Reb's Rampage Page 8

  Reb stood up. The shotgun was loaded with Federal Premium Law Enforcement Tactical double-aught buckshot.

  Reb thumbed the Safety off. There was one round in the chamber and six rounds in the tube magazine.

  Reb took a deep breath and slowly released it to calm himself. The reason Reb had swapped the Barrett for the shotgun was because he was going to be shooting toward his next-door neighbor’s property and he didn’t want to have to worry about one of the Barrett’s big .50 caliber bullets traveling downrange and hitting anyone on his neighbor’s property. With the double-aught buckshot, Reb wouldn’t have to worry about hitting anything other than his intended target.

  Reb stepped outside the garage, raised the shotgun up to his shoulder, cocked the hammer, and took aim.

  The man who had given the five-minute ultimatum said, “This is your last chance.”

  Reb pulled the trigger on the shotgun. The nine .33 caliber pellets hit the man with the AK in the upper back just behind his right shoulder blade and punched sideways through his chest cavity destroying his lungs and heart.

  Reb racked the shotgun and turned it toward the man standing behind the front passenger-side door. Reb fired again and hit the man in the upper back, slamming him into the door before he fell dead to the ground.

  Reb’s next shot hit the driver of the car in the head.

  The man standing behind the rear door on the driver-side of the car realized where the shots that had killed his comrades had come from. He turned toward Reb, extended his gun hand out over the roof of the car, and started shooting his pistol at Reb. Wildly.

  Reb sent a shot through the open doors of the backseat of the car hitting the man in the abdomen, creating a large hole, and eviscerating him. The sudden loss of blood pressure led to the man’s almost instantaneous death.

  All the while Reb was shooting, Billy and Rusty and Dave were shooting from the farmhouse, too. By the time Reb fired his last shot, all of the cartel thugs were down and then there was silence.

  Reb stood up and walked out of the garage toward the car holding his shotgun at the ready just in case any of the cartel members had survived.

  The back door of the farmhouse opened and Billy, Dave, and Rusty came running out onto the back porch and spread out with their rifles at the ready just in case any of the cartel members were still alive.

  After confirming that all eight of the cartel members were dead and collecting their weapons just to be on the safe side, the four friends went over and sat down on the edge of the porch.

  “Kind of gets the old adrenaline pumping,” Rusty said.

  “Anybody get hit?” Dave asked, looking around to see if anyone was injured and in need of medical attention.

  Everybody looked at everybody else and not seeing any apparent wounds everybody shook their head to indicate no.

  “That’s good,” Dave said, very happy not to have to put the medic skills he’d acquired in the Vietnam war to good use.

  Rusty looked at Reb and said, “Damn, Reb, you attract bad guys like a magnet.”

  Reb shook his head in wonder and said, “First it was radical Islamic jihadis out to kill me and now it’s the drug cartel. Do I need to change my lifestyle or what?”

  “It’s a good thing the sound of a little gunfire doesn’t bother your neighbors too much,” Billy said.

  “Between all the shooting we do up at my range and what the local hunters do around here the neighbors are pretty much used to it,” Reb said.

  A phone started ringing and the four men all looked around to see whose phone it was. After a few more rings Reb got up from the edge of the porch and walked over to the bodies strewn around on the ground next to the two cars. He stood over one of the bodies for a moment listening and then bent over and retrieved the deceased owner’s still ringing phone. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to answer the phone. The phone indicated someone named Juan was calling.

  “Hello,” Reb said.

  “Who is this?” Juan—a man with a heavy Hispanic accent—demanded to know.

  “Who do you want to talk to?” Reb asked.

  “I want to talk to Eduardo.”

  “Eduardo can’t come to the phone right now,” Reb said.

  “Where the hell is he?” Juan asked.

  “If you’ll tell me where you are, I’ll be happy to bring him to you,” Reb said.

  Reb held the phone out in front of him then looked over at his three friends sitting on the edge of the porch. “Whoever it was hung up on me. I got the impression they weren’t expecting me to answer the phone. Damn it’s a shame we couldn’t capture one of them so we could go after whoever sent them.”

