Brothers of the Blood: The Border Series, #4

By David Griffith

In a firefight with a drug cartel, Lonnie Bowers barely escapes with his life. Mind you, this isn't the first time, but the weariness and constant anticipation of impending death has forced him to reassess his future.

When Clarissa tells him the Blackwater Ranch is for sale, he scoffs. How could they afford it? Are he and Clarissa cut out for that kind of isolation? Do they have the grit and determination to make it as back country ranchers? Lonnie has promised he'd quit the rodeo trail—and intelligence work in Mexico. But machinery breaks, ranch payments need to be made, and he has a family to feed. Lonnie's qualified to go to Calgary, the richest rodeo of them all. A win there would solve all their financial problems. Can he still compete with all the young riders?

Then, the agent who has saved his life countless times disappears into Mexico, apparently hell-bent on a one man mission of vengeance. The company's response is blunt. Get him out, or we'll eliminate him. Can Lonnie walk away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Griffith
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386412151

David Griffith

David Griffith has lived around packers and outfitters, loggers and cowboys—and always with horses. His books showcase an intimate knowledge of cowboy life and the land, from northern British Columbia to the Sierra Madre of Mexico. With his wife Patricia, he still runs a cattle ranch in the big river country of British Columbia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Though desperately low on ammunition, I made good use of the ancient hunting rifle in my hand. It would never have been my choice in a firefight with a drug cartel. Most of the Los Zetas troops below me carried military rifles. Over the last month, they’d added several of our people to their growing list of scalps, and if it weren’t for Derek, they’d have got mine. He’d appeared when I figured it was all over but the funeral. He’d holed up in the rocks to my right. Every time they rushed our position, he knocked them off like ten pins in a border town bowling alley. That worked until they figured out how to scale the near vertical cliff behind us. Any chance of escape had vanished. Now we would both die in this drug infested hole. I shot a worried look over at Derek. He just grinned, then pulled out his canteen for a swallow of water, which made me angry. How could he be so blasé about the few minutes of life we had left?

We were most of a hundred feet apart, too far to talk in a normal voice. If we’d yelled back and forth, they’d have heard every word. Neither of us wanted that, so we used hand signals to communicate. Derek motioned me to work my way toward him. I raised my eyebrows, held my open palms upward and violently shook my head. If I moved from behind this boulder, they’d pick me off like a gut-shot coyote. Whatever he had in mind lay on the north side of stupid.

Derek ignored me, which is what he usually did in these situations. Mind you, there were times I disregarded his orders—like this one. Most times in shooting situations, I let Derek call the shots. This time? Maybe not. Too many bullets were flying, and I wasn’t moving.

Five minutes later, the first bullet from the cliff sent rock chips into my face. Derek waved me to join him, this time more vigorously. I glanced at the cliff. Los Zetas had the best sniper rifles money could buy—and the best training. Some of their troops were defectors from the Mexican Special Forces. Whoever they’d sent up to do the job wouldn’t miss a second time.

The Mexican sun scorched the rocky ledge, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead. A flash of light on the rim caught my eye, and suddenly whatever Derek had in mind didn’t seem so crazy. We were trapped. To stay here meant certain death, so I ran.

The first stretch, completely exposed to the rifles below was the most dangerous. The next boulder that offered any protection lay a tantalizing hundred yards to the left. I tucked the rifle into my chest and took off like one of those muscled-up athletes who run hundred yard dashes for a living. But Olympic guys don’t have to avoid bullets scuffling to be the first to penetrate their tender bodies. I didn’t do badly, good enough that when I did a first base slide behind Derek’s rock I had no blood leaking out of my body. Definitely a bonus. Derek turned and gave a non-committal nod, which was so like him. I’d risked my life to follow his instructions. His response? What took you so long?

I scowled. You could have covered me better than that. I didn’t hear you shoot more than a couple rounds.

Bullets are expensive.

