Con Law Part 51

His partner still had the binoculars pressed against his eyes.

'For what?'

'This.'

Angel reached down to his ankle, pulled up his trouser leg, and retrieved his backup weapon. He stuck the barrel to his partner's head and pulled the trigger.

'f.u.c.k!' Dwight yelled. 'He just shot him! One of the good guys shot the other good guy! What the h.e.l.l is going on?'

The shooter flung the weapon far downriver then took the dead agent's binoculars and put them to his face. Then he put something to his ear. A phone.

Billy Bob Barnett inhaled the line of white powder then leaned back in his leather chair and waited for the drug to take effect. To take his mind off the pressures that threatened to push him over the edge.

He had always lived life on the edge.

And if a man lived in Texas and wanted to live life on the edge, he played the oil and gas game. He wildcatted. He punched holes in the earth. He hoped he hit oil or gas or both. When that drill bit is digging deep and nearing the producing zone-what you prayed would be the producing zone-man, your heart is pounding and your adrenaline is pumping and your nerves are firing and you've never been so alive. If your geology and your hunch play out, life is good. And you are rich. If not ...

The thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.

He had enjoyed many thrills and a few defeats. But no defeat like this one. His frack wells had hit gas, a mother lode of gas; but so had everyone else's. Consequently, the market had glutted and natural gas prices had plummeted. As had Billy Bob's emotions. He now wallowed in the depths of depression. And as each time before, he had turned to drugs for respite and relief. Marijuana in college, cocaine in business. It was a daily dose now.

First, the glut of gas. Then, the plunge in prices. Followed by the collapse of the stock value. And the pressure-the constant, pounding pressure-from the a.n.a.lysts, the board, the shareholders ... and then his own lawyer. Nathan Jones had learned the truth and had threatened to go public with company doc.u.ments. That would have been the end of Billy Bob Barnett.

The cartel had taken care of Wade Chandler. He would take care of Nathan Jones. But a car wreck did it for him. A stroke of luck. A sign that his luck was changing. He would hold out for the futures market to move back up, as it surely would. Drill more, frack more, stockpile more gas for the inevitable rise in prices. He was saved. Until a law professor rode into town on a Harley.

His cell phone rang.

Angel waited for Billy Bob Barnett to answer. When he did, Angel said, 'They're coming, the professor and Carla. What do you want me to do?'

'Don't let them back on this side of the river. It's like Vegas, Angel. What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.'

'You're the boss.'

Angel disconnected, replaced his cell phone, and returned to the vehicle. He got the AR-15, snapped in a full clip, and grabbed the night-vision goggles. He walked across the dry Rio Grande and waited for the professor and Carla to arrive. And arrive they would. There was no place for them to go but north to the river. The wall of fire would chase them right into his kill zone. All he had to do was wait.

Dwight could see the pickup truck speeding directly at the Border Patrol agent.

'He's gonna kill those two people in the pickup truck,' Lance said.

'I know.'

A Border Patrol agent had gone over to the dark side. It wasn't the first time, or even the thousandth time. There was just too much easy money to be made. Look the other way and collect a million bucks. That was bad enough. But killing a fellow agent, that crossed a law enforcement line that no officer can cross. Ever.

The agent Dwight was now staring at on the video screen had to die.

He had to die that night.

On that river.

Before he killed those two people.

While there was still time to control the story.

But who could he call? Other Border Patrol agents would be in Presidio County, maybe near enough to arrive in time, but what if they had been corrupted, too? He needed a law enforcer in Presidio County who was incapable of being corrupted.

He grabbed a phone and dialed.

Chapter 37.

Sheriff Brady Munn had the Presidio County SUV running eighty miles an hour with the lights flashing but no siren on Highway 67 just north of Presidio when his cell phone rang. Better not be Shirley telling him she was seeing the Marfa Mystery Lights. He answered.

'Sheriff Munn?'

'Yep.'

'This is Air Interdiction Agent Dwight Ford, at the Predator Ops center in Corpus Christi.'

