Boone entered the Valiant County sheriff’s station, which was fairly quiet on a Monday afternoon. From the outside it looked a lot like every small-town police station Boone had ever been in. There was a two-truck fire station attached to the south end of the building. At the back of the parking lot, a small building stood off by itself. A sign over the door read: Valiant County Animal Control. In front of the building was a black van. Dogs could be heard barking and howling inside the structure, causing Croc’s ears to prick up. Boone smiled at the thought of criminals and wayward dogs held at the same compound. He’d always believed if people loved and took care of dogs, there’d be a lot fewer criminals in the world.
The inside of the station was also familiar. A big wooden counter sat perpendicular to the front door. A desk sergeant working away on some paperwork occupied a stool behind it. Beyond that were four metal desks grouped together, one of them occupied by a deputy questioning a handcuffed man seated in a chair.
“No dogs allowed,” the desk sergeant said as Boone and Croc entered the station house. The sergeant looked up quickly, instantly dismissed Boone as anyone important, and returned to his task.
“He’s a service dog,” Boone answered.
The sergeant looked up again. He studied Boone with a skeptical eye.
“Service? For what?” he demanded.
“Anxiety. I need to see the sheriff,” Boone said.
“Why?” The desk deputy had now turned his attention to Croc.
“Because he has a couple of people in custody and I’m here to get them out,” Boone said. The deputy tried to give Boone a hard look and failed. Boone’s ponytailed gray hair and deeply lined face were impervious to intimidation.
“The sheriff is busy. Have a seat on the bench and he’ll get to you as soon as he can.”
Boone nodded to Croc as if signaling something, then sat on the bench, his long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Croc paced in front of the desk right below the officer’s nose. It only took a few minutes.
Scratching his pen over the reports, the desk sergeant suddenly looked up. He looked to his right and left and even behind him as if at first not understanding what was happening. Taking a manila file folder off the desk, he covered his nose with his other hand and waved it back and forth.
“Is that your dog, mister? Are you sure it ain’t sick? It smells like … like something … died!” He slipped off his stool and stepped back from the desk. The file folder was now a blur.
“I’m sorry, I don’t smell anything. I’m just waiting to see the sheriff so I can be on my way,” Boone said.
It didn’t take the sergeant long. Still covering his nose, he grabbed the phone on his desk and pushed a button, muttered something into the receiver, and hung up.
“The sheriff is right down the hall,” he said, pointing to Boone’s left.
Boone stood up. “Come on, Croc.”
Sheriff Hackett’s office door was open. Three glass panels to the left of the doorway made it appear a little brighter inside. On shelves behind his desk Boone spotted several trophies for pistol shooting, a small replica of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, and the assorted photos and certificates that every county sheriff in America possessed.
“May I help you?” the sheriff asked.
“I think so. My name is Boone. I understand you arrested a couple of men outside the Firebrand Ranch yesterday afternoon. I’m here to pick them up,” he said.
Sheriff Hackett leaned back in his chair and studied Boone. “I did take two men into custody yesterday afternoon. Imagine my surprise when I checked the IDs they were carrying and discovered they were from Homeland Security. Agents James and Younger?”
Boone knew X-Ray had given everyone various multiple sets of IDs but he couldn’t be sure which ones Eben and Ziv had used.
“Yes. James and Younger,” Boone said, making a mental note to instruct X-Ray not to create fake IDs named after famous outlaws. “Is there some reason you took them into custody?”
“Well, since I’ve never met you before in my life, let’s just say I didn’t like the way they looked, Mr. Boone. By the way, I don’t suppose your first name is Daniel, is it?” the sheriff asked.
Boone shook his head.
“No? Anyway, I also found two really interesting duffel bags in their trunk.”
“But as Homeland Security agents—” Boone began.
The sheriff held up his hand and removed a sheet of paper from an open file on his desk. “I don’t know many Homeland Security agents who carry a police uniform, two sawed-off shotguns, four 9-millimeter Beretta pistols, two Colt .45 Desert Eagle automatic pistols, a MAC-10 pistol with thirty mags of ammunition, two sets of brass knuckles, a bowie knife, four canisters of mace, an M-4 automatic rifle with five clips of ammo, six canisters of tear gas along with a tear-gas gun, two collapsible batons, a cattle prod, a bayonet, and two stun guns. I also checked passenger manifests for all commercial flights into San Antonio in the last three days. I don’t have any passengers named James and Younger arriving. But I suppose a couple of Homeland Security agents would have their own air transport, wouldn’t they?” He put the sheet down and glanced at Boone.
“They never know what their nation will require of them,” Boone said.
“Uh-huh,” the sheriff said. “Doesn’t look right to me.”
“Surely their credentials checked out,” Boone said.
“Oh, yes. See, that’s what I was working on right now. They’re in the federal database. Both of them are quite decorated. But when I call to verify their identities, no matter which number on their profile I dial, the same guy answers. He tries to change his voice. But it’s the same guy.”
