The Ranger - Ace Atkins [92]
Ruth laid out a topographic map, and the men studied it before they agreed on a plan of assault, piled in their vehicles, and made their way up to the northeast part of the county, winding their way up through the thick young pines on the land Gowrie squatted. Some of the narc guys had brought along four-wheelers, and they drove them down from ramps on the country road, smiling under their baseball caps, with rifles slung off their backs.
Shit-kicking time.
The bureau men followed four Tibbehah County patrol cars, everyone in their department, including Lillie, Leonard, and George, and headed into the land, bumping along the twisting gravel road high on a hill and then dipping east along the slopes of the hard-cut hills into what had been a hunting camp maybe twenty years back, the land still marked with the old owner’s name, T. C. McCain.
Lillie drove the department’s Jeep, Wesley Ruth sat beside her holding a Winchester pump between his legs and chewing gum. He hadn’t worn a vest, and Lillie had told him he was acting like a hot dog, and he’d said the goddamn thing wouldn’t let him breathe.
Lillie, with her hair up in a ponytail and threaded through the ball cap, bulging with a protective vest, just shrugged and said, “It’s your show, boss.”
“When’d you start calling me boss?”
“When you started acting like one.”
A cold rain pinged the windshield as they wound their way down the hill and stopped down at the trailers and a large burned-out barn. Lillie backed into a cleared piece of land a good distance from the first trailer, where the land began to slope, decent room to get out fast the way they’d come, wheels turned uphill.
She gripped a 12-gauge, pockets bulging with more shells, a Glock on her hip holding seventeen rounds.
“No wonder you intimidate most men,” Wesley said, smiling.
“Only the pussies,” she said, grinning.
They met up at the foot of the ravine and spread out as the rain really started to hit the cold dry ground. They felt the rain turn to sleet, making the silence seem electric and charged, every one of them watching doors and windows for movement from a faded curtain or down by the charred opening of what was left of the barn, maybe someone popping out from those blackened freezers, lying out like coffins.
They heard the scampering first, and saw the flit of movement from up the hill.
Everyone trained their weapons on the fast brown blur, cocking hammers and sighting down the barrels of rifles. Lillie took in a deep breath as the movement broke from the dead leaves of branches.
A couple skinny pit bulls started to bark, running to them. Wesley kicked the shit out of one, sending it flying a few feet, both dogs scampering away.
“That’ll give you a start,” Lillie said to an old trooper who brought down his gun, slow and easy.
“I would’ve shot ’em.”
Ruth nodded to Leonard and George, sending them to the first trailer, the state men spreading out, knocking on doors first and then kicking them in, finding trash and upturned couches, plastic bags of trash and clothes, and children’s toys. By the fourth trailer, the old trooper was on the radio, and the four-wheelers buzzed on down Hell Creek and crossed along a sandy shoal, hitting their engines into a high whine up a hill.
They found only two vehicles left. One was up on blocks. The other was missing an engine. Both of them had FOR SALE signs in the cracked windshields.
Lillie had pulled the hood of her jacket up over her baseball cap, hands in pockets. Within fifteen minutes Wesley had holstered his .45, calling a huddle with the state men, pointing up the hill to a few more trailers, the men shrugging and trudging up through the small gum trees and pines.
“What do you say, boss?” Lillie asked as she approached him, George and Leonard at her heels. “You want us to stick around and see what shakes out?”
“They’re long gone,” Wesley said, spitting on the ground. “And they ain’t comin’ back.”
“What a shame,” Lillie