The Predator boys must've spotted some Mexicans coming across the river.

'Agent, I don't have time to chase wets for you-'

'Sheriff, I'm sorry to wake you up but-'

'I'm already awake. I'm hauling a.s.s to the border. We got something strange going on-'

'With tanker trucks?'

'How'd you know?'

'We've been tracking them with the Predator. They drove into Mexico and dumped some kind of liquid.'

'Frack fluid.'

'Frack? Like from gas wells?'

'Yeah. Like from gas wells.'

'Anyway, there was a shootout. We're following two individuals, a male and a female-'

'The professor and Carla.'

'You know them?'

'If that's them, I know them.'

'Well, they're heading north now.'

'Good.'

'Not so good. We got a man on this side of the river, Border Patrol agent.'

'And?'

'He's rogue. Just killed his partner. Gotta be on the cartel payroll.'

'Who?'

'Can't tell.'

'Where?'

'West on FM One-seventy, just past where the Conchos joins up. A Border Patrol SUV is parked on the river road. Can't miss it.'

Dwight paused.

'He's gonna kill those two people, unless you stop him. Sheriff, they need your help.'

Angel Acosta stepped onto Mexican soil. For the last two years, he had been on the cartel's payroll; all he had to do was turn a blind eye to drug shipments coming north. But while profitable, the job carried significant personal risk. So he had approached Billy Bob Barnett about employment in the oil and gas business; Aggies helped Aggies. Billy Bob had a job for him, but it required that he continue his employment with the Border Patrol. Billy Bob had made an arrangement with his trucking company, which had close ties to the cartel, to dump his frack fluid in the desert; but, there was always the risk of a Border Patrol agent spotting the caravan and getting curious. So Angel's job was to make sure no one was watching Highway 67 when the tanker trucks made their run into the desert. To evade the Predator's 'eyes in the sky,' he called in bogus tips of drug deals going down, way downriver, as he had that night. So he would collect two paychecks for that night's work, one from the cartel and one from Billy Bob. What federal employees call 'double dipping.'

A hundred trips, and all had worked just fine. He had remained partners with Wesley Crum because he was the dumbest Anglo Angel had ever met. But Wesley chose that night to become smart.

What had brought Angel Acosta, son of Carlos and Consuelo Acosta, devout Catholics both, to where he now stood in life, on the bank above the great Rio Conchos waiting to kill two more innocents? He had grown up in Marfa and lived as all Latinos lived in Marfa: out of sight and out of trouble. The old sheriff, he had put the fear into every Mexican's heart with his harsh law and order; but it turned out he was a drug runner, in the law for the money. Angel wanted to believe that he did what he did for some n.o.ble cause, but in the end, it was just about the money for him, too. He wanted to have something in life. A life. With things. Everything. He wanted the finer things in life, just as the Anglos from New York enjoyed. Good wine and Gouda cheese. A sports car. A fine home behind tall walls on the north side of the railroad tracks. On the Anglo side of town.

And why should he not have what they had, the Triple As? Were they smarter, better, worthier than he? Every attorney he had met was a borderline criminal, out of jail just because his form of criminal activity had been deemed legal by lawyers who write the laws. Every artist he had met was a queer stoner trying to win the Marfa art lottery and become rich and famous. And every a.s.shole he had met was ... an a.s.shole. Why were the attorneys, artists, and a.s.sholes ent.i.tled to more than he? He did not feel that what he did was morally wrong ... well, perhaps killing his partner was wrong. He would say a rosary for Wesley's soul, such as it was. But his other illegal activities were no worse than rich people's legal activities. How many rich people earned their fortunes through shady dealings on Wall Street and political favors? Through favorable laws gained by legal bribes called campaign contributions? Through legalized corruption? Joe Blow goes to prison for trading stock on insider information, but senators and congressmen go to the bank for doing exactly the same thing. How can that be const.i.tutional, for members of Congress to exempt themselves from the very laws they impose on the people? Perhaps he would ask the professor before he killed him.