Yeah, well my wife says I am too. I hope you have a plan after that little exercise.

I do. You’re taking my rifle and going up the cliff. Then you’re going to cover me while I climb to the top.

I glanced over my shoulder. Instant vertigo made me dizzy enough I nearly lost the grip on the rifle in my hands. The cliff ran straight up for eighty feet. Even lying prone on the ground I broke out in a sweat. I could face bullets or a bar fight. Heights turned me into a sniveling coward. I’m not doing that. What’s the other option?

Derek shrugged. There ain’t one. Besides, you’re not going to climb it here. They’d pick you off before you even got started.

Well thanks. I’m touched you’re concerned about my safety. I turned and stared at the ochre rock face behind us. It ran for a couple hundred yards to our left. To the right , it made an abrupt curve toward the north.

Just around the corner, there’s a chimney. It’s not great protection, but it’s better than that. Derek inclined his chin toward the wall behind us. Besides, they won’t even know you’re gone . . . suddenly Derek swiveled and pumped off a couple of quick rounds at the top of the cliff face. Go—now!

The two Los Zetas troops on top of the rim scrambled for cover. As much as I wanted to argue, there wasn’t time. He threw his rifle at me. I grabbed it and skedaddled. When I sprinted around the corner and stared at the rock chimney in front of me, I thought about ammunition. Derek had probably intended to pass me a couple of spare clips, but in the rush it hadn’t happened. The half full clip in the rifle meant I only had fifteen shots to protect him while he followed me. I stared at the narrow chimney. Like Jack’s beanstalk, it spiraled toward the sky. I couldn’t do it. I wiped my sweaty palms against my pants. If I even got halfway up and glanced at the ground, I would freeze, and then it would all be over. Derek knew I had a deathly fear of heights. I swore an oath that no matter what happened— if I didn’t die while climbing this wall—he would pay more than he could have ever imagined.

The rifle he’d passed me had a worn leather sling, unusual for an assault rifle unless you’re in a real war. Most of my life I qualified for that, so I slung the rifle across my chest, braced my feet on one side of the chimney, my back against the other, and crabbed my way upward. Twenty feet up, I made the mistake of looking at the ground. Everything went topsy-turvy. I closed my eyes and sucked in deep, measured breaths of air. I had to do this—or die, and that didn’t seem a good option.

I will never be able to explain how I made it to the top of that cliff. When I hoisted myself over the edge, I scrambled as far as I could from the face. My trembling fingers clawed at the black dirt. Eventually, I regained control. I had to. The shooting below had intensified which likely meant Derek had made a run for the chimney. To protect him, I had to get out on the edge of the cliff, look down and fire with enough precision to hit something. Every natural instinct told me to get as far away from that rim as I could, but I’ve always placed great store on loyalty, and though I’d little stomach for more heights, I swallowed my fear, crept to the rim, and started shooting. It might not have been my best performance with a rifle, but several of those below would need urgent medical care if not an undertaker.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Derek zigzag to the chute. Though I had only a few shots, I placed them well enough that he made it to the top alive and with no extra holes in his body.

When Derek crawled over the rim, he lay for a moment on the ledge while he tried to catch his breath. I stayed vigilant. Where were the two on top?

Derek struggled to a sitting position and held out the old lever action rifle. Give me my gun.

No, you gave it to me. Shoot that one. I slid the rest of the 30:30 shells I’d carried in my pocket across to him.

He still held the gun with his right hand curled inside the lever action. Suddenly, he one-handed the lever and shot over my head. I dived for cover, rolled and came up firing. Derek had already fired a second time. What he aimed for, he hit. Two shots—two bodies. There might be more of them on top of the rim, but the original pair was no longer a concern. I stood and dusted off my jeans while I kept a wary eye out for any more cartel shooters. Derek had already started to wind his way through the rocks. We had a long trail ahead of us if we were to escape.

