Firestorm Read online

  Dedication

  Cowboy is a way of life that transcends race, creed, color, and gender. It’s the wildest of spirits, the purest of hearts, and the gentlest of souls. Cowboy is dogged determination, a job done right, and a fight won against all odds. Cowboy is what the world needs a little bit more of these days. It is to those rare few that I dedicate this novel.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part Two 14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  Part Three 30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Part Four 45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Taylor Moore

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  My God sent his angel, and he shut the mouths of lions.

  –Daniel 6:22

  1

  Garrett Kohl had spent the better part of his DEA and special operations career taking a series of calculated risks, but he’d never done anything quite as stupid as this. Blasting across the lake through the foggy darkness in a Super Air Nautique G25 Paragon, he pondered everything that could go wrong, which was a hell of lot to consider in a place run by the Garza Cartel.

  With the sudden thought of slamming into a limestone jetty at thirty-five knots, Garrett yanked the throttle, killed the motor, and let the wake boat drift to a lazy stop. With no wind, the stagnant fishy air hung heavy like a soggy sponge. It was a smell that normally put this avid angler in the best of moods, but tonight there was simply way too much at stake.

  As a seasoned combat veteran from the U.S. Army’s 10th Special Forces Group, Garrett was no stranger to being behind enemy lines, but this rendition assignment with his task force partners in the Texas Rangers and CIA had jacked the pucker factor up to eleven. Breaking more international laws than he cared to count, Garrett shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind and focused on something he could control—finding the drug lord they were supposed to meet.

  Garrett raised out of his seat and glanced up at the moon and stars, which had pierced the clouds and bathed the shoreline of thick carrizo cane in a soft amber glow. Lifting the 4X night vision binoculars to his eyes, he panned the reed-covered beach in the green glow of his optics, spotting a dry creek bed about fifty yards out. But for a prowling bobcat and an overturned jon boat there was really nothing to see. No pier. No fishing village. And no murderous cartel boss with a duffel bag full of cash.

  Looking down at his map, Garrett clicked on a penlight and aimed the beam at the upper-right corner. According to his GPS, they were right where they were supposed to be, an isolated cove near an old rural community called Rancho Culebra. The plan was for him and his mission accomplice, Texas Ranger Cade Malek, to meet up with their confidential informant (CI) Ray Smitty and a drug kingpin named Emilio Garza.

  Had he not been in dangerous country on assignment, Garrett would’ve longed to explore the area around Lake Amistad. The sixty-five-thousand-acre body of water on the Rio Grande was a desert oasis, with rugged terrain not unlike the arid ranchland where he grew up on the Texas High Plains. It was tabletop flat in places and scarred by deep ravines and jagged cliffs in others—wild, remote, and lonesome—just the kind of land he loved.

  Garrett eased back into the driver’s seat and looked around. More fisher than skier, he wouldn’t have traded his own Skeeter bass boat for the Nautique, but it was perfect cover for two ne’er-do-well ranchers out looking to make a deal with the devil. According to their fabricated backstory, Garrett and his brother, played by Malek, had a penchant for whiskey, wild women, and worldly possessions.

  Despite having a hangar full of vintage muscle cars and a fleet of helicopters they used for hunting feral hogs, their entertainment cup was sadly only half full. They’d burned through a chunk of their daddy’s oil fortune, and as a result, the old man had put his foot down. Despite giving them an allowance fit for a Saudi sheik, they wanted more. And they wanted it however they could get it.

  Garrett only hoped Garza didn’t notice that he and Malek looked nothing alike. The ranger was tall and lanky, a short-shorn towhead, while Garrett was just below six feet, with long dark hair, a bronzed complexion, and athletic build. But whatever similarities they lacked in looks they made up for in banter. The ball-breaking between the two came off as natural, as if they’d been tormenting each other since the playpen.

  Malek, wearing a burnt palm cowboy hat and coyote-colored hunting shirt, was sitting up on the bow, keeping a close watch on the dark horizon. “Helluva good night for fishing, ain’t it.”

  “Good as it gets.” Garrett gave a nod. “Quiet too.” But for the occasional small wave lapping against the hull, it was dead silent. “Probably got a few minutes until showtime if you wanna throw in a line.”

  Malek gave a slow shake of his head as he scanned the shoreline. “Don’t think I’d enjoy it too much given what we got on our plate.”

  The ranger sounded a bit anxious, and Garrett knew why. Aside from the obvious danger, the operation to capture a Mexican drug lord was an opportunity of a lifetime. It could make or break their careers. Of course, that was assuming they weren’t killed in the process.

  “This thing will be done before you know it.” Garrett let out an easy chuckle. “Hell, I lay you odds we’ll all be having margaritas over in Del Rio before noon.”

  Malek swiveled around. “Think so, huh?”

  Damn sure hope so. As a former Green Beret, Garrett never took odds on high-risk operations. Too many variables. Also, it was bad luck. He’d cussed more than his share of soldiers for doing just that. But Garrett needed Malek calm and collected so he doubled down on the lie. “Oh yeah, I can taste the huevos rancheros, pinto beans, and corn tortillas right now.”

