Dark Jury (Sons of Texas Book 2), page 1
Rob Bartley
Dark Jury
A “Sons Of Texas” Novel
First published by Independently Published 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Rob Bartley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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To my Mother
Between bowhunting from the roof, chasing flaming rats with a hockey stick, and dealing with various head injuries, I learned that I could do anything I want, but I have to accept the consequences for my actions.
Thanks for not trying to Nerf the world. Being Dangerous is much more fun!
Prologue
The box truck shook over the uneven roads and jostled the driver. Moving at a slow pace down the red clay roads, he wove between the pines. The washouts and rocks abused the rental truck’s suspension, but it was a necessary sacrifice. The driver wasn’t pleased about it, but it wasn’t the worst road he had ever traveled. At least there were no IEDs. Now that he thought about it, there might be.
The headlights yielded him just enough light to keep the beast on the road as he got near the drop point. As he came to the gate, he pumped the brakes and stopped about 10 feet from the post. He lined the headlights up so he’d be able to see when he unlocked the gate. The last time he had come here, he hadn’t, and the old lock had given him trouble.
He left the engine on and placed the truck in park. He opened the door and started to get out of the truck when the first shot took out his passenger headlight.
That paranoid idiot.
“Merle!” he yelled. “It’s me! It’s Montcrieff.”
From a few hundred yards away, off in the woods to his right, he heard Merle’s voice.
“Well, dammit. Why didn’t you call? And where’s your truck?”
“Just get down here.”, Montcrieff said.
“One minute.”, Merle answered.
Montcrieff felt ragged. He looked the part, as well. His former military jacket and jeans were worn and wrinkled. His hair was long, limp, and greasy. Once he completed this drop-off, he’d find some small motel and get a hot shower.
As Montcrieff waited for Merle to get down to the road, he had to admit that Merle had a point. He didn’t give him a warning, and he wasn’t in his truck. He waited, and the lumbering form came out of the woods carrying a long rifle.
“How long?” Montcrieff asked.
“I had you for the last 3 miles. I knew when you left the road.”, Merle said.
“Damn, Merle. That’s just spooky.”, Montcrieff said.
“It’s what I do.”, Merle said. “Did you get your cargo?”
Montcrieff nodded. “That’s why I had to bring the truck. The good news is that I got her out. The bad news is that she’s unconscious. So, I have the bed in the back. We need to get her back to the bunker.”
Merle nodded. “I have it ready. I’ll keep her safe.” To prove the point, Merle racked the bolt on his M40A5 Sniper rifle.
Montcrieff had been around guns his entire life, and he viewed them as tools. Even in an enemy’s hands, Montcrieff weighed the man, not the weapon, when calculating the size of a threat. In the hands of Merle Douglas, that particular gun was more than a tool. It was the whispering call of the angel of death.
Designed for the US Marines, each of those rifles are custom worked in the Marine Corps base at Quantico. Built like a Remington 700, they change the barrel’s rifling and bolt assembly to specifications consistent with the Marine Sniper school. These weren’t civilian rifles, and the Marines didn’t just hand them out to anyone with a passing interest.
Merle Douglas had told Montcrieff that if he wanted his help protecting the package, he would do it, but it would mean Montcrieff would have to do two things. The first was that Merle would protect the package on his land in his bunker. The second is that before he’d consider helping, he wanted an M40A5 like he had in Afghanistan.
Montcrieff knew that he couldn’t get one from the Marines, so he did the next best thing: He made some calls. Several thousands of dollars later, he had two M40A5s of US Marine manufacture in his hands. While the Marines would never part with one, a certain quartermaster with the Afghan National Army accepted his bribe for two of the rifles that had been gifted to their forces by the US.
Now that Merle had been reunited with his old friend, no one was effectively safe for 1000 yards if Merle was around. To be truthful, the distance was longer than that, but then Merle never liked to brag.
Montcrieff opened the gate, and Merle climbed into the passenger seat. They drove through the gate and took the last mile of red clay road to a hillside. The hill was little more than 45 feet taller in elevation than the land surrounding it. The bunker was covered in light trees and small bushes losing leaves on this November evening. Through the illumination supplied by the single headlight, Montcrieff swung the back of the truck around to the heavy metal door.
Montcrieff killed the truck, and they went around back. After a moment of fiddling with the lock, they rolled up the white door. Montcrieff took a glowstick, broke it, and tossed it into the truck’s back to reveal the cargo.
In the truck’s back was a hospital gurney, tied off on each corner to the truck’s walls. The four bands held the bed tight. While Montcrieff began to disconnect the straps, Merle went to look at the occupant of the bed. It was an older black woman. Her arms were rail-thin, and her long hair was ribboned with streaks of white. Her face showed no sign of pain or discomfort. Even in the diffused light, she looked at peace. Merle would guess that she looked to be around 80.