For eight more days we slogged through mountain passes where we froze at night and roasted during the day. As we made our way north to the small town of San Carlos, we avoided both cartel goons and the police. The Federales were the good guys, and though we had all the right clearances, to be picked up by Mexican federal police would have only complicated matters. Our mission required we slip in and out of the country unnoticed, and unseen.

On the fourth day the rain came, a bone-chilling drizzle that refused to stop. By the time we staggered into San Carlos, we were both close to pneumonia. I’d never been happier to feel the wheels of that company plane break contact with Mexican soil.  

When we touched down on American soil, I breathed a sigh of relief and swore I was finished. This time had been too close. Mexico had degenerated into a cartel cesspool, and my cover had been blown one too many times.

I ran a hand through my hair. At the end of every mission, when I looked into the mirror, I tried not to see the white hairs and deep worry lines. But they were there, and no matter how I wished they weren’t, the stress of the job had taken its toll. I grabbed my mochila, the survival backpack I’d carried through a hundred missions and gingerly navigated the aluminum stairs to the tarmac. A mind-numbing weariness seeped through my body and rested in my bones. I shrugged it off. A good night’s sleep would put everything in perspective. Derek and I threw what gear we had in the back of a cab and headed for the hotel. We were safe. Tomorrow, I would be winging my way north to the woman I loved. Then, at the proper time I would hand in my resignation. I was no longer cut out for what Derek and I had endured.

Chapter 2

After we’d checked in, Derek suggested we meet in the lobby for a nightcap. We craved the human contact, the chance to watch normal people going about their business without guns or drugs, where the evil of mankind was at least disguised and mostly hidden.

The maroon leather chairs in the lobby of the venerable Stockman’s Hotel reflected the heat from the fireplace. Though the miserly flame did little to ward off the chill, it was a sight better than what we’d been accustomed to for the last month. For six weeks, the closest resemblance to a bed either of us had seen was when we’d stumbled into an itinerant sheepherder’s camp high in the Sierra Madre. We’d not have chanced even that, but the cold, drizzling rain had finally beaten us into submission. Night after night in the high desert, we’d been unable to light a fire of any kind. Close to pneumonia, a night under a leaky roof, with a shifty-eyed mountain man had seemed worth the risk.

I glanced across the dark mahogany side table. Derek had kicked off his boots and was nearly horizontal in the expensive leather chair. Travelers checked in, bellboys jockeyed for luggage, and waiters from the bar dispensed drinks while we basked in the normalness around us. I stretched my feet toward the electric fake fire. Though it provided little heat, we were grateful for the ambience.

I was about to call it an evening and head upstairs when the hidden switch on the roundabout doors at the lobby entrance triggered. The doors revolved enough to spit out a tall, strong-framed woman onto the beige carpet that led to the reservation desk. She stopped, surveyed the lobby, and then moved toward the check-in counter. Her open toed shoes and light jacket indicated she’d originated from points far south of here. A gray backpack rested comfortably on her left shoulder. Her gloved right hand towed a dark blue travel bag.

I’m afraid I stared. A mass of wind-blown raven hair fell loosely over the woman’s shoulders. The charcoal tresses framed a chiseled, Latin face with a square chin and intelligent eyes, but that first and only time I saw the woman, her nose was what I remembered. It appeared too long and slightly curved, rather like a broken piece of china, or perhaps the handle of a fine Victorian teacup. A man with that nose would have been dismissed as being ill-favored, but it altered the woman’s otherwise delicate face to a peculiar handsomeness. She furtively scanned the room as she made her way toward the lobby desk. Her gaze flickered toward the semi-darkness of the lounge area where Derek and I sat over a bedtime cup of tea, a habit I abhorred. Her eyes fastened on us, then widened. I was instantly wary. At that distance, I couldn’t tell whether my presence or Derek’s had caused her alarm, but out of long habit, my hand crept toward the inside pocket of my jacket. Derek’s eyes riveted on the woman. The legs of his chair skidded backward over the plush carpet, and like an aged cripple, he struggled to his feet, his actions incongruent with his usual cat-like movements.

