Tyranny (12 page)

K
yle hadn't heard G.W.'s pickup come in. He supposed his grandfather could have been out on horseback. G.W. might have spotted Grayson's car as he approached the ranch headquarters and traveled the rest of the way on foot to avoid letting anyone know he was around until he found out what was going on.

And when he'd found out, he hadn't liked it.

If it bothered Grayson to have a rifle pointed at him, he didn't show it any more now than he had when Kyle threatened him. In fact, he looked almost unnaturally cool in the midday heat. He had put his sunglasses back on, and his face showed no emotion.

“George Washington Brannock,” he said as he looked at G. W. “I've heard a lot about you. It's nice to make your acquaintance at last.”

“Can't say the same for you,” G.W. snapped. “I don't know your name, and I don't want to know. You're just another government toady as far as I'm concerned.”

Kyle thought Grayson stiffened a little at that jab. The man said, “You're wrong, Brannock. I'm not the sort of run-of-the-mill bureaucrats you've been dealing with. I'm not the
IRS
.” The scorn Grayson felt for that agency was evident in his voice. “I'm the man they call in to get things done.”

“A mercenary, in other words,” Kyle said.

“Call it what you will,” Grayson replied with a slight shrug. “I don't care. I don't care about anything except the job. That's why you shouldn't mess with me.”

“So far all I've heard is a bunch of hot air,” G. W. said. “Kyle, what's that paper he showed you?”

“It's supposed to be a copy of that stupid land grant.”

“What's it look like to you?”

“Who can tell?” Kyle said. “It's just a bunch of fancy old Spanish handwriting.”

Grayson said, “The land grant itself is genuine, I assure you.”

“You'll have to prove that,” Kyle said. He thought about what Miranda had told him earlier. “You'll have to prove it in a court of law.”

“No,
you'll
have to prove that it's
not
genuine,” Grayson said. “I work for the government, remember. You bear the burden of proof.”

“Funny thing,” G.W. said. “The way this country was founded, the way it used to work, that ought to be the other way around.”

Grayson just grunted. He said, “I need that copy back.”

“If that'll get you to leave, then take it,” Kyle said. He came down the steps, still holding the rifle one-handed, and held out the document toward Grayson in his other hand.

With G. W. still covering them, Kyle didn't expect Grayson to try anything. The government man came closer, still holding the folder in one hand while he reached for the copy of the land grant with the other.

Then Grayson moved fast. The hand holding the folder shot out, hooked under the barrel of Kyle's rifle, and shoved it toward the sky. In a continuation of the same motion he slapped the folder across Kyle's face. The impact was stunning, and Kyle realized that the folder was weighted somehow to make it function as a weapon in an emergency.

As G.W. yelled an angry curse, Grayson dropped the folder, caught hold of the rifle, and jerked it out of Kyle's grip. Grayson's other hand came down on Kyle's shoulder and spun him around. Almost before Kyle knew what was happening, he found himself with Grayson holding him from behind, the rifle barrel gripped in both of the federal agent's hands and pressed tightly across Kyle's throat.

Grayson had Kyle in front of him, so G. W. couldn't fire without shooting his own grandson.

“I tried to tell you people it wasn't smart to interfere with government business,” Grayson said. His voice was tight with anger. “Now put that rifle down, old man, if you don't want me to crush this kid's windpipe.”

Grayson was right about not being just another government bureaucrat, thought Kyle. Clearly, he had some combat training. He was probably ex-military, although he could have been a private contractor.

But despite his skill and training, he was overconfident.

Kyle sensed that and acted on it.

He drove his right elbow back into Grayson's midsection with explosive force. Grayson wasn't expecting that any more than Kyle had been expecting what the government man had done. The blow made Grayson hunch over for a second and gasp for breath. That brought the rifle away from Kyle's throat. Kyle lowered his chin to protect his larynx and slammed the heel of his left boot into Grayson's shin.

The pain from that blow made Grayson's leg try to collapse underneath him. As he struggled to maintain his balance and not fall, Kyle was able to twist away from him. He slashed a sidehand blow at Grayson's neck, but Grayson swayed aside just enough to take the impact on his left shoulder.

Kyle knew that must have made Grayson's whole left arm go numb. The rifle slipped out of his hands and thudded to the ground between them.