“So, while we move her, give me the plan again.”, Montcrieff said.
As they rolled the gurney to the truck’s edge, Merle hopped down and lifted the lower half of the gurney. “You’re going to be gone for a week or two. My job is to secure the location. I run off the grid. No contact in or out until you get back.”
“Correct,” Montcrieff said. “If the plan goes right, what are the next steps.”
“If you have success, you’ll come back here. You may be alone, you may send someone, or you may be with someone. In any case, you’ll fly a red flag on the car if all is well. If all is well, you come in, the handoff is made, and I get paid.”
“Right. Now, what are the special instructions?” Montcrieff asked.
“Feed her and care for her. Keep her alive.”, Merle said.
Montcrieff asked in a measured voice. “Perfect. What if I fail?”
Merle recited, “If you fail, then she is alone in this world. Her enemies will be seeking her and maybe on their way. In that case, I break radio silence and make the call.”
Montcrieff nodded. Like NASA, he didn’t consider failure to be an option. Still, chance favors the prepared mind.
“Merle, we didn’t cover this before because I wanted to make sure that you were on board. I’ve set up your account to be paid regardless of the outcome. If I fail, I won’t need the money anyway. Either way, you’re doing me a real solid. You’re the only one of the old guard I could trust.”
Merle shook his head in disagreement. “You could have told Kyle.”
“No. Kyle’s not pragmatic. He’s an idealist. He wouldn’t understand, and he wouldn’t listen to me. We have too much history.”, Montcrieff said.
“You took a bullet for him, man.”, Merle reminded. “He’s not the type to let that pass.”
Montcrieff sighed with a bit of regret. “Merle, trust me. He hates me. And, even if he didn’t, he does now. I burned one of his friends, down near the border, to get my intel. You know him. He won’t let that slide.”
“Your call,” Merle shrugged. “I have the package and the instructions. You need to get rolling if you want to make it out of here in time.”
Montcrieff nodded. “Adjust the plan based on your judgment but keep her safe, Merle. I’ll lock the gate on my way out.”
“Don’t forget, you’re down a headlight, too. No speeding.” Merle waved, and Montcrieff got in the truck. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
Montcrieff nodded. He backed the truck up and turned it around. He angled the empty behemoth up the hill and drove back through the gate.
Many things were going to have to go right for him to make it back here in time, but then he wasn’t planning on anything less. Now, he needed to get to Dal
As he made the road and pointed the hood west on I-20, he turned on his cell phone for the first time in days. As the phone worked through its operating system, it acquired his service company’s signal, and he was free to make a call.
He dialed information and waited for the operator to pick up.
“AT&T, how may I help you?” the recording said.
“I’d like the address of the Dallas office of Peso Star Midstream and their hours of operation. I have a business venture to propose.”, Montcrieff said. “It’s a deal that they’ll be dying to do.”
Chapter 1
In the short time that Mason had lived in the Wilson house, he and Ricardo had found a kind of rhythm. Finding this equilibrium was an essential thing because Ricardo could not leave the house, and Mason had decided to call it home. Nowhere was this balance more evident than in each of their morning rituals.
Ricardo preferred a quiet morning of drinking coffee while reading the fashion section and the newspaper’s front page. Mason always awoke and went for his morning run. Afterward, he would shower and come downstairs to drink coffee and read the finance section. Both acknowledged each other’s existence, but neither attempted conversation before both of them had completed their coffee.
This equilibrium, however, was currently being tested by AJ.
Like other Knights, AJ kept a residence away from the Wilson house. Once they built the Texas Motor Speedway, north of Fort Worth, AJ had moved to a plot of land near the track. As a result, he rarely came into Dallas or stayed at the Wilson house. More often than not, he was either at his home or off consulting with a race team. This last week, however, he had been staying at the house and overhauling Carol’s car.
This turn of events came about when Douglas decided to buy Carol the same car model that her father had taught her to drive in. It was a 1948 Pontiac Torpedo. Douglas had asked if he could hide the car in their garage to surprise his wife in a week on her birthday. Despite AJ having been gone for months, he showed up at the house as the car was being delivered. After a quick discussion, in which Douglas said very little, AJ told Douglas that his gift to their beloved neighbor was that the car was going “to be right” before it left his garage.
Since then, AJ had practically lived in the garage. He had been in and out of the house at all hours. Teams of gearheads that owed AJ favors had been delivering parts and helping AJ at all hours of the day. It was as if someone had kicked over an automotive ant pile in that garage, and every grease monkey in the Lone Star state was coming to protect the queen.
That is why it was no surprise when AJ, covered in multiple engine fluids, walked into the kitchen whistling “On the Road Again” and began to make a sandwich. Mason looked up from the finance page, as Ricardo looked up from the fashion page, and they eyed AJ, respectively.