As their eyes met, the woman stopped, and her face softened. Suddenly, the evening erupted in a staccato burst of gunfire. The glass at the front of the lobby shattered into a thousand fragments. The desk clerk screamed. The woman slipped to her knees. Her eyes never left Derek, and though the backpack slid off her shoulder, she held it tightly to her breast. The soft smile transformed to a grimace and her eyes clouded with pain. Then, her head slumped, and she fell forward, the backpack clutched to her breast.

Derek’s hand immediately appeared with the Glock. His instant sprint toward the door demonstrated the well-oiled, decisive action typical of any Special Forces commando. He crouched at the end of the lobby and peered through the broken glass, but the gunman had vanished. I covered him with my own gun while he knelt over the woman. I continued to search the street, ready for whatever might come. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Derek cradle the woman’s head, the charcoal locks cascading over his arm. She spoke to him before she died, but the words were whispered, and I didn’t catch them.

Two gentlemen who had also been checking in at the desk had shown incredibly good sense. When the shooting started, they both dove behind the massive wooden bulwark with the hotel staff. Before anyone recovered, Derek slipped the backpack out from under the woman’s body and hissed quietly. Lonnie, quick—take it upstairs.

I’d long ago learned not to question his judgment. Quietly, I slipped from the room and up the stairs.

When I returned by the elevator, ambulance and police sirens shrieked in the distance. Disembodied white faces peered fearfully over the top of the long counter, now checkered with splintered bullet holes. The tight grouping of holes in the counter carried the same pattern as the multiple circles of radiating stars in the glass beside the doors, ample evidence of a professional hit. Whoever orchestrated this mayhem and death had planned well.

Derek had been my backup through a good part of my dangerous life. He’d done his best to keep me alive in an occupation that was anything but safe. Now I watched with concern as he leaned against the back of the heavy leather lounge chair, his face mirroring profound grief, a dramatic departure from his usual pragmatic and expressionless visage.

Within minutes, police officers flooded the lobby. Paramedics trailed them like eager bridesmaids. Tragedy had set in motion the well-rehearsed scene common to every city. These took charge, and did their duty efficiently, and well.

From the comments while we remained in the lobby, the police suspected the woman would go down as another casualty of the drug wars. They spent considerable time questioning us and the few others who had been unfortunate enough to be in the lobby. For the official record, two acquaintances, traveling businessmen meeting in a hotel lobby for an evening cup of tea witnessed a killing. They could have nothing to do with Mexican drug cartels, death, or lives long abandoned. In the end, what went into the police file would be that the killing would remain an unsolved murder—nothing more.

After the paramedics carried the sheet-draped form to a waiting ambulance, and the police had finished their questions, exhaustion precipitated a longing glance at the elevator. Derek rose and paced back and forth as his hands knotted into fists. Hollow-eyed, he stared into the distance, as if there were no barrier between him and the bullet-pocked doors the woman had opened.

I stood and stretched. I think I’ll turn in. I’ve had enough for one day.

Lonnie, don’t go yet. Can you handle one more cup?

Derek’s uncharacteristic request made my decision clear. If he needed me, I would stay. Whoever the woman had been, her death had shaken him. His hand trembled as he reached for the arm of the chair, an unusual reaction from the man I knew. I signaled for more tea, then stood and backed up to the fire. After the tragic events of the evening, sleep probably wasn’t an option.

Derek, to my knowledge had never been inclined toward alcohol. He tended toward abstinence, though we’d never discussed the issue. However, he poured a shot glass of cinnamon whiskey into his tea. It seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Derek poured from the carafe, and then dumped the shot glass of whiskey into his cup. He stirred the contents, his eyes never leaving the spoon. We both sipped the hot liquid before he set his cup on the low mahogany table by his chair. The dim light placed his face in the shadows, but when he glanced at me, the puzzle of emotion scrawled across his face told me that the death of the woman had left a raw wound on his soul.

