True Blue & Carrera's Bride: True Blue / Carrera's Bride
“I can’t argue that point,” he said. “The problem is that nothing law enforcement is doing is making much of a dent in drug trafficking. If there’s a market, there’s going to be a supply. That’s just the way things are.”
“They say Hayes Carson actually talked to Minette Raynor about it.”
That was real news. Minette owned the Jacobsville Times. She had two stepsiblings, Shane, who was twelve, and Julie, who was six. She’d loved her stepmother very much. Her stepmother and her father had died within weeks of each other, leaving a grieving Minette with two little children to raise, a newspaper to run and a ranch to manage. She had a manager to handle the ranch, and her great-aunt Sarah lived with her and took care of the kids after school so that Minette could keep working. Minette was twenty-five now and unmarried. She and Hayes Carson didn’t get along. Hayes blamed her, God knew why, for his younger brother’s drug-related death, even after Rachel Conley left a confession stating that she’d given Bobby Carson, Hayes’s brother, the drugs that killed him.
Rick chuckled. “If there’s ever a border war, Minette will stand in the street pointing a finger at Hayes so the invaders can get him first.”
“I wonder,” Barbara mused. “Sometimes I think where there’s antagonism, there’s also something deeper. I’ve seen people who hate each other end up married.”
“Cash Grier and his Tippy,” Rick mused.
“Yes, and Stuart York and Ivy Conley.”
“Not to mention half a dozen others. Jacobsville is growing by leaps and bounds.”
“So is Comanche Wells. We’ve got new people there, too.” She was peeling faster. “Did you notice that Grange bought a ranch in Comanche Wells, next to the property that his boss owns?”
Rick pursed his sensual lips. “Which boss?”
She blinked at him. “What do you mean, which boss?”
“He works as ranch manager for Jason Pendleton. But he also works on the side for Eb Scott,” he said. “You didn’t hear this from me, but he was involved in the Pendleton kidnapping,” he added. “He went to get Gracie Pendleton back when she was kidnapped by that exiled South American dictator, Emilio Machado.”
“Machado.”
“Yes.” He peeled the tomato slowly. “He’s a conundrum.”
“What do you mean?”
“He started out, we learned, as a farm laborer down in Mexico, from the time he was about ten years old. He was involved in protests against foreign interests even as a teenager. But he got tired of scratching dirt for a living. He could play the guitar and sing, so he worked bars for a while and then through a contact, he got a job as an entertainer on a cruise ship. That got boring. He signed on with a bunch of mercs and became known internationally as a crusader against oppression. Afterward, he went to South America and hired on with another paramilitary group that was fighting to preserve the way of life of the native people in Barrera, a little nation in the Amazon bordering Peru. He helped the paramilitary unit free a tribe of natives from a foreign corporation that was trying to kill them to get the oil-rich land on which they were living. He developed a taste for defending the underdog, moved up in the ranks of the military until he became a general.” He smiled. “It seems that he was a natural leader, because when the small country’s president died four years ago, Machado was elected by acclamation.” He glanced at her. “Do you realize how rare that is, even for a small nation?”
“If people loved him so much, how is it that he’s in Mexico kidnapping people to get money to retake his country?”
“He wasn’t ousted by the people, but by a vicious and bloodthirsty military subordinate who knew when and how to strike, while Machado was on a trip to a neighboring country to sign a trade agreement and offer an alliance against foreign corporate takeovers.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s sort of privileged info, so you can’t share it,” he told her. “Anyway, the subordinate killed Machado’s entire staff, and sent his secret police to shut down newspapers and television and radio stations. Overnight, influential people ended up in prison. Educators, politicians, writers—anyone who might threaten the new regime. There have been hundreds of murders, and now the subordinate, Pedro Mendez by name, is allying himself with drug lords in a neighboring country. It seems that cocaine grows quite nicely in Barrera and poor farmers are being ‘encouraged’ to grow it instead of food crops on their land. Mendez is also nationalizing every single business so that he has absolute control.”
“No wonder the general is trying to retake his country,” she said curtly. “I hope he makes it.”
“So do I,” Rick replied. “But I can’t say that in public,” he added. “He’s wanted in this country for kidnapping. It’s a capital offense. If he’s caught and convicted he could wind up with a death penalty.”
She winced. “I don’t condone how he’s getting the money,” she replied. “But he’s going to use it for a noble reason.”
“Noble.” He chuckled.
“That’s not funny,” she said shortly.
“I’m not laughing at the word. It’s Gwen. She goes around mumbling that she’s Don Quixote.”
She laughed out loud. “What?”
He shook his head. “Rogers told me. It seems that our newest detective won’t give out on dates and she groups herself with Don Quixote, who tried to restore honor and morality to a decadent world.”
“My, my!” She pursed her lips and smiled secretively.
“I don’t want to marry Gwen Cassaway,” he said at once. “I just thought I’d mention that, because I can read minds, and I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“She’s a woman.”
“She’s a nice girl. She has a very idealistic and romantic attitude for someone who lives in the city. And I ought to know. I have women from cities coming through here all the time, talking about unspeakable things right in public with the whole world listening.” Her lips made a thin line. “Do you know, Grange was having lunch next to a table of them where they were discussing men’s, well, intimate men parts,” she amended, clearing her throat, “and Grange got up from his chair, told them what he thought of them for discussing a bedroom topic in public in front of decent people and he walked out.”
“What did they do?”
