Gather The Seekers Read online

  “Oh, I scooted away, alright. Three hundred yards down the beach. My ought-six is trained on ‘em right now.”

  Oh, man. Will Stinson has his 30-06 deer rifle with him. “Fire up your engine and get the hell away, Will. I mean it. I’m a couple of minutes away.”

  Francois turned and addressed him, his face florid and determined. “It moves. The creature moves. Be prepared, mon ami. Be prepared to give chase!”

  A school of mullet surfaced to the side of the boat, scattering at both their approach and the hungry pursuit of several large redfish. The sun glared, shimmered off the bay’s surface. R.L. continued to look through the binoculars and pointed with one hand, exclaiming, “There! We’re heading right at it.”

  “You have any extra ought-six ammo, Sheriff?” Will Stinson asked. “I only brought a dozen rounds. Grady’s making a bologna sandwich in the middle of all this. Can you believe that shit?”

  “Will, stop fiddle-farting around and get away from there! I gotta go.” Cole hung up and addressed Francois. “What’s going on?”

  “The demon moves. Oui. Be prepared, mon ami.”

  Cole throttled back even more as they approached the now-distinct shoreline. A patch of scrub oak and mesquite displayed through the saltwater haze. A large speedboat, bow first, was beached near the trees. St. Mary’s Road terminated at that patch of vegetation, and a large SUV, black, sat with its back hatch open. Men moved between the beached speedboat and the vehicle. “You make them out?” Cole asked R.L.

  “Yep. Three with the SUV. Two working the boat.”

  “You spot Will Stinson’s boat to the north? He claims to be parked there.”

  “Yep. Couple of hundred yards away. What is Will doing?”

  “Says he has a deer rifle aimed at them while Grady Hempstead eats a sandwich.”

  R.L. nodded back, absorbing this information as a normal course of events.

  Francois spun to his left and leaned toward the horizon. “Allez!” he called out. “There! Allez!”

  The far west side of Copano Bay held the tiny town of Bayside, population 360.

  “Allez!” Francois yelled again as he pointed toward Bayside. “The creature! There! It flees!”

  Cole’s phone rang. They now approached to within five hundred yards of the vehicle and the beached boat. Cole cut the engine back to idle, and their vessel settled in the water to plow ahead at a sedate ten miles an hour. He turned on the flashing cop lights over the center console.

  “Can’t do it,” Cole said to Francois. “Gotta focus on those hombres up ahead.”

  “No! No! They are not our concern!” Francois turned to him, eyes hard and devout. “Leave them to le gendarme! We must pursue!”

  “Bud, I’m the gendarme right now. Hold on, Francois.” Cole raised his hand, palm toward the priest, and answered the ring of his phone. “Hello?”

  Several of the men at the vehicle, now three hundred yards away, opened fire on their boat. Bullets whistled past their heads and skipped off the water. The sound of a bullet thwacking the fiberglass hull of their boat came before the crack of the gunfire reached them. Cole and R.L. ducked behind the console as Cole killed the engine and they drifted to a dead stop. “Hello?” he said again into the phone.

  “The FBI chopper should be there within minutes. How’s Francois?” Nadine asked.

  A bullet blasted through the windscreen above his head and several more made their angry bee sound as they whistled past. R.L. returned fire, executing single aimed shots.

  “Tad busy now, Nadine.”

  “You’re always busy. Me, too. Maybe that was part of our problem. Are those gunshots?”

  “Francois, get the hell down!” Cole called. The priest continued to stand erect and glared toward Bayside.

  “I asked you to take care of Francois. Don’t let him get hurt.”

  R.L. cracked several more shots while Cole leapt up, grabbed Francois around his ample midsection, and dragged him back. The Frenchman struggled, waving both arms and legs as he attempted to extricate himself. Cole, cell phone still to ear, flopped to the deck behind the console with his friend wrapped in his embrace. “Hellfire, Francois. You gotta keep down!”

  “The Refugio County Sheriff is hauling ass toward St. Mary’s Road now. Again, the FBI chopper should show in minutes. Let me talk with Francois,” Nadine demanded.