  “What do you plan to do about the bodies?” Billy asked.

  Reb turned to Rusty and Dave sitting on the edge of the porch and said, “Billy and I are going to go up to the shooting range and bury these bodies. If y’all don’t mind, take the weapons we collected off of these guys and the Barretts, the M4s, and the rest of our gear down to the bunker. After you get everything down there, if you’d run a cleaning patch down the bores of the Barretts and the M4s, until I can give them a proper cleaning, I’d sure appreciate it. You’ll find the cleaning kits in the gun safes down there. Oh, one other thing, close and lock the emergency exit door I left open in the bunker earlier and here’s the key to lock up the main door to the bunker when y’all are done. And, when y’all get back upstairs, see if you can put some duct tape or plastic on the windows where the panes got knocked out during the fire fight. Billy and I should be back by the time y’all are finished.”

  Reb then turned back to Billy and said, “If you don’t mind moving those two cars out of the way to the other side of the driveway, I’ll be right back.”

  While Billy was moving the two cars and Rusty and Dave started moving guns and gear down to the bunker, Reb walked over to the barn, went inside, and after a few minutes came driving out on his John Deere 110 tractor. It was equipped with a front end loader and a backhoe. He parked the tractor next to the bodies lying on the ground in the driveway and left it running while he went back to the barn. A couple of minutes later, Reb came driving out of the barn in the old, beat up looking four-wheel drive pickup truck he used around the farm for performing the nastier chores he didn’t want to use his SUV for. He drove it over to where the bodies were lying on the ground, parked, went around to the back of the truck, and let the tailgate down.

  Reb turned to Billy and said, “Give me a hand loading these bodies into the bed of the truck.” Billy grabbed hold of the ankles of one of the bodies while Reb grabbed hold of the wrists. They swung the body back and forth a couple of times before throwing it into the bed of the pickup. They repeated the same procedure seven more times.

  When they were done loading the bodies into the bed of the pickup, Reb got back on the tractor and Billy got in the pickup and followed Reb to a spot near the shooting range. Reb used the backhoe attachment on the tractor to dig a hole large enough to hold all eight bodies. After he and Billy threw the bodies into the hole, Reb used the front-end loader to cover the bodies with dirt.

  * * *

  After returning the tractor and the old pickup truck to the barn, locking the back door to the farmhouse, and locking the bunker’s emergency exit door inside the garage, the four friends headed back to Seaside Beach. It was only 4:30 p.m. The way Reb drove, they had more than enough time to get back to Rusty’s Marina in time for the DEA’s press conference.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ramon Vicario’s Residence

  Sailor Creek

  Lillian, Alabama

  Wednesday, May 5, 2010

  4:05 p.m. CDT

  Juan looked at his watch and saw it had been half an hour since he had called Eduardo to find out if Eduardo’s and Hector’s crews had been successful in recovering the stolen drugs at Reb Rogers’ farm. Although it had dawned on him that the person who had answered Eduardo’s phone and who had told him Eduardo couldn’t come to the phone must have kil
led Eduardo, Juan had held out hope that some of the men had survived. But not having heard from anyone by this time, Juan had come to the conclusion that all of the men had been killed.

  “Boss, Reb Rogers and the men with him must have killed them all,” Juan said. “What do you want to do?”

  “Call Javier,” Ramon said. “Tell him I want him to round up seven of his best men and to come here to the house as soon as possible. Tell Javier what has happened and tell him to bring whatever weapons and ammunition he feels he will need so we can kill the sons of bitches who have stolen our drugs.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  * * *

  Ramon and Juan were in Ramon’s office. Ramon was at his desk doing some work on his computer and Juan was seated on the couch watching something on the big screen TV mounted on the wall. Ramon’s phone rang and, when he looked at the caller ID, he saw it was the reporter, Carl Robbins, calling.

  “What do you want, Carl?” Ramon asked.