“One of them laughed. One of the others cried. Another said he needed to start living in the real world instead of small town ‘stupidville.’” She grinned. “Of course, she said it after he’d already left. While he was talking, they didn’t say a word. But they left soon after. I was glad. I can’t choose my clientele and I’ve only ever ordered one person to leave my restaurant since I’ve owned it,” she added.
She dragged herself back to the present. “But the topic of conversation was getting to me, too. People need to talk about intimate things in private, not in a public place with their voices raised. We don’t all think alike.”
“Only in some ways,” he pointed out, and hugged her impulsively. “You’re a nice mother. I’m so lucky to have you for an adoptive parent.”
She hugged him back. “You’ve enriched my life, my sweet.” She sighed, closing her eyes in his warm embrace. “When I lost Bart, I wanted to die, too. And then your mother and stepfather died, and there you were, as alone as I was. We needed each other.”
“We did.” He moved away and smiled affectionately. “You took on a big burden with me. I was a bad boy.”
She groaned and rolled her eyes. “Were you ever! Always in fights, in school and out. I spent half my life in the principal’s office and once at a school board meeting where they were going to vote to throw you right out of school altogether and put you in alternative school.” Her face hardened. “In their dreams!”
“Yes, you took a lawyer to the meeting and buffaloed them. First time it ever happened, I heard later.”
“I was very mad.”
“I felt really bad about that,” he said. “But I put my nose to the grindstone after, and tried hard to make it up to you.”
“Joined the police force, went to night school and got your associate degree, went to the San Antonio Police Department and worked your way up in the ranks to sergeant,” she agreed, smiling. “Made me so proud!”
He hugged her again. “I owe it all to you.”
“No. You owe it to your hard work. I may have helped, but you pulled yourself up.”
He kissed her forehead. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re my son. I love you very much.”
He cleared his throat. Emotions were difficult for him, especially considering his job. “Yeah. Me, too.”
She grinned. The smile faded as she searched his large, dark eyes. “Do you ever wonder about your mother’s past?”
His eyebrows shot up. “What a question!” He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know anything about her friends? About any male friends she had before she married your stepfather?”
He shrugged. “Not really. She didn’t talk about her relationships. Well, I wasn’t old enough for her to confide in me, either, you know. She never was one to talk about intimate things,” he said quietly. “Not even about my real father. She said that he died, but she never talked about him. She was very young when I was born. She did say she’d done things she wanted forgiveness for, and she went to confession a lot.” He studied her closely. “You must have had some reason for asking me that.”
She put her lips tightly together. “Something I overheard. I wasn’t supposed to be listening.”
“Come on, tell me,” he said when she hesitated.
“Cash Grier was having lunch with some fed. They were discussing Machado. The fed mentioned a woman named Dolores Ortíz who had some connection to General Machado when he lived in Mexico.”
Chapter 2
“Dolores Ortíz?” he asked, the paring knife poised in midair. “That was my mother’s maiden name.”
“I know.”
Rick frowned. “You mean my mother might have been romantically involved with Emilio Machado?”
“I got that impression,” Barbara said, nodding. “But I wasn’t close enough to hear the entire conversation. I just got bits and pieces of it.”
He pursed his lips. “Well, my father died around the time I was born, so it’s not impossible that she did meet Machado in Mexico. Although, it’s a big country.”
“You lived in the state of Sonora,” she pointed out. “That’s where Machado had his truck farm, they said.”
He finished skinning the tomato and reached for another one. “Wouldn’t that be a coincidence, if my mother actually knew him?”
“Yes, it would.”
“Well, it was a long time ago,” he said easily. “And she’s dead, and I never knew him. So what good would it do for them to dig up an old romance now?”
“I have no idea. It bothered me, a little. I mean, you’re my son.”
“Yes, I am.” He glanced at her. “I love it when people get all flustered and start babbling when you introduce me. You’re blonde and fair and I’m dark and obviously Hispanic.”
“You’re gorgeous, my baby,” she teased. “I just wish women would stop crying on your shoulder about other men and start trying to marry you.”
He sighed. “Chance would be a fine thing. I carry a gun!” he said with mock horror.
She glowered at him. “All off-duty policemen carry guns.”
“Yes, but I might shoot somebody accidentally, and it would get in the way if I tried to hug somebody.”
“I gather that somebody female mentioned that?”
He sighed and nodded. “A public defender,” he said. “She thought I was cute, but she doesn’t date men who carry. It’s a principle, she said. She hates guns.”
“I hate guns, too, but I keep a shotgun in the closet in case I ever need to defend myself,” Barbara pointed out.
“I’ll defend you.”
“You work in San Antonio,” she said. “If you’re not here, I have to defend myself. By the time Hayes Carson could get to my place, I’d be…well, not in any good condition if somebody tried to harm me.”
That had happened once, Rick recalled with anger. A man he’d arrested, after he’d been released, had gone after Rick’s adoptive mother for revenge. It was just chance that Hayes Carson had stopped by when he was off duty, in his unmarked truck, to ask her about catering an event. The ex-convict had piled out of his car and come right up on the porch with a drawn gun—in violation of parole—and banged on the door demanding that Barbara come outside. Hayes had come outside, disarmed him, cuffed him and taken him right to jail. The man was now serving another term in prison, for assault on a police officer, trespassing, attempted assault, possessing a firearm in violation of parole and resisting arrest. Barbara had testified at his trial. So had Hayes.
Rick shook his head. “I hate having you in danger because of my job.”
“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.”