He fixed the night-vision goggles to his face. He could now see into the night. He could see the pickup truck driving fast toward him, the wall of fire behind it. Smoke filled the air. He aimed the AR-15 and fired.

The windshield blew out.

'Get down!' Book yelled.

Bullets peppered the truck. The shooter had a perfect line on them. There was only one place to go.

'Hold on.'

'They're between a rock and a hard place,' Lance the pilot said. 'Wildfire's chasing them straight at the shooter. No place for them to go.'

Or so Lance thought. Dwight Ford watched the screen as the pickup truck drove straight off the road and flew into the Rio Conchos.

's.h.i.t, they drove into the Conchos!' Lance yelled. 'They're f.u.c.kin' crazy!'

'They're f.u.c.king alive!' Dwight said.

Two figures were visible on the screen emerging from the pickup truck as it sank into the river. Above on the bank, the Border Patrol agent fired more shots at them.

'Not for long,' Lance said.

Angel had them dead in his sights. He would not be able to get an answer to his const.i.tutional law question from the professor. Oh, well.

'Adios, Professor.'

But he could not pull the trigger. He could not move his body. He could not hold the rifle. It fell from his hands. His eyes turned down to his chest. A large hole now gaped in his uniform shirt and his insides hung out. Blood gushed forth. He turned and saw the big sheriff standing there, smoke from the barrel of his handgun hanging in the air.

'Adios yourself, podna,' the sheriff said.

Angel Acosta fell over dead.

Sheriff Brady Munn holstered his .44 Magnum and searched the Conchos for the professor and Carla in the moonlight and the light from the fires. He spotted them; they were being swept downriver toward the point a mile east where the Conchos joined the Rio Grande. Which was just as well since the wildfire was coming Brady's way fast. He turned and ran north and crossed over the dry Rio Grande riverbed. The Conchos turned hard east so he lost sight of the professor and Carla.

He jumped into his SUV, fired up the engine, and stomped on the accelerator. He drove east on the river road a mile past where the Conchos merged in, then slammed on the brakes. He cut the engine and got out. He opened the back liftgate and retrieved his rope. He ran down to the river.

The current was strong with the Conchos's water. He searched the river for the professor and Carla, but he couldn't find them. He yelled for them, but got no response. Just when he was about to run back to the SUV and drive farther down-river, he spotted them.

'There!'

He yelled to them, and they saw him. He fashioned a loop with the rope then twirled the loop above his head as if he were about to rope a calf in a rodeo compet.i.tion and flung the loop at the professor. He missed. He reeled in the rope and flung the loop again. The professor grabbed the rope this time. He hung onto the rope with one hand and Carla with the other. Brady dug the heels of his cowboy boots into the earth, leaned his two hundred twenty pounds back, and pulled with all his strength against the current that tried to take them downriver. The rope burned his bare hands, but Brady felt no pain. His hands bled by the time he pulled them to dry land.

Dwight Ford threw his fists in the air. 'Yes!'

The professor and Carla lay there coughing and spitting water, but alive and unhurt. Finally, the professor knelt up and stuck a hand out to Brady. He grabbed the professor's hand and yanked him to his feet. The professor then helped Carla up. They stood there on the bank of the Rio Grande and gathered themselves as one does after having barely escaped death. To the southeast, the sky brightened with the breaking dawn; to the southwest, the sky burned bright with fire. The wildfire came to the river, but did not cross. No doubt it had scorched everything and everyone in its path. Just as well. What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico. After a moment, the professor turned back to Brady.

'Sheriff-thanks for the help.'

'Now that wasn't so hard, was it, Professor?'

Sheriff Brady Munn stretched his big body and gazed upon Presidio County and Mexico beyond. The border carried a harsh beauty and a harsher justice. He shook his head and exhaled at the grandeur of it all. d.a.m.n, but he loved the desert at dawn. He grunted.

'You folks want to get a cup of coffee?'

Chapter 38.