  “Hey, Ramon. Are you watching the local news?” Carl asked, sounding all excited.

  “No, why should I be?” Ramon asked.

  “Ramon, turn on your TV now and put it on any of the local channels.”

  “What the hell’s going on Carl?”

  “Just turn on the TV, Ramon, and you’ll see.”

  Ramon snapped his fingers to get the attention of Juan—who was watching a steamy soap opera on Univision. When Juan looked around to see what Ramon wanted, Ramon said, “Change the channel to one of the local news stations.”

  Juan looked disappointed but changed the channel to Fox 10 in Mobile.

  What Ramon saw turned what had already been a bad day into one of the worst days of his life. The TV was showing the cartel’s drug sub tied up at a dock with two men standing on the deck of the sub. The two men were shaking hands while holding one of those giant publicity-stunt-size checks, the type seen being given to some lucky winner on TV all of the time. The check was from the DEA and was made out to the Seaside Beach Police Department in the amount of Ten Million Dollars.

  Ramon heard the announcer say, “—early this morning. Local police Chief, Billy Morris—who happened to be out night fishing with friends—noticed what turned out to be a large drug transaction worth an estimated two hundred million dollars taking place between some local fishing boats and a coastal freighter. When Chief Morris attempted to make an arrest, the local boats and the freighter fled the scene, leaving behind this drug sub loaded with illegal drugs. Chief Morris and his friends were able to tow the drug sub back to Rusty’s Marina here in Seaside Beach. When Chief Morris contacted the DEA to report the large drug haul, he was pleasantly surprised to learn the DEA was offering a ten million dollar reward for the capture of a drug sub.”

  Realizing that he wasn’t going to be able to recover his drugs or his drug sub, Ramon stood up and screamed at Juan, “Turn off the damn TV.”

  Ramon turned his attention back to Carl on the phone. “Goddammit Carl, I thought you were calling with good news.”

  “Sorry about that, Ramon, but I thought you’d want to know what happened to your drug sub and the drugs in case you didn’t already know,” Carl said.

  “Next time you call, you better have something I can use,” Ramon said and started to hang up.

  “Hold on a second, Ramon,” Carl said. “I’ve got something you might find useful.”

  “And what would that be, Carl?”

  “Honey Brown is in Cancun, Mexico this week doing a shoot.”

  “Who the fuck is Honey Brown and what does ‘doing a shoot’ mean?”

  “Honey Brown is Reb Rogers’ girlfriend, Ramon,” Carl said. “She’s a big-time model and she’s getting her photograph taken modeling swimsuits on the beach right there in your cartel’s backyard in Cancun, Mexico this week.”

  “Carl, that information just earned you a bag of cocaine,” Ramon said. “I’ll let you know when you can pick it up.”

  “Thanks, Ramon,” Carl said. “I’ll be seeing you later then.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Ramon Vicario’s Residence

  Sailor Creek

  Lillian, Alabama

  Wednesday, May 5, 2010

  5:30 p.m. CDT

  Ramon called his cousin, Carlos, to let him know what he’d discovered.

  “Hello, Ramon,” Carlos said when he answered his phone. “Please tell me you have recovered the drug sub, the drugs, and killed the sons of bitches who stole them from us.”

  “Carlos, I have bad news and I have good news,” Ramon said.

  “Then you’d better give me the fucking bad news first, cousin,” Carlos said.

  “The sons of bitches who stole our drug sub and the drugs killed eight of my men this afternoon when we tried to recover the drugs. We did not recover the drugs,” Ramon said.

  “So, send more men next time and get the fucking drugs back, cousin,” Carlos said.

  “The sons of bitches who stole our drug sub and the drugs turned out to be an honest police chief and a friend of his. They turned the drug sub and the drugs over to the DEA. They held a press conference a little while ago and broadcast it live on TV. I saw it on the local news. Carlos, we won’t be getting the drugs or the drug sub back.”