Who was she?

A chuckle started low in his throat, which would have seemed callous if I’d not known him so well. He carefully placed his cup on the coaster and met my eyes. Once, long ago, I loved her deeply. She was my wife.

Your wife? I didn’t—

Nobody did. It’s a part of my past I’ve never shared."

The electric flame to my right burned unobtrusively, with neither the crackling sound nor comforting heat of real wood. My eyes darted from the front desk and lobby, then back to the shattered plate glass window. How could this be? We walk into a Denver hotel and a beautiful woman is shot, who turns out to be Derek’s ex-wife, and maybe not even the ‘ex" part? The story sounded too bizarre for anyone to make up, not that Derek ever would.

Hotel workmen crisscrossed clear tape over the bullet holes on the plate-glass window to ward off the elements. Outside, the swirling bitter white flakes beat at the defensive glass.

Derek leaned back in his chair and glared at the ceiling. Elena my love, they finally killed you just like they did with Maria.

Maria?

Derek’s hand trembled as he reached for his cup. Elena’s sister. She served as the mayor of their pueblo in Michoacán, the bravest woman I ever knew.

So who killed her, and why?

Los Caballeros Templarios—The Knights Templar.

The offshoot from La Familia?

Derek nodded.

Why did they kill her—and for that matter, Elena?

Derek picked up his cup and drained it. Not tonight. Perhaps another time. Where’s the backpack?

We stood and went upstairs. I slipped into my room. The pack rested where I’d left it, and I handed it to Derek.

He reached for it without comment. Obviously, he had no intention of disclosing the contents. For a moment our eyes met. I didn’t expect we’d see each other again any time soon, so as our hands met I tried to convey my gratitude for what he’d done below the border. Derek had again pulled me out of a lethal situation.

As I softly closed the door to my room, I ran my fingers along the angry welt across my mid-section. Spilled blood had once again made us brothers.

Chapter 3

I’d scheduled a nine o’clock flight to Vancouver, which meant I could either sleep for an hour, or go directly to the airport. Sleep seemed a risky choice, so I packed and called a taxi. Ten minutes later, I threw my small bag and mochila onto the seat of a Toyota Prius and gave instructions to the somewhere-east-of-Israel driver. I slid into the back seat and grimaced. Was I turning into a racist? His skin color appeared lighter than mine, so if that wasn’t the issue, why did I have this growing distrust? The man chattered away with typical taxi driver amiability as he chipped away at my animosity. Though not a complete success, by the time we reached Stapleton, I’d decided there was at least a ten percent chance he didn’t fall into the category of Muslim terrorist.

Inside, the United Airlines lineup stretched toward the doors. Forty-five minutes later, I discovered the ticket line had nothing on the Transportation Security Agency. TSA’s line snaked for miles. Along with a hundred others, I checked my watch. Flight time meant nothing to these people. They were protecting the nation. Whatever the cattle thought about efficiency or catching a flight was unimportant. They would all collect a healthy pay check for saving America from carnage. I walked into the scanner and held my arms over my head while I tried not to dwell on the dangers of frequent-flyer radiation.

After being properly humiliated, I stumbled out of the ‘stupid’ box to obey the vacant nod of the TSA official on the other side.

Two and a half hours later, United Airlines deposited me and a culvert load of other adventuresome mortals into the rain-sodden dampness that frequently defines Vancouver, British Columbia. I followed a dozen scurrying people in front of me toward the Customs line, while I watched another plane taxi into its slot. Sullen clouds obscured the northern mountains, and not for the first time, I wished Clarissa and I still lived in Texas where the sun brazenly refused to be invisible.