  Another bullet popped the boat’s center console but failed to pass through to hit any of them. A sharp blast, loud and distinct, rumbled through the air. A large caliber deer rifle had fired. Will Stinson. Cole released a still-struggling Francois and shoved his phone into the priest’s hand. “It’s Nadine. She wants to talk with you. Keep your ass down. I mean it.”

  The phone transfer completed, he grabbed his AR-15—which had fallen to the boat deck during all the commotion—and rolled to his knees. Cole took aim at one of the men at the SUV, and squeezed off a shot. The man spun around and fell to join another, shot by either R.L. or Will. The remaining vehicle gunman dropped to the ground and fired at them from a prone position. The two terrorists unloading the boat crouched at the bow in inches of water and took cover. They also began to fire at the sheriff’s boat; the thwack of several more bullets punched the fiberglass hull. Behind the collection of shooting terrorists, a white cloud of oyster-shell road dust appeared. Sheriff Baler of Refugio County approached. Hopefully, with a load of weaponry and deputies.

  “How you doing, R.L.?” Cole called, his voice loud and clipped with adrenaline. “You alright?”

  The deputy ejected an empty magazine and slammed a loaded one into his weapon before he shouldered it and cracked a few shots. “Hell, yes. You?”

  “I’ve been better,” Cole said, flinching as another bullet popped a small hole in the vessel’s side. He returned fire, ducked behind the boat’s console, and admonished R.L. to do the same.

  The whomp-whomp of a helicopter caught both their attention. Jet-black with a large FBI logo stenciled on the side, the chopper circled once and hovered, the barrels of several weapons extended from the left side of the aircraft. Cole and R.L. watched the effects of the FBI shots before the sound reached them. Bullets rained down on the remaining three terrorists, and they fell within seconds.

  The flashing lights of two Refugio County Sheriff Department vehicles backdropped the scene as the FBI helicopter hovered and landed near the law vehicles. When the chopper cut its engine, quiet descended over the scene, punctuated by the gentle lapping of water against their hull and the sound of Francois still speaking with Nadine.

  “And so,” Francois said as he lay on his side in the bottom of the boat. “It is clear, mon cher, larger forces converge. Forces I cannot define.”

  A lone booming shot bellowed and echoed across the water from the north. “Francois, I need the phone,” Cole said.

  “Oui, cher. Oui,” Francois continued. “I shall see you soon. Voyages sûrs. Safe travels.” Francois made a production of tapping the End Call button and handed the cell phone back to Cole, his lavender shirt bright against the white interior of the boat. He rolled onto his back, donned his green-tinted glasses, stared at the sky, and lit a smoke.

  Cole checked the recent calls and hit Will Stinson’s number. “Will? Cole Garza. Stop shooting.”

  “I’m damn near out of ammo,” Stinson said. “I think I nailed one of those sumbitches. Grady’s huddled in the bottom of the boat like a two-year-old. Still eatin’ his bologna sandwich. You believe that shit?”

  “Stop shooting, Will. Those are the good guys, now.”

  Cole started the engine and made his way to shore. He stopped short of the sand-and-gravel shoreline and tossed out an anchor. He and R.L. began to wade through twelve inches of water to meet the FBI and the Refugio County lawmen. He glanced back at Francois. His friend had arranged himself on the driver’s seat, crossed his legs, and mumbled at the sky.

  “You alright, Francois?”

  “No, mon ami. No. The Enemy has fled and I am not in pursuit. T
herefore, I am most certainly not alright.”

  “This whole thing feels different from the other times. Something’s not right. Even I get that,” Cole said.

  Francois shook his head, agitated. Cole turned and waded toward the carnage.

  “What’s different, Sheriff?” R.L asked as he waded alongside Cole.

  “Nothing. You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yeah, sure. So what are you and that French fella talking about?”

  “Nothing, R.L. Let’s go sort through this mess.” Cole saw no point trying to explain or frame or level-set the bizarre world he, Francois, and Nadine lived in. No point at all.

  Chapter 3

  Jean Murphy huddled on the dirty concrete by the front wheel of a Ford sedan, her 9mm semiautomatic pistol at the ready. “Stay there,” she whispered to Jude Gill. Hang tight, Jude. It’s going to get bloody.

