“If you got business with Mr. Jackson here, that’s no concern of mine. You want to get on with it, I’m glad to leave.”
Cort Wesley glanced at the two limp frames on either side of Guillermo Paz. “What about them?”
“I couldn’t even tell you their names.”
“The fact is, I’ve got business with both of you,” Cort Wesley told him. “And, just for the record, it was my son you kidnapped to roust me. Well, consider me rousted.”
Rawls glared at Jackson across the desk, then turned back to Cort Wesley. “You put a couple construction workers I was paying in the hospital during this unfortunate protest. In responding to that, Mr. Jackson here overstepped his bounds. If you’d let me make it up to you and your boy, I’d be glad to—”
“What about my oldest son?” Cort Wesley broke in, before Rawls could finish his thought.
“You didn’t kidnap him too, did you?” Rawls snapped toward Jackson.
Sam Bob was in the midst of a shrug when Cort Wesley resumed. “My oldest was attacked on the grounds of that Comanche reservation last night.”
“Why does that concern me?”
“Because it concerns whatever you’re fixing to draw out of the land.”
“Oil?”
“Don’t play me for a fool, Cray.”
“We on a first-name basis now? I still don’t even know who you are.”
“Yes, you do. I’m sure you had me checked out after your business partner ‘overstepped his bounds,’ as you call it—though I’d prefer to call it scaring the wits out of a teenage boy.”
“He’s not my partner.”
“Oh no?”
“Barely qualifies as an associate.”
“Then we’re getting somewhere.”
Cray Rawls straightened his shoulders and crossed his legs. “What do I have to do to make this right, Mr. Masters?”
“Ever hear of Homeland Security?”
“Is that a joke?”
“Answer the question.”
“Okay,” Rawls relented, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of Homeland Security.”
“Right now, you’re talking to me,” Cort Wesley picked up. “You don’t tell me what I want to know, I let the colonel there take over. He works for Homeland. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
Paz nodded, once.
Rawls uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “Wait a minute. What am I missing here? What’s Homeland Security’s interest in all this?”
“You talk to me, Cray, maybe you never need to find out. Let’s say that Indian reservation now involves a big, fat national security issue. You keep playing coy here and you might find yourself a resident of Guantanamo with all your assets frozen.”
This prospect didn’t seem to faze Rawls at all. “I’m not some sand jockey who tried to blow up a plane with his underwear. And I just beat a major class action beef back East.”
“Where they let you have lawyers. No such luck when dealing with Homeland, right, Colonel?”
Paz nodded again. Once.
Rawls flashed a smirk that looked only partially forced. “You really think I’m buying this shit? You think a man like me can disappear, no questions asked?”
Cort Wesley took a few steps closer to him, glaring down. “For sure. But you can spare yourself the bother of all that by just telling me what it is you’re after on that Comanche land.”
Rawls swallowed hard, his eyes flashing like the tiny lights on a computer modem. “You in a position to offer some guarantees, Mr. Masters?”
“Like what?”
“What I’m after on that reservation stays mine.”
“How about this?” Cort Wesley spoke down at him. “You get to keep your freedom.”
“You got this all wrong, cowboy.”
“What’d you call me?”
“Hey, you’re from Texas. It was meant as a compliment.”
“Sure it was.” Cort Wesley crouched just enough to be even with Cray Rawls. “Let’s try some simple yes-or-no questions. Is there oil on that land?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“So you’re after something else.”
“I’m telling you, you’re way off on this, cowboy.”
“Let’s go back to yes or no. Are you after something else?”
“Yes.”
“On that reservation?”
“Yes.”
Cort Wesley stood back up. “Essay question now. Describe for me what it is, exactly.”
“Not a weapon.”
“I didn’t ask you to say what it isn’t.”
“It can’t hurt anyone, only help. And I mean help on a level truly beyond your comprehension.”
Cort Wesley turned toward Paz. “You want to have a go at him, Colonel?”
“No, wait!” Rawls pleaded, hands thrust before him, bulging eyes fixed on Guillermo Paz. “It’s about how long those Indians have lived through the generations, the contents of their medical records.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Potentially the greatest medical find in history.”
“What else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Depends,” Cort Wesley said, crouching down again, an instant before he heard a ping, followed by something whizzing through the air over him.
The same instant that Sam Bob Jackson’s head exploded.
77