Thirty-One
Brock sat with several border patrol agents at a hole-in-the-wall cantina near the Bridges of America border crossing in El Paso, buying everyone beer and appetizers, while also handing out copious amounts of cash—all part of his effort to recruit help at all three border crossings from El Paso into Mexico. He knew he needed an army out there if he had any chance of intercepting his targets before they got across. The cash rolls seemed to be working. Brock was promising a huge bonus to whoever discovered and held his targets until he got there. The young guys were burning up their phones recruiting help from all their work friends, acting like they’d all just won the lottery. Everyone could be bought. Even government officials. Especially on the border.
Brock quickly stepped out of the cantina when he got a text.
Police found the van!
He responded: Where?
Shopping mall called Cielo Vista. Get over there. Someone spotted the wife and daughter at a Red Lobster. No arrests yet.
On my way.
Brock slipped back inside to tell the border patrol guys to continue to recruit, tossed more cash on the table, then hurried over to a white GMC Yukon he’d rented at the airport. The engine rumbled loudly and he tore out of the parking lot. He was working the steering wheel and his phone at the same time, trying to pull up the exact location. The restaurant was only eight minutes away from him. He floored it. With each swift turn, the SUV’s tires slid on the wet asphalt. He got to the shopping mall and circled through the various parking lots until he found the section with the Red Lobster. He stopped a good distance away, stared through the windshield as the wipers shifted back and forth to clear the raindrops. The police were everywhere. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to get close enough to handle any of this with a handgun.
Parking the Yukon, he reached into the back seat, grabbed his rifle bag, and pulled out his backcountry hunting rifle. He was probably going to have to do this from a distance. He just hoped he had enough time to get away after completing the assignment with so many cops around. He started devising his strategy. All he had to do was somehow get to the border. He’d just bought himself as much help as he needed to quickly get through and avoid being pursued. He would then camp in Juárez for a few days until everything died down again. It was a risky plan. But it was all he had. He couldn’t blow this again.
After rolling down his passenger window, he positioned the rifle through the opening and put his eye to the scope. Now he had an up-close view of all the faces surrounding the restaurant and the van. He quickly searched the different clusters of people. So far, there was no sign of Cole and Lisa Shipley or their daughter. The police officers’ body language told him no one had been arrested yet. But he could see a whole gang of officers searching the premises with their guns drawn. He knew the FBI was also on-site. They had all converged in one location, and something told Brock all hell was about to break loose.
He was ready for it. He thrived in chaos.
Pulling his eye away from the gun, Brock grabbed a small white cloth from his rifle bag to clean the moisture from his scope. The rain was really coming down now. While he did that, something caught his attention over to his right in the parking lot. He squinted. Someone was hiding behind a parked car and watching what was going on over at the police scene. Brock put his eye back to the scope and aimed his gun in that direction. He cursed. Cole Shipley. Before Brock could put his finger on the trigger, the guy was already on the move. He was darting in and out of vehicles, staying low, making his way back toward a mall entrance. Brock tried to line him up, but it was difficult. The guy kept weaving and bobbing. Brock knew he had only one chance to pull the trigger. He had no sound suppressor on his rifle. The shot would be loud and alert the cops. With one shot, they might not know where it came from. But multiple shots would put a direct target on him.
Brock steadied himself. Cole was now up on the sidewalk, ten feet away from the doors. It was now or never. Brock pulled the trigger. The bullet missed his target and shattered a glass door only inches behind Cole. He cursed. Setting the rifle down, he grabbed his handgun from the dashboard, jumped out, and raced toward the mall.