Everything needed for the volunteer work with Texas Parks and Wildlife was hauled out in two box bed trucks, so Sheila and Pat only had to pack their clothes and bath supplies. The three men, on the other hand, scurried around for the better part of three hours, gathering up firearms, cutlery, ammo, lighting, night vision gear, food, camping gear, and beer and other adult beverages.
The guys rode out in Raymond’s old, beat-up hunting van, driving south out of Austin with Pat’s shiny new one-ton diesel truck close behind. Finally, turning west on Highway 90, they came to a sign indicating the small community of Sanderson was coming up. They turned south on a gravel mining road for about eighteen miles until they reached the parking lot and the old mining building.
Eighteen miles south of State Highway 90 in that part of Texas is about a hundred miles from nowhere. The international space station was closer to civilization, and that’s just the way the three old amigos wanted it. It had been years since they had taken time to relax and do something they all loved together. They talked a lot about Mrs. Travis as the miles rolled by on the lonely Texas highway, about how much they all missed her and what she meant to them. Each of them choked up a little as they talked about her. For a very long time, she had been the glue that held Texas together. She was the First Lady of Texas and always would be.
They also talked about the deer lease they once had together outside the little town of Llano on the Llano River. They had kept that lease together for more than ten years, but the world and work had finally made it too difficult to find time to schedule hunting trips together, so they gave it up. Since then, the only real time they spent together was working in politics or, only lately, chasing bad guys for Marty.
The three old friends were excited about the chance to spend some relaxing time together, just hunting and enjoying each other’s company. In fact, they were so excited that they didn’t notice that a van had been following them ever since they turned on Highway 90 at Dryden.
When they pulled into the caliche parking lot, Raymond backed up to the front door, the only door still operable. The side and rear doors in the building had been welded shut in an effort to prevent vandalism from Mexicans crossing the border on foot and making their way north.
They got out of the vehicle and strode quickly up to the door. J.P. grabbed what he called his “night key,” a small pry bar, and popped the padlock off the door.
As they walked inside, they didn’t notice the other van parked out on the dirt road. The road was on the west side of the parking lot, and the setting sun shone directly into their eyes.
Inside, the three men looked for anything that might be evidence tying any one of the main players to the kidnapping of Raymond and Sheila, and thus to the plans of the Chinese. The three amateurs hoped to find something before Pat and Sheila arrived to spoil their fun.
“Over here,” Raymond yelled, bending down to pick up some camouflage cloth that turned out to be a shirt. “I’m pretty sure one of my guards was wearing this,” he said. “It’s definitely been out here a while.” He stuffed it into a backpack and continued with his search.
“Here’s a couple of old spoons,” Sam said. He leaned down, picked the two eating utensils up, and held his flashlight on them. “Do you think these might have DNA on them?”
“Possible,” Raymond said, “but there’s probably been a thousand or more illegals using this old building for shelter on their way north, so any one of them could have used those spoons, or anything else lying around.”
So they still had nothing concrete that would tie the ex-president, Senator Mitchell, or the attorney general to the mining office.