protectively. “I don’t remember much of it,” he confessed. “They sent me to a burn unit and did what they could. At least I was able to keep the arm, but I’ll never be much good in a tight corner again.”
“You mean you were before?” Eb asked with howling mockery.
Cy’s eyes widened, narrowed and suddenly he burst out laughing. “I’d forgotten what a bunch of sadists you and your men were,” he accused. “Before every search and destroy mission, somebody was claiming my gear and asking about my beneficiary.” Cy drew in a long breath. “I’ve been keeping to myself for a long time.”
“So we noticed,” came the dry reply. “I hear it took a bunch of troubled adolescents to drag you out of your cave.”
Cy knew what he meant. Belinda Jessup, a public defender, had bought some of the property on his boundary for a summer camp for youthful offenders on probation. One of the boys, an African-American youth who’d fallen absolutely in love with the cattle business, had gotten through his shell. He’d worked with Luke Craig, another neighbor, to give the boy a head start in cowboying. He was now working for Luke Craig on his ranch and had made a top hand. No more legal troubles for him. He was on his way to being foreman of the whole outfit, and Cy couldn’t repress a tingle of pride that he’d had a hand in that.
“Even assuming that we can send Lopez back to prison, that won’t stop him from appointing somebody to run his empire. You know how these groups are organized,” Cy added, “into cells of ten or more men with their chiefs reporting to a regional manager and those managers reporting to a high-level management designee. The damned cartels operate on a corporate structure these days.”
“Yes, I know, and they work complete with pagers, cell phones and faxes, using them just long enough to avoid detection,” Eb agreed. “They’re efficient and they’re merciless. God only knows how many undercover agents the drug enforcement people have lost, not to mention those from other law enforcement agencies. The drug lords make a religion of intimidation, and they have no scruples about killing a man and his entire family. No wonder few of their henchmen ever cross them. But one did, and Jessica knows his name. I don’t expect Lopez to give up. Ever.”
“Neither do I. But what are we going to do about Lopez’s planned operation?” Cy wanted to know.
Eb sobered. “I don’t have a plan yet. Legally, we can’t do anything without hard evidence. Lopez will be extra careful about covering his tracks this time. He won’t want anything that will connect him on paper to the drug operation. From what I’ve been able to learn, Lopez has already skipped town, forfeiting the bond. Believe me, there’s no way in hell he’ll ever get extradited from Mexico. The only way we’ll ever get him back behind bars again is to lure him back here and have him nabbed by the U.S. Marshals Service. He’s at the top of the DEA’s Most Wanted list right now.” He finished his second cup of coffee. “If we can get a legal wiretap on the phones in that warehouse once it’s operating, we might have something to take to the authorities. I know a DEA agent,” Eb said thoughtfully. “In fact, he and his wife are neighbors of yours. He’s gung-ho at his job, and he’s done some undercover work before.”
“Most of Lopez’s people are Hispanic,” Cy pointed out.
“This guy could pass for Hispanic. Good-looking devil, too. His wife’s father left her that small ranch…”
“Lisa Monroe,” Cy said, and averted his eyes. “Yes, I’ve seen her around. Yesterday she was heaving bales of hay over the fence to her horse,” he added in the coldest tones Eb had ever heard him use. “She’s thinner than she should be, and she has no business trying to heft bales of hay!”
“When her husband’s not home to do it for her…”
“Not home?” Cy’s eyes widened. “Good God, man, he was standing ten feet away talking to a leggy blond girl in an express delivery uniform! He didn’t even seem to notice Lisa!”
“It’s not our business.”
Cy moved abruptly, standing up. “Okay. Point taken. Suppose we ride up to the boundary and take a look at the progress on that warehouse,” he said. “We can take horses and pretend we’re riding the fence line.”
Eb retrieved high-powered binoculars from the truck and by the time he got to the stable, Cy’s young foreman had two horses saddled and waiting.
“Mr. Scott!” Harley said with a starstruck grin, running a hand absently through his crew-cut light brown hair. “Nice to see you, sir!” He almost saluted. He knew about Mr. Scott’s operation; he’d read all about it in his armchair covert operations magazine, to say nothing of the top secret newsletter to which he subscribed.
Eb gave him a measuring glance and he didn’t smile. “Do I know you, son?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Harley said quickly. “But I’ve read about your operation!”
“I can imagine what,” Eb chuckled. He stuck a cigar into his mouth and lit it.
Cy mounted offside, from the right, because there wasn’t enough strength in his left arm to permit him to grip the saddle horn and help pull himself up. He hated the show of weakness, which was all too visible. Up until the fire, he’d been in superb physical condition.
“We’re going to ride up to the northern boundary and check the fence line for breaks,” Cy said imperturbably. “Get Jenkins started on the new gate as soon as he’s through with breakfast.”
“He’ll have to go pick it up at the hardware store first,” Harley reminded him. “Just came in late yesterday.”
Cy gave him a look that would have frozen running water. He didn’t say anything. But, then, he didn’t have to.
“I’ll just go remind him,” Harley said at once, and took off toward the bunkhouse.
“Who is he?” Eb asked as they rode out of the yard.
“My new foreman.” Cy leaned toward him with mock awe. “He’s a real mercenary, you know! Actually went on a mission early this summer!”
“My God,” Eb drawled. “Fancy that. A real live hero right here in the boonies.”
“Some hero,” Cy muttered. “Chances are what he really did was to camp out in the woods for two weeks and help protect city campers from bears.”
Eb chuckled. “Remember how we were at his age?” he asked reminiscently. “We couldn’t wait for people to see us in our gear. And then we found out that the real mercs don’t advertise.”
“We were like Harley,” Cy mused. “All talk and hot air.”
“And all smiles.” Eb’s eyes narrowed with memory. “I hadn’t smiled for years by the time I got out. It isn’t romantic and no matter how good the pay is, it’s never enough for what you have to do for it.”
“We did do a little good in the world,” came the rejoinder.
“Yes, I guess we did,” Eb had to admit. “But our best job was breaking up one of Lopez’s cocaine processing plants in Central America and helping put Lopez away. And here he is back, like a bad bouncing ball.”
“I knew his father,” Cy said unexpectedly. “A good, honest, bighearted