“Is this musical homage the harbinger of mechanical triumph?” Ricardo asked, hopefully.
AJ seemed to ignore the grease on his fingers as he put a few slices of ham between the now stained slices of white bread. He took the plate, sat it on the table, grabbed a glass, and poured coffee in it. AJ never used a coffee mug; he always drank from a glass. “Yup, that car’s engine tolerated years of northern weather and an owner that didn’t warm the engine enough. That engine ran rougher than a corn cob. Now, she’s been trued up and reworked. She’s going to run like a champion.”
“Where does that put you on your timeline?” Mason asked.
“I’ll nail down the transmission later today. Got a few boys coming over to do some metalwork later. We have to fix some of the effects of middle eastern sandy roads. My plan is to be done by Thursday.”, AJ said between bites.
“Well, whatever the cost for the parts and labor are, Grover and I wanted to pay part of it.”, Mason added.
“Pfft, none of this cost a dime. It’s all swaps. All these guys owe me one, if not several, favors.” AJ waved dismissively.
Mason nodded in understanding but made sure to emphasize the point. “Still, we appreciate the quality of work done, and we want to contribute any way we can.”
“We’ve all made money together, Mason. We’ve all worked on each other’s cars. If I tried to pay for anything, I’d offend them.”, AJ explained. “The best way to help is to bring home a few cases of beer and some ribs for dinner. I’ll have five guys here. That’s a ‘thank you’ they’ll accept.”
“Done. I’m bringing home some Cattleack BBQ then.”, Mason said.
AJ tipped his coffee glass towards Mason, “There you go. That’s beef diplomacy at its finest. Why I remember back in Nam’ when….” AJ froze in mid-sentence listening. “Moving trucks.”
Ricardo, AJ, and Mason leaped from their chairs and ran to the front porch.
When Hiram Wison had originally bought the property, he had built the Wilson House. Later, he had built two more houses for his children. One of them had stayed in the family. After a few decades, it had been remodeled and it was currently the home of their neighbors Douglas and Carol Henderson. The other home had been lost in a poker game by Hiram’s son. Since that time, the home had sat vacant and rotted. Grover had nicknamed the house “The Wart” but all of that had changed.
The three of them stood on the front porch as a group of rental trucks made their way around the circle. They pulled in front of the place where the Wart used to stand. Since this April, construction workers descended on the dilapidated house. The entire structure was removed and rebuilt in its place was a house that was difficult to describe.
Mason happened to meet the architect that had designed the house one day when he was out for his run, and the workers were pouring the foundation. Her name was Jenn Craddock, and she was with JHP. In talking with her, Mason discovered that she typically worked on multi-unit urban living spaces. She had been tasked with developing something that blended the lot’s unique elevation challenges and fit in with the two existing homes on the street. Of course, both houses had differing and defined styles. Meanwhile, the buyers wanted the place to have a modern look that merged with the property’s trees and sightlines.
As the moving trucks rolled in, he was able to appreciate the street appeal of what she had created. As far as he was concerned, she had threaded the needle and nailed it. The home had large windows that allowed the natural light and the lake’s view to have a prominence in the house. At the same time, it blended with the nature around it. Despite the modern addition being a newer style, it complemented the cul-du-sac. It felt right, and, considering the challenge, that was quite a mean feat.
The movers were in the process of bringing in furniture and artwork as Mason looked at his watch.
“Gents, I have to get to work. Ricardo keep me up to date on if we get a neighbor sighting. AJ, I’ll be bringing the meat and the beer later.”, Mason said as he ducked back inside and grabbed his satchel.
“See you later,” he offered as he walked across the lawn and climbed into Jane’s driver seat.
As Jane, his white 1968 Ford F100 pickup, cleared her throat and rumbled with the fury of a finely tuned V-8. Mason gave them a salute and backed out of the driveway. He slowly passed the moving trucks to be careful of the workers. Once he was past them, he went down the hill to the gate. Javier was working at the gate.
“Good morning, Javier. We know anything about the neighbor’s yet?” Mason asked.
“I know two things,” Javier reported. “The first is that they have expensive stuff because that moving company is bonded. They’re white glove guys, know what I mean? The second thing I know is that they’re driving Stewart crazy with their multiple shell companies out of California. He has no idea who owns the title to that house, and that’s driving him nuts. Lawyers are funny that way.”
Mason smiled, “You got that dead right.” Stewart Thurmond rarely faced a legal quandary that had become so byzantine as the number of LLCs and S-corps tied to this house’s funding. The fact that was discovering who owned the long, lost plot had been a long-term project made the frustration more palpable for the attorney.
“Well, I’ll be home about the usual time but buzz me if you need me.”, Mason said.