After I’d retrieved my bag and cleared Customs, I headed to the B parking lot where I usually met Clarissa. I spotted her bright red Subaru at the far end of the parking lot, her head bent over her phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. I knew exactly what she was doing—texting Conor’s babysitter. Clarissa looked up when I reached the car, slid her cellphone onto the dash, and jumped out. I dropped my bag, then hugged and kissed her until we were both properly embarrassed. A fortyish man strode by, his expensive wheeled carry-on purring behind him. Hey you two, get a room! I whirled, ready for war, only to see him chuckle in a friendly way. I grinned back and watched his confident swagger as he disappeared. Whoever he was, he loved life and liked to see it in others. Properly introduced, we’d have been friends.

I shook my head and went back to hugging on the beautiful woman I’d not seen in more than a month.

Lon, I think I miss you more now than I used to. You’d think after being married for ten years, we’d like some time apart.

"Hey, I’m so glad. I cupped her face in my hands just so I could again let my eyes feast on her high cheekbones, and the sprinkling of light freckles over her perfectly sculptured nose. She chuckled which accentuated the laugh lines around her eyes and down her cheeks to the side of her mouth which I immediately kissed as I ran my fingers through her silky dark blond hair. I missed you too. A lot."

Enough that I hope you’re staying home for a while.

I threw my bag in the back, and slid into the driver’s seat. I’d not missed the thread of tension in Clarissa’s voice. In the last year, I’d been gone a lot more than I’d been home. My son hardly knew me, which meant I hadn’t spent near enough time with him—or his mother.

How’s my little guy?

Conor’s fine. He’s probably grown an inch since you left. Clarissa’s face grew pensive. He needs more of you, Lonnie. All he ever sees are women, either Heidi or me.

Hmm, yeah, that’s not good. Not the greatest response, but what could I say? My son needed me, but my job didn’t allow for home time, and I could hardly just up and quit. In fact, the more assignments I took for Stirling Associates, the more complex my job became. So many of the missions we were involved in piggybacked on the previous one, and I’d long ago become their Mexico expert. That’s not how I’d planned it. I doubted the company had either. Every one of our assignments was dangerous. We did our best to make the drug cartels miserable, and they hated us. In the company, few agents lasted longer than five years. If a bullet didn’t get them, their nerves crumbled. Within months, I’d be into year six, which meant my odds of surviving were rapidly spiraling downward. Taking a bullet in some Mexican back alley didn’t figure into my plan. I had too much to live for—Conor being one of the biggest reasons, as well as his beautiful mother.

So what else is happening? How’s work going? I asked.

Work is fine—I guess.

What’s that mean? I reached over and squeezed Clarissa’s knee . . . well, maybe not actually her knee.

She giggled and reached for my hand. Hmm . . . is that a promise?

I smiled and stroked her hair. "As they say in Mexico. Por supuesto . . . of course. I’ve dreamed of touching you since the day I left."

Her hand reached for the back of my neck. Me too, but we have to wait. Hey, did I tell you I talked to Anna the other day?

No. What’s happening at the most beautiful ranch in British Columbia?

Clarissa hesitated before answering. They’re selling it.

They’re what? I gripped the steering wheel. "Selling the ranch? How can they do that?"

Lonnie, Bob is seventy-nine years old. Anna’s a year younger. Ranching is incredibly hard work, especially in the summer—no, forget that. It’s hard work all year round.

I concentrated on the road, my brain frozen like a John Deere tractor with a busted crankshaft. How can they just walk away from the ranch? Everything they’ve ever worked for will be wasted. Some moneyed-up tycoon will buy it, so he can fly in there twice a year and get his wilderness fix. That’s not fair to them or . . . My voice trailed off as I thought through what I’d said. Who else wasn’t it fair to? Brian? He’d been gone for longer than I wanted to remember. Their daughter Brenda? She and her husband Tom had no interest in living the life her parents had embraced. Who else? Nobody. The only others who had spent any time there were Clarissa and I. But how would we get the money, and even if we could—why would we buy it? Clarissa had a