d been holding. “She trips over her own feet,” he remarked. “But that was some damned fine shooting.”
“It was,” the lieutenant agreed. He shook his head. “You can never figure people, can you, Marquez?”
“True, sir. Very true.”
Later that day, Rick noted two dignified men in suits walking past his office. They glanced at him, spoke to one another and hesitated. One gestured down the hall quickly, and they kept walking.
He wondered what in the world was going on.
Rogers came into his office a few minutes later, frowning. “Odd thing.”
“What?” he asked, his eyes on his computer screen where he was running a case through VICAP.
“Did you see those two suits?”
“Yes, they hesitated outside my office. Who are they, feds?”
“Yes. State Department.”
He burst out laughing as he looked at her with large, dancing brown eyes. “They think I’m illegal and they’re here to bust me?”
“Stop that,” she muttered.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.” He turned to her. “We have high level immigration cases all the time where the State Department gets involved.”
“Yes, but mostly we deal with the enforcement branch of the Department of Immigration and Naturalization, with ICE. Or we deal with the DEA in drug cases, I know that. But these guys aren’t from Austin. They’re from D.C.”
“The capitol?”
“That’s right. They’ve been talking to the lieutenant all morning. They’re taking him to lunch, too.”
“What’s going on? Any idea?”
She shook her head. “Only that gossip says they’re on the Machado case.”
“Yes. He’s wanted for kidnapping.” He didn’t add what Barbara had told him, that his own birth mother might have once known Machado in the past.
“He’s not in the country.”
“And how would you know that?” Rick asked her with pursed lips. “Another psychic insight?” he added, because she had a really unusual sixth sense about cases.
“No. I ran into Cash Grier over at the courthouse. He was up here on a case.”
“Our police chief from Jacobsville,” he acknowledged.
“The very same. He mentioned that Jason Pendleton’s foreman is on temporary leave because of Machado.”
“Grange,” Rick recalled, naming the foreman. “He went into Mexico to retrieve Gracie Pendleton when she was kidnapped by Machado’s men for ransom.”
“Yes. It seems the general took a liking to him, had him investigated and offered him a job.”
Rick blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what I said when Grier told me.” She laughed. “The general really does have style. He said somebody had to organize his mercs when he goes in to retake his country. Grange, being a former major in the army, seemed the logical choice.”
“His country is Barrera,” Rick mused. “Nice name, since it sits on the Amazon River bordering Colombia, Peru and Bolivia. Barrera is Spanish for barrier.”
“I didn’t know that, only having completed two years of college Spanish,” she replied blithely.
He made a face at her.
“Anyway, it seems Grange likes the idea of being a crusader for democracy and freedom and human rights, so he took the job. He’s in Mexico at the moment helping the general come up with a plan of attack.”
“With Eb Scott offering candidates, I don’t doubt,” Rick added. “He’s got the cream of the crop at his counterterrorism training center in Jacobsville, as far as mercs go.”
“The general is gathering them from everywhere. He has a couple of former SAS from Great Britain, a one-eyed terror from South Africa named Rourke whose nickname is Deadeye …”
“I know him,” Rick said.
“Me, too,” Rogers replied. “He’s a pill, isn’t he? Rumored to be the natural son of K. C. Kantor, who was one of the more successful ex-mercs.”
“Yes, Kantor became a billionaire after he gave up the lifestyle. He has a daughter who married Dr. Micah Steele in Jacobsville, and a godchild who married into the ranching Callister family up in Montana.” His eyes narrowed. “Where is the general getting the money to finance his revolution?”
“Remember that he gave Gracie back without any payment. But then he nabbed Jason Pendleton for ransom, and Gracie paid it with the money from her trust fund?”
“Forgot about that,” Rick said.
“It ran to six figures. So he’s bankrolled. We hear he also charged what’s left of the Fuentes cartel for protection while he was sharing space with them over the border.”
“Charging drug lords rent in their own turf?” Rick asked.
“And getting it. The general has a pretty fearsome reputation,” she added. She laughed. “He’s also a incredibly handsome,” she mused. “I’ve seen a photograph of him. They say he has a charming personality, reveres women and plays the guitar and sings like an angel.”
“A man of many talents.”
“Not the least of which is inspiring troops.” Rogers sighed. “But it has to be unsettling for the State Department, especially since the Mexican government is up in arms about having Machado recruit mercs to invade a sovereign nation in South America while living in their country.”
“Why are they protesting to us? We aren’t helping him,” Rick pointed out.
“He’s on our border.”
“If they want us to do something about Machado, they could do something about the militant drug cartels running over our borders with automatic weapons to protect their drug runners.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“I guess so. None of that explains why the State Department is gumming up our office,” he added. “This is San Antonio. The border is that way.” He pointed out the window. “A long, long drive that way.”
“I know. That’s what puzzled me. So I pumped Grier for information.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t. Tell me anything,” she added grimly. “So I had my oldest son pump his best friend, Sheriff Hayes Carson, for information.”
“Did you get anything from him?”
She bit her lower lip. “Bits and pieces.” She gave him a worried look. She couldn’t tell him what she found out. She’d been sworn to secrecy. “But nothing really concrete, I’m sorry to say.”
“I suppose they’ll tell us eventually.”
“I suppose so.”
“When is this huge invasion of Barrera going to take place? Any timeline on that?”
“None that presented itself.” She sighed. “But it’s going to be a gala occasion, from what we hear. The State Department would have good reason to be concerned. They can’t back a revolution …”
“One of the letter agencies could help with that, of course, without public acknowledgment.”
Letter agencies referred to government bureaus like the CIA, which Rick assumed would have been in the forefront of any assistance they could legally give to help install a democratic government friendly to the United States in South America.
“Kilraven used to belong to the CIA,” Rick murmured. “Maybe I could ask him if he knows anything.”