  Malek shot a glare. “Corn, did you say?” Disgusted, he turned back and raised his binoculars. “Knew something was off about you, Kohl.”

  Feeling as though he was living out the lyrics of a Lyle Lovett song, Garrett had to laugh. Apparently, Malek was a flour tortilla man. For some Texans, that was a personal conviction of the highest sort. Garrett was about to connect his partner’s dislike of sweet tea to latent communist leanings when the ranger perked up.

  Malek lowered his voice. “See some lights up there.” He pointed to a spot about a hundred yards west where there was a break in the fog. “Think that’s the village?”

  Garrett turned the key in the ignition and the six-hundred-horsepower motor rumbled to life. He clicked the throttle forward and the motor grumbled into a grind. As they eased through the mist, he followed the halogen lights to a rusted gas pump where a couple of turquoise rowboats were tied to the rickety pier. Behind the dock were five cinderblock shacks. The ragged curtains danced in the windows, making the place look more haunted than abandoned.

  Knowing it’d be a great setup for a cartel ambush, Garrett reached back to secure the Nighthawk Double Agent pistol tucked into the back of his belt. He’d swapped his DEA-issued Glock 17 for the 1911 before the cross-border trip. Deep cover officers are all about the details and carrying his service weapon just wouldn’t do. It was the same reason he’d altered his appearance from rodeo rogue to well-to-do land baron.

  The shift in disguise had required a barber visit and a slight trim to his thick beard, taking him from ruffian to rancher in a matter of minutes. But Garrett didn’t hide the sleeve tattoos of death skulls, tomahawks, and screaming Comanche warriors atop galloping mustangs. With his faded Wranglers, Twisted X moccasins, and untucked Howler Brothers pearl snap, his look fell somewhere between cowboy and frat boy.

  Garrett turned his black Lone Star Dry Goods trucker hat backward, raised up in his seat, and took in the village. Other than the wafting stench of fish guts from the pier and some freshly burnt trash, there were no signs of human activity. He nosed the Nautique up to the dock, yanked back on the throttle, and drifted up to the far end beneath a halo of yellow lamplight.

  Malek reached for the gnarled wood piling that jutted up from the planks and brought the wake boat to a halt. After tethering it to the dock, he turned back. “Right on time and exactly where we’re supposed to be.” The ranger’s voice still held a nervous edge. “But something doesn’t feel right.”

  Garrett felt the same but wasn’t going to give in to any bad juju. At least not until he had a good reason. “Remember, man,
we’re holding a good hand of cards here. Garza wouldn’t take the risk to meet us in person otherwise. So, just play it easy. And play it loose. Like a couple of drunk bubbas about to spend ten million dollars on trashy women, Caribbean fishing trips, and big-game hunts in Alaska. Got it?”

  Malek, a confirmed bachelor and avid outdoorsman, seemed to drink in the idea. “Already there, man.” The toothpick in the corner of his mouth raised with his wide grin.

  Although Garrett hated to admit it, he was a little nervy too. For the first time in a long time, he had a lot to lose. And most of it had to do with an orphan from Afghanistan he’d brought home to the ranch on a protective custody assignment. Garrett thought of the boy as his own son and wanted to adopt him, but all those plans were hinged on repaying a debt to the CIA.

  In exchange for covering up past transgressions, Garrett was conscripted as an off-the-books black-bag operator. And his first assignment began with the cross-border snatch and grab involving Garza, who had become public enemy number one after torturing and murdering a Texas Ranger and sending a hit team after Garrett’s own family.

  Tempted to get riled at the thought of it, he kept calm by going over his cover story—poking any holes yet to be poked. And the biggest hole out there was their CI Smitty, a two-time loser in the Texas prison system and a low-level crook who had started running drugs for Garza. Smitty could either rat out the drug lord or spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Despite his shortcomings, which were many, the former convict had a brilliant scheme. His idea was to lure Garza into a meeting with two brothers, Garrett and Malek, who owned a large ranch contiguous to Mexico. But the land itself wasn’t the real draw, it was the gas pipeline crossing the border that got the drug lord’s attention. Smitty had devised a plan to use what was known in the energy industry as a “pig,” a maintenance device that travels the length of pipelines for cleaning and inspection. Retrofitted, they’d been used in the past to transport drugs and cash. If there was a better way to smuggle contraband across the border, Garrett had yet to see it.

  At the sound of an inbound motor, Garrett turned, just as he heard the uh-oh from Malek. Through a break in the mist, he saw two sets of lights, which meant Garza had broken the deal and brought his thugs along for the meeting. Garrett and his partner might be holding a good hand, but the drug lord had stacked the deck. And worst of all, the whole damn operation hinged on Smitty, who wasn’t even a joker. He was the Uno card that had somehow slipped into the box.