  Her pastor friend shivered. Jude hid behind the rear wheel, scrunched knees to chin, and glared along the side of the car at Jean. “And where the hell did you think I was going to go?” Jude said, far too loud.

  Three men crouched fifty feet away behind a parked Toyota, pistols at the ready, and searched the dank underground parking garage. Searched for them. This late at night, the parked vehicles were scattered few and far between. Dim light from overhead bulbs cast subtle shadows across the cold gray floor.

  An explosive pistol blast echoed across the subterranean enclosure as the bullet slammed above Jean’s head and entered the hood of the parked Ford with a loud metallic slap.

  “Hold it! Hold it!” Jean yelled as she peeked around the front of the car. “I don’t know who you’re after, but we’re a regular couple! Just had dinner! On our way home! That’s all! That’s all!”

  Her cry lured one of the men to stand from his crouched position. Jean popped up long enough to fire twice, both bullets striking his torso. The other two immediately returned fire, more bullets slamming into the hood and windshield of their protective vehicle.

  “Are you freakin’ nuts?” Jude hissed, arms wrapped around legs to stay small. “You’re going to get our asses killed!”

  A vehicle passed overhead in the parking garage. Its tires hit a steel floor joiner, which echoed through the structure. Jean dropped flat on the ground and peered beneath the car to her assailants’ vehicle. The man she had shot lay still, exposed, shoe soles directed at her.

  The other two had also taken positions behind their vehicle’s tires to prevent a low shot. Jean stretched her pistol arm under the Ford and aimed underneath the enemies’ Toyota. She had ten inches of space to work with, parallel with the grease-stained concrete.

  “Alright! Alright! Let’s talk!” Jean yelled. “No more shooting! Please! I mean it! Please!”

  Her call prompted one of the attackers to ease toward the trunk of the Toyota with a clear intent to flank her position. His move exposed both lower legs. Jean held her breath, took careful aim, and squeezed off a round. The bullet struck the man’s calf as the explosion of the shot reverberated underneath her car and spread across the garage. The wounded man screamed and collapsed, holding his leg. Bad move. She pumped three more shots into his exposed body. The contained space under the Ford amplified the gun’s explosive sound and kicked off a ringing in Jean’s ears.

  The third man sprinted away and hit the stairway exit door at full speed. The metallic clang of the door as it closed behind him signaled the end of the engagement.

  Jean rolled back to a sitting position, ejected her half-spent magazine from the pistol, and slammed home a full one. Jude peeked above her arm-wrapped knees and stared at Jean as someone would stare at a newly sighted Sasquatch. Jean returned a shrug.

  “You sure cuss a lot for a pastor,” Jean said as she moved to the front bumper in a crouch and inspected the two fallen men. She scanned the area for others and stood to move toward the downed bodies, pistol at the ready.

  “Cuss? Cuss? You and those dickheads are shooting up the place like it’s downtown Baghdad! Cuss? That’s your input to this situation?”

  Jean glanced back at her compatriot. Jude Gill, Lutheran pastor, huddled and shaken. Jude’s white tank top offset indigo tats from neck to wrist on both arms.

  “What do you use to make your hair spike?” Jean asked. Mundane subjects, firm ground—all under the rubric of keeping her friend from spinning out.

  Jude’s short-cropped black hair stood in isolated purple-colored peaks. The stainless glint of her eyebrow piercing showed in the garage’s poor light.

  “Hair? What the hell is wrong with you?” Jude barked back. “Did you just blow them away? Are they stretched out over there dead? Hair? Hair?”

  Jean moved around the front of the car, low, and surveyed the damage. Both bodies had an expanding halo of blood pooled around them. She walked to the two men, gun trained for any movement. She nudged one and then the other with the toe of her shoe. Man, hollow-point bullets kick ass, she thought.

  “Come on, Jude,” she said. “We have to leave. Pronto.”

  Jude stood, all five feet and small change of her. She surveyed the scene, eyes wide as coasters. “Leave? Aren’t you going to call the cops? You’re going to walk away from this? Are you freakin’ crazy?” Her voice, loud and incredulous and bordering on hysteria, echoed through the parking garage as another vehicle overhead hit a floor joiner. The metallic echo served as the exit bell.

  “They’re sex slavers. You know that. They chased us down here. Justice served. Now let’s get out of here. Now.”

