fouled with both an air of foreboding and a deep-seated vein of frustration. All of them knew trouble was brewing on the horizon, the threat from their southern neighbor looming large in the new nation’s path to prosperity. Yet, there wasn’t any course of action, policy, or plan to avoid a collision.
“I feel like I’m stuck on a railroad track, and I can see the train in the distance,” Putnam offered in a distant, monotone voice. “I know the engine is going to crush me. I can see the train’s light, barreling my way. The only hope is that I come up with a plan before it’s too late.”
The colonel nodded, “I understand. I feel the same way. Yet, I was always a firm believer in the phrase, ‘Hope is not a strategy.’”
Their words seemed to motivate the republic’s highest official. Simmons stood again, his face brightened by a potential solution. “We’ll close the border,” he announced with a firm voice. “While I’m sure this decision eliminates any chance I have at a second term, sometimes a leader has to do what is right, no matter how unpopular.”
“Are you sure, Mr. President?” the colonel asked, surprised by the abrupt turn. “A large part of our economy is exporting goods and services to Mexico. A lot of very wealthy individuals aren’t going to be happy with that course of action.”
“We can’t be a catalyst for a civil war, gentlemen,” the president stated. “All that I ask is that the rangers pull out all the stops to find any revolutionaries on our soil and bring them to justice.”
Both of the lawmen rose to leave, each already thinking of the orders they would issue once back at headquarters. Simmons stopped them before they reached the door. “Hurry, my friends. I’ve just made our government the enemy of every factory, bank, rancher, and citizen along the border. If this situation drags on for too long, we may have our own civil war to worry about.”
Four days had passed since the massacre, Sam and Zach working and reworking every lead, source, and potential. So far, they had nothing other than Chico’s vague story. The ambassador had disappeared, the two rangers uncertain if his absence had been arranged so that he could avoid them, or Carlos the Hammer.
Chico’s tale had sent hundreds of lawmen on a mission to find the who, what, when, and where of any mass purchase of weaponry. The task had not only been daunting, but fruitless.
There were “only” 112 companies manufacturing complete shoulder-fired weapons in Texas. While that number was manageable, it soon became clear to the various law enforcement organizations that they were facing a much larger beast.
Another 500+ firms manufactured or resold kits that would convert existing weapons to “fully automatic” blasters. That figure didn’t count the unknown number of garage-based businesses with 3D printers, or the importers who were having trigger mechanisms produced overseas.
“Our friends in the cartels don’t have to buy complete rifles,” Zach informed his partner. “They can buy, make, or source small, inexpensive parts just about anywhere. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s a worthless endeavor.”
The pressure on the two lawmen was made even more intense by the fact that it had been Zach’s source that had initiated a rather large, extremely controversial ball rolling.
As promised, President Simmons had closed the border, and the outrage was quickly mounting on both sides of the international boundary.
The news was filled with a virtual parade of victims, everyone from human rights watchdogs to farmers and factory owners crying, bitching, threatening, and infuriated by the president’s executive order.
It seemed like every broadcast was filled with folks from one side or the other telling a reporter their tales of woe. “My mother is dying in a Brownsville hospital,” one teary-eyed woman claimed. “They won’t let me across to be at her side when she
“I feel like I’m stuck on a railroad track, and I can see the train in the distance,” Putnam offered in a distant, monotone voice. “I know the engine is going to crush me. I can see the train’s light, barreling my way. The only hope is that I come up with a plan before it’s too late.”
The colonel nodded, “I understand. I feel the same way. Yet, I was always a firm believer in the phrase, ‘Hope is not a strategy.’”
Their words seemed to motivate the republic’s highest official. Simmons stood again, his face brightened by a potential solution. “We’ll close the border,” he announced with a firm voice. “While I’m sure this decision eliminates any chance I have at a second term, sometimes a leader has to do what is right, no matter how unpopular.”
“Are you sure, Mr. President?” the colonel asked, surprised by the abrupt turn. “A large part of our economy is exporting goods and services to Mexico. A lot of very wealthy individuals aren’t going to be happy with that course of action.”
“We can’t be a catalyst for a civil war, gentlemen,” the president stated. “All that I ask is that the rangers pull out all the stops to find any revolutionaries on our soil and bring them to justice.”
Both of the lawmen rose to leave, each already thinking of the orders they would issue once back at headquarters. Simmons stopped them before they reached the door. “Hurry, my friends. I’ve just made our government the enemy of every factory, bank, rancher, and citizen along the border. If this situation drags on for too long, we may have our own civil war to worry about.”
Four days had passed since the massacre, Sam and Zach working and reworking every lead, source, and potential. So far, they had nothing other than Chico’s vague story. The ambassador had disappeared, the two rangers uncertain if his absence had been arranged so that he could avoid them, or Carlos the Hammer.
Chico’s tale had sent hundreds of lawmen on a mission to find the who, what, when, and where of any mass purchase of weaponry. The task had not only been daunting, but fruitless.
There were “only” 112 companies manufacturing complete shoulder-fired weapons in Texas. While that number was manageable, it soon became clear to the various law enforcement organizations that they were facing a much larger beast.
Another 500+ firms manufactured or resold kits that would convert existing weapons to “fully automatic” blasters. That figure didn’t count the unknown number of garage-based businesses with 3D printers, or the importers who were having trigger mechanisms produced overseas.
“Our friends in the cartels don’t have to buy complete rifles,” Zach informed his partner. “They can buy, make, or source small, inexpensive parts just about anywhere. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s a worthless endeavor.”
The pressure on the two lawmen was made even more intense by the fact that it had been Zach’s source that had initiated a rather large, extremely controversial ball rolling.
As promised, President Simmons had closed the border, and the outrage was quickly mounting on both sides of the international boundary.
The news was filled with a virtual parade of victims, everyone from human rights watchdogs to farmers and factory owners crying, bitching, threatening, and infuriated by the president’s executive order.
It seemed like every broadcast was filled with folks from one side or the other telling a reporter their tales of woe. “My mother is dying in a Brownsville hospital,” one teary-eyed woman claimed. “They won’t let me across to be at her side when she
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