Kyle snapped a punch to Grayson's sternum. That would have been enough to paralyze most men. Grayson shook it off, though. He had regained his footing and struck at Kyle's head with his good right arm.

Kyle blocked that blow, but Grayson landed a blinding fast kick to his side. The impact knocked Kyle spinning off his feet.

Grayson pounced after him and tried another kick. Kyle grabbed his foot and heaved, though, and Grayson went over backwards. Crashing to the ground like that should have knocked even more of the breath out of him, thought Kyle.

Why didn't the guy just pass out already?

Unfortunately, Grayson was built of tougher stuff than that. He whipped his legs around and tried to scissor them around Kyle's neck. Kyle barely got his left arm up in time to counter that move. He caught hold of one of Grayson's legs and levered himself off the ground. Grayson had no choice but to roll over and go with him. Kyle tightened the wrestling hold and twisted. Bones creaked and tendons stretched painfully.

Grayson had made the same mistake other men had made in the past. Kyle looked slender, but he was incredibly strong. Corded muscles played under his skin like bundles of steel cable. If he kept up the pressure for much longer, there was a good chance he would dislocate Grayson's thighbone from the hip and quite possibly tear some of those tendons.

The government man yelled in pain. Filthy curses spewed from his mouth.

“Kyle, that's enough!” G. W. called. “Let go of him and back away. You don't want to cripple the son of a bitch.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Kyle said grimly.

Grayson's sunglasses had come off during the fight. He stared up at Kyle with dark eyes that reminded Kyle of a snake's eyes.

“You'll be . . . sorry you did this,” he grated.

“That's what guys like you always say,” Kyle replied.

“Kyle!”

Kyle knew G.W. was right. Grayson had attacked him. He might be able to get away with claiming self-defense, although it was more likely Grayson would call it resisting a federal officer and probably make the charge stick.

If he tore Grayson's leg from its socket, though, there was no doubt he would go to prison for it. He let go of the man's leg and stepped back quickly. Grayson lay there, pale and panting for breath.

“I reckon we've made our position clear, mister,” G.W. said. “We're not gonna cooperate with your phony takeover of this ranch. This is Brannock land! Always has been, always will be.”

“You're . . . wrong about . . . that,” Grayson said as he pushed himself to hands and knees. He struggled upright. He was none too steady on his feet and had to lay a hand on the car to brace himself. “You've made a big mistake today, both of you. We're not going to do this . . . the easy way anymore. When I come back—”

“When you come back,” G.W. said, “
if
you come back . . . you better be ready to duck, if you know what I mean.”

S
lade Grayson was seething as he drove away from the Brannock ranch. His left arm throbbed, but at least feeling had come back into it. His left leg twinged every time he moved it, and he was glad he didn't have to use it to drive. He had assorted other aches and pains from the fight with Kyle Brannock as well.

None of that really bothered him all that much. He didn't mind hurting.

What really gnawed at him was the fact that both of the Brannocks had dared to stand up to him. To defy the government. That couldn't be allowed.

If such defiance went on often enough, long enough, people might start to think that the government
wasn't
all powerful. They might get the crazy idea that their so-called rights really amounted to something important and ought to be honored.

As he glared through his sunglasses and the windshield at the two-lane highway leading back into Sierra Lobo, he pushed the button on the onboard computer that opened the VoIP phone connection over the government's own high-speed network. Grayson said, “Call Finley.”

Only one ring sounded over the speaker before Warren Finley answered.

“Mr. Grayson,” the scientist said. “How did it go with Brannock?”

“Never mind that,” Grayson snapped. “You were going to do some research on Kyle Brannock for me. What did you find?”

“Well, he's G.W. Brannock's grandson—”

“I know that. What's his background?”

“He's twenty-four years old. Both parents were killed in an auto accident when he was eighteen, during his first semester of college at the University of Texas. He dropped out after that and joined the army, but he received a general discharge less than a year later. Since then he hasn't had any fixed place of residence, or any steady employment. From time to time he's visited his grandfather, but never stayed more than a few weeks.”

“So he washed out of the army and can't hold a job,” Grayson said. “What about any criminal record?”

“He's been arrested numerous times for simple assault and disturbing the peace. Bar fights, for the most part.”

“Not drunk and disorderly?”

“Well, no,” Finley said. “It appears that he can hold his liquor all right, but he's naturally short-tempered.”

Grayson rolled his left shoulder and thought that he had proof of Finley's supposition.