  Jude remained frozen and cast horrified stares at one body, then the next, then at Jean. She repeated the cycle. “We can’t. We can’t leave this.”

  Jean shoved her pistol back into the inside-the-waistband holster, moved to Jude’s side, and took a firm grip of the pastor’s hand. “It’s alright. I’ll explain how this works later. We need to go and get you back to your church.” She walked away, Jude in tow.

  Jude’s mouth remained open as she stumbled and dragged her feet past the dead men. “Son of a bitch, Jean,” she said as they moved to the exit. “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 4

  Nick Capellas removed his plastic-encased Department of Homeland Security badge from an inside suit pocket and hung it around his neck, dangling from a long lanyard. Either this strikes fear into these guys, he thought, or it provides a handy-dandy chest target.

  The “guys” were three members of a Washington, DC, Sureños gang, affiliated with a drug cartel in Mexico. Nick had tracked them for months, focused on their smuggling efforts. It wasn’t drugs or other contraband he had in mind. Nick had received a tip these gang members had expanded to other areas of high profitability. Human trafficking. Human trafficking of the very wrong kind—terrorists. But this night the three gang members were unloading wrapped bricks of drugs—heroin, he’d bet. The drug flavor-of-the-month for the Sureños gang’s distributors.

  Busting drug rings was a local cop or DEA thing, rarely DHS. The southwest section of DC along the Potomac River provided a natural setting for traffickers of all stripes. Nick’s informant claimed the speedboat docked in front of him—as he hid behind an upright piling on this full-moon night—was scheduled to deliver human cargo of the Middle-Eastern persuasion. Wrong. But I’m not letting this transaction slide.

  Nick adjusted his badge lanyard and pulled his Swiss SIG .40 pistol. He’d never fired it on the job, and didn’t intend to this night. The element of surprise and his drawn weapon should suffice to make the arrests.

  The low rumble of a tugboat as it worked the Potomac echoed across the water. Another movement drew Nick’s attention—a shadow cast further down the dock drifted away. Nick stared through the moonlight, focused on the retreating shadow, indistinct and silent in the night. Forget that guy. Could be anyone. He pulled away from his creosote-covered hiding spot and checked the arm of his navy Nordstrom suit jacket. Great. Creosote smell. Just great.

  Nick took a deep breath as he moved across the wooden planks of
the dock, crouched, weapon drawn. The three men continued to load the drugs into a waiting sedan. The drug smugglers worked with efficiency and silence—two boatmen lifted the bricks of heroin onto the dock, and the third stacked them in the opened trunk of the car. Nick had neither endeavored to make such a bust nor worked solo within such a dangerous environment. But he was DHS, and the full authority of a federal agency carried weight and assuredness.

  “Homeland Security! Freeze!” he yelled as he strode toward the dock gang member and moved his pistol between him and the two men in the open cockpit of the boat. “Everyone! On the ground! Now!”

  The Sureños gang members in the boat paused, glanced at each other, and one snatched weaponry from the boat’s seat. The other scrambled toward the front of the boat and began to untie from the dock. The third gang member leapt behind the trunk of the sedan and its open lid. “Freeze!” Nick yelled again and added, “Department of Homeland Security!” for good measure.

  A bullet whistled past his ear, delivered with a cacophonous bang from the guy behind the raised trunk lid. Nick ducked at the front of the vehicle’s grill. His adrenaline meter hit overdrive and the realization his flank was exposed screamed in his head. The guy behind the trunk lid might circle the vehicle on the side away from the boat. Circle it and shoot me shoot me dead and Sureños gang and oh crap!

  Nick forced his body across the hood of the sedan and shifted aim to the boatman who stood with two automatic submachine guns, one in each hand. The gang member began to fire both weapons and filled the air with lead. Bullets slapped across the side and hood of the car, Nick rolled back to the ground, and the staccato gunfire drummed across the wooden dock.

  Behind me, behind! his mind shrieked as he rolled and turned to the other side of the car where the third gang member could flank him. Hard breath snorted from his nose, every sense maxed. The sound of a boat engine registered, and Nick rolled again to view the drug-running speedboat accelerate across the Potomac River, the dual-armed gunman still at the ready.