Boone’s face showed nothing. He needed to tell X-Ray to change the phone contacts in the database so the verification calls were directed to Vanessa. She was a talented mimic and could pull it off. X-Ray was a technical genius but a horrible liar.
“Sheriff Hackett, I can assure you—” Boone said, but the sheriff interrupted him again.
“I don’t know who you are. Or who those two men are. But no one is going anywhere until I get this sorted out, and in fact—” The phone on his desk rang. He glanced at the phone, then hollered through the open door to the desk sergeant.
“Dang it, Mack! I said no calls!”
“I didn’t put one through!” the sergeant shouted back.
The phone kept ringing.
“I think you might want to answer that. And put it on speaker,” Boone said.
Hackett looked at Boone, then at the caller ID on the phone screen, and his eyes grew wide. He pushed a button on the phone. Before he could even say anything, a voice came over the line.
“Sheriff Tom Hackett?”
“Um. I … uh … yes. Who is this?” Sheriff Hackett asked.
“This is President J. R. Culpepper.”
“I … um … hello? Mr. President?”
“Do you have a question, Sheriff? I’m sure you recognize my voice, don’t you?”
“Yes … sir. I … recognize your voice,” he stammered. Sheriff Hackett sat up straighter in his chair.
“Good! The man across from you is Tyrone Boone. Older guy, gray ponytail. Sort of looks like Willie Nelson?”
“Ah. Yes, sir, that’s him,” Sheriff Hackett replied.
“Excellent. He works for me. So do the two men you have in your jail. I’m going to need you to release them,” J.R. said.
“Um. Mr. President, I’m … I’ve … I’m in a bit of a pickle here. They had a whole trunk full of weapons and if word gets out I let …” Sheriff Hackett said.
“Boone? You going to tell anyone?” J.R. asked.
“Don’t see why it would ever come up,” Boone said.
“I’m certainly not going to mention it. So there you go, Sheriff. Problem solved.”
The sheriff stood up at his desk now. “Mr. President, with all due respect—”
“Sheriff. I’ve looked into your background. I know you did two tours in the Middle East. You are, in fact, a highly decorated marine. Your marksmen scores are quite impressive and your service record book shows you were a squared-away jarhead, with outstanding performance appraisals across the board. If it were up to me, I’d tell you everything. But I can’t. All I can say is that these men are part of a vital national-security initiative. And I can’t have them eating bologna sandwiches and solving Sudoku puzzles in your jail right now. You have my word that if this causes you any grief, politically or any other way, I will do my very best to give you cover for it. I’m afraid that will have to do. Now, can you get my men out of your jail for me?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” the sheriff said.
“That’s great. Really great! I appreciate this, Sheriff. You have no idea. Boone?”
“Yes, J.R.?” Boone said.
“I’m by myself in the situation room again. My staff is about ready to cut through the door with a torch. I’ve got to get out there before they call Congress and invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Call me as soon as you have any news,” he said. The phone line went dead.
Sheriff Hackett looked at Boone. Then he looked down at Croc, who was curled up at Boone’s feet. It was almost as if he was noticing both of them for the first time.
“You call the president of the United States of America, ‘J.R.’?” He was incredulous.
“That’s his name,” Boone said.
The sheriff put his hand on his forehead and ran it over his buzz cut. He let out a long sigh.
“All right,” he said, “let’s get your men.”
A few minutes later the desk sergeant was handing Eben and Ziv two big envelopes with their personal effects. They dumped their wallets and keys and a few other items on the countertop and began to fill their pockets.
Eben peered into his envelope and shook his head. “Where is my watch?” he asked.
The desk sergeant, unsure of exactly what was happening, shook his head.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said.
The sheriff came down the hallway with two large duffel bags. He put them on the floor next to Boone.
“I sure hope you and your special cargo have a safe trip. Out of my county,” Sheriff Hackett said.
“We won’t be troubling you anymore, Sheriff,” Boone said.
“There will be trouble if I don’t get my watch in the next thirty seconds,” Eben said.
“Stop fussing over your watch like an old woman,” Ziv said. “It is unbecoming.”
“Sheriff. When you arrested me, I had a very nice watch on my wrist. It is not with the rest of my personal effects,” Eben said.
“It wasn’t that nice,” Ziv muttered.
“It is an Omega Seamaster,” Eben said.
The sheriff, no longer amused, held up his hand. “Wait here, Agent Younger. I locked your watch in my office. Let me get it.” He returned a few minutes later with the watch in his hand.
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Eben grinned broadly as he strapped his prized possession on his wrist. He looked at it admiringly and held it to his ear, to hear it tick. Ziv muttered a curse under his breath and grabbed the duffel bags, storming out of the station. Eben followed after him, whistling.
Boone put out his hand. Hackett shook it but didn’t look happy about it.
“Thank you, Sheriff. And thank you for your service to our country,” Boone said.
“Yeah. Right. Good day, Mr. Boone,” the sheriff said, turning on his heel and storming down the hallway to his office.