  2

  Ray Smitty surveyed the lake’s dark shoreline, careful to avoid the drug lord’s suspicious glare. Emilio Garza wasn’t just known for killing those who crossed him, he was known for sending a distinct and unsettling message—usually written in blood. As their five-hundred-fifty-horsepower Pavati wake boat moved through a dewy fog, Smitty cursed himself for agreeing to an operation in this borderland graveyard just south of the Rio Grande.

  Agreeing to it, hell! It’d been his stupid idea!

  Knowing what he knew now, prison would’ve been a much smarter choice. The problem was that Smitty didn’t make smart choices. He made foolish choices. Drunk choices. Choices based on fear. And the greatest fear of them all, right up there with being skinned alive by Garza, was what would happen to his daughter if he messed up again. His darlin’ girl had made many a prison visit to the Wynne Unit over in Huntsville, but she was just a tot back then.

  Savanah was just shy of middle school now, a young woman in her formative years. These were ones she’d remember—the ones he couldn’t miss.

  Between inheriting her mother’s good looks and his bird-dog sense for finding mischief, Smitty knew she’d be a magnet for the wrong sort—the sort like him. If he was going to keep her from falling into that trap, then he had to stay clean. He had to be home. In other words, he had to be a father.

  Smitty had been out of trouble for a while now. But the trouble with trouble was that it was damn near everywhere. The deal he was making with Garza was his do-over, a chance to make things right after all his misdeeds. Of course, prison was a better alternative than what would happen if things went wrong. And they were about to go wrong. That was for certain. Smitty turned to Garza, and gave an easy smile.

  Wearing a white guayabera and tan linen chinos, the cartel head looked nothing like the short and pudgy Pablo Escobar or Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman. Garza was tall and slender, with sharp features and a handsome face. He could’ve passed for any run-of-the-mill successful Latin American businessman were it not for his sullen eyes—permanently fixed in a psychotic glare.

  Smitty knew better than to judge anyone by their looks. His whole damn life he’d been accused of looking like a weasel. Of course, favoring a musky rodent might’ve had nothing to do with a gosh darn thing. His mother-in-law looked like a slutty Martha Stewart but couldn’t cook a Pop-Tart. Sometimes crap just looks like stuff.

  Finishing up whatever he was texting, Garza brushed the dark hair from his eyes and slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. “Good news for you, Ray. Your friends are here.”

  The report told Smitty one very important and frightening thing. Garza’s spies were out there watching.

  “Told you to trust me, didn’t I?” Smitty faked a laugh that came out nervous, blowing any effort he’d made to cover his fear. “Knew they’d be right on time. No doubt.”

  Garza pulled his Cabot Diablo 1911 from the glove box and tucked it in the front of his belt. Made of Damascus steel and forged with pieces of an old meteorite, the silver and black pistol looked more like a work of art than a functioning firearm. But Smitty had seen the drug lord use the .45 semi-automatic before at close range. It was as deadly as it was beautiful.

  Garza’s brazen display of the weapon was his way of letting their new business partners know this was no ordinary kind of deal. Of course, that should’ve been evident by the machine-gun-toting bodyguards in the Supra SA550 wake boat trailing not far behind.

  Having lost trust in his Mexican sicarios, Garza had contracted a new team of mercenaries made up of members of Guatemala’s elite special operations forces known as Kaibiles. What they lacked in resources, they made up for in an inventiveness born of poverty and jungle hardship. These cutthroat killers were short and stocky, strong as oxen, built like their indigenous ancestors. They operated on raw instinct and an animalistic will to survive.

  Smitty scanned the beach ahead through breaks in the low-level clouds settling atop the lake, searching for help, which he’d been assured by Garrett and Malek was out there. He fought to keep from squirming, knowing that the drug lord was studying his every move. A bad vibe from Garza was as good as a bullet to the head.

  The Pavati’s motor dulled to a rumble as they drew near to the dilapidated wooden pier in front of the village. As the boat drifted beneath a ring of lamplight, Malek took the rope from the Kaibile gunman who’d moved from the driver’s seat to the front. The ranger tied it to the cleat of the Nautique and brought both boats side by side.

  Smitty couldn’t help but admire Garrett’s coolness under pressure. Despite the mercenaries, he didn’t make a fuss. He just dug around in his cooler, pulled out a Tecate, and tossed the can to the bodyguard, who nearly lost his balance trying to catch it. The Kaibile was confused but content—cold cerveza in hand and a smile on his face. A brilliant move by the undercover agent.

  Garrett bellowed out a greeting like a drunken college kid, “¡Una chela muy fria, amigo!”

  Smitty rose from his seat, following the drug lord’s lead, and trailed him the few feet to the bow. Garza waved off the confused guard who stepped back to the boat’s controls, still wearing a baffled grin, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with his beer.

  Not missing a beat, Garrett tossed another Tecate to Garza, who fortunately seemed amused by the antics. No doubt, the cartel boss was more accustomed to cowering than bravado. But Garrett had made sure Smitty built these traits into their profiles. The drug lord knew to expect two drunk buffoons, arrogant and clueless as they were greedy.

  Not to be outdone in coolness under pressure, Garza cracked his Tecate, blew off the suds and took a sip. He raised it and smiled. “¡Salud!”