“He's paid fines and served time in local jails,” Finley went on, saying, “but he's never been sentenced to a state or federal penitentiary. He's wandered around enough so that most of his offenses took place in different states, so he hasn't run afoul of any three-strike laws.”

“So he's pretty much just a homeless bum,” Grayson said. That didn't make sense. Kyle Brannock shouldn't have lasted a minute in a fight with him, let alone inflicted any damage on him. Instead he had handled himself almost like a professional....

A thought occurred to Grayson and he went on, asking “Does his military record go into any detail?”

“No, just that he was given a general discharge and separated from the service,” Finley replied.

“No reason given?”

“Not that I see.”

“And you're sure it was a general discharge, not any other than honorable conditions discharge?”

There was a trace of impatience in Finley's voice as he said, “I'm reading it right off his DD-214. Which I shouldn't have any right to look at, by the way. That code you gave me got me right into the DOD database, though.”

“Of course,” Grayson said. “I want you to dig deeper, Warren. Find out why the army gave Kyle Brannock the boot.”

Finley sighed and said, “All right. Did the elder Brannock agree to vacate the ranch in sixty days or less?”

Grayson still didn't answer that. He said, “I'll talk to you when I get back in a little while.”

He broke the connection.

 

 

There was one good thing about West Texas with its flat, straight roads and general disregard for speed limits: It didn't take long to get from Point A to Point B . . . unless, of course, there were several hundred miles between those points, which was not only possible but likely.

But Grayson made it back to town pretty quickly. He parked at the motel, which he despised because of its throwback appearance. There was nothing good about the middle twentieh century as far as Grayson was concerned.

He limped to the door of the room Finley and Todd were sharing and opened it without knocking. Todd was stretched out on the bed. He didn't have any shoes on and his legs were crossed at the ankles. An open can of beer perched on his chest. He was watching the motel TV with the sound turned off.

Finley sat in an armchair holding his tablet. He looked up at Grayson and said, “I've found out more about Kyle Brannock.”

Grayson put his sunglasses on the dresser, opened the mini-fridge, and took out a bottle of water. He opened it, swallowed half the water, and then said, “Let's hear it.”

“I managed to get his personnel file from the DOD. He made it through basic training without any trouble. In fact, he was considered an exceptional recruit by all his instructors. When he completed basic and then airborne school, he volunteered for the Rangers. He was transferred to Fort Benning and entered the Ranger Assessment and Selection Program.”

There was a straight-back chair at the small table. Grayson turned it around and straddled it. He had never bought into a lot of the military hoopla, having seen firsthand that soldiers were no better or worse than anybody else, but he knew the army didn't let just anybody into the Rangers.

“He went through RASP with flying colors and continued into Ranger School,” Finley continued. “There are three phases to that training, and Brannock was in the middle of the second phase, the mountaineering phase, when something happened.”

“Don't drag it out,” Grayson snapped. “What did he do?”

Finley swiped a finger on the screen of his tablet and said, “Gave another Ranger candidate a severe beating. Put him in the hospital, in fact.”

Grayson raised an eyebrow and said, “They didn't put him in prison and give him a dishonorable discharge for that? Or at least a bad conduct discharge?”

“That was the initial recommendation. But then several of the sergeants involved in the training program spoke up in Brannock's defense. It seems the other soldier involved in the fight was a troublemaker and had, in fact, attacked a third soldier, who was a friend of Brannock's. It was a messy situation, and ultimately, the easiest, cleanest way out was to give both Brannock and the man he put in the hospital general discharges.” Finley looked up. “Everything after that is like I told you before.”

Grayson drank the rest of the water and said, “So we've got a guy who lost his parents, couldn't stick it out in college, couldn't hack it in the army, and hasn't been able to settle down or hold a job since. He doesn't sound like that much of a problem.”

“Kyle Brannock won't be a pushover, Mr. Grayson,” Finley said, shaking his head. “Even though he didn't last in the army, his record while he was there is impressive. He doesn't shy away from trouble.”

Grayson gestured with the empty water bottle as he said, “But he's hotheaded. He can't control himself. There's always a way to handle a guy like that. You make him do something reckless and stupid.”

“How do you do that?”

“You don't waste your time by threatening him.” Grayson thought about the pain he had suffered at Kyle Brannock's hands and smiled as he considered his response. “You threaten somebody he loves.”