  For almost two full minutes, Ramon heard Carlos rant and scream profanities. Then the phone went quiet and Ramon thought Carlos had hung up on him or maybe had a stroke. Then he heard Carlos say, “You said you have some good news?”

  “Yes, Carlos. Reb Rogers, the friend of the police chief, who helped steal the drug sub and the drugs, has a girlfriend who is a famous model. I have found out she is in Cancun on a modeling assignment this week. I was thinking, if you could arrange to have her kidnapped, we could hold her for ransom to recoup some of our loss,” Ramon said.

  “I have a better idea,” Carlos said. “We will kidnap this Honey Brown and tell this Reb Rogers we will exchange her for him. When we have him, we will torture him and eventually kill him. I’ll send his body to you so you can tie a rope to it and hang it from a bridge. That will send a message to anyone else who thinks it’s a good idea to fuck with the Vicario cartel.”

  “What about the girl?” Ramon asked. “You’re not really going to let her go, are you?”

  Carlos laughed. “Of course not, cousin. Why would I?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Cancun, Mexico

  Wednesday, May 5, 2010

  7:30 p.m. EDT

  Four police cruisers pulled into the driveway of the Royal Cancun Hotel, where Honey and her crew were staying, and came to a screeching halt in front of the main entrance. Eight policemen piled out of the cruisers and, led by Comandante Jorge Garcia, they made a beeline to the hotel’s front desk.

  When the policemen arrived at the front desk, the on-duty manager said, “Comandante, how may I be of service?”

  “You have a guest staying here by the name of Honey Brown? An American, I believe.”

  “Why yes, we do, Comandante,” the manager replied. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, there is no problem,” Comandante Garcia said. “What room is she in?”

  The manager turned to his assistant and said, “What is Miss Brown’s suite number?”

  “She’s in suite 1012,” the assistant said, “but she’s not in. She and the other lady who is staying in the suite with her, her business manager, left together, a short while ago. They asked for directions to Humberto’s, a restaurant not far from here.”

  “Miss Brown and her companion will be checking out,” Comandante Garcia informed the hotel manager. “Since they will not be returning to the hotel, please give me the key to their suite so one of my officers can retrieve their luggage.”

  * * *

  Honey and her business manager, Sarah Smith, a former model herself, were sitting at one of the sidewalk tables at Humberto’s restaurant. They were going over the schedule for the next day’s photo shoot, as they waited for their dinners to be served, when several uniformed Police off
icers surrounded their table.

  The officer who was in charge stepped up to the table and said, “Excuse me, Senoritas, I am Comandante Garcia of the Cancun Police Department. Which one of you is Honey Brown?”

  Honey said, “I am, Comandante Garcia. And this is my business manager, Sarah Smith. Is there a problem?”

  “Senorita Brown, I am very sorry to have to disturb your dinner, but I must ask that you and Senorita Smith come with me immediately.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?” Honey asked as she started to become concerned.

  “We have information that an attempt will be made to kidnap you this evening. My orders are to take you into protective custody. Please, if you will both come with me, now.”

  Honey and Sarah stood up from the table. “Where will you be taking us?” Honey asked.

  “My orders are to take you to a safe house,” Comandante Garcia said.

  “What about our things back at the hotel?” Sarah asked.

  “One of my officers is taking care of that as we speak. Your things will be brought to you.

  “Now, senoritas, if you will please accompany me and my men back to our vehicles, we will escort you to the safe house.”

  The police cruisers were parked a short distance away and, when they arrived there, Honey and Sarah got into the back seat of Comandante Garcia’s car and he got into the front passenger seat.

  No sooner than Honey and Sarah had fastened their seat belts, all four of the police cruisers pulled out into traffic with their lights flashing and sirens squawking.

  They had only gone a short distance when Comandante Garcia’s phone rang.

  “This is Garcia,” he answered.

  The Comandante listened to what the caller was saying for several seconds and then the call ended abruptly without the Comandante saying another word. He put his phone away and then gave the driver some instructions in rapid fire Spanish, too fast for Honey to follow.