Comeuppance Pt. 01

He assumed another thirty minutes before a search could be organized for the assassin and another thirty before they could track him to the river in the dark. By then, he planned to be five miles upstream and two miles inland. His raft would be deflated and cut up; it would join his clothing and equipment in their journey down the 13 inch pipe of a long-abandoned irrigation well. A bag of lime stored at the site would be dropped down the pipe, after which an open bottle of chemical agent would be dropped, and the cover replaced.

If his sources were correct, only traces would remain a few hours later, and absolutely no DNA could be recovered. He hated to waste good weapons, but they would be wiped down and dropped in the well first. As far as he knew, nothing and no one could tie him to the old farm with the abandoned well, so it was unlikely it would ever be checked, even if someone somehow concluded he was involved.

When 5:12 appeared on his digital watch, he began his stalk. He was at his sniper nest below and to the left of the first deer stand at 5:19. He sighted in, and viewed the two heads watching the deer around the feeder. He identified the family-first, evangelical senator who originally organized the ring of lovely enslaved whores. Two quick shots rang out in succession, which, he hoped, sounded like someone wounding and then bringing down a deer.

Certain of his success, he moved quickly but silently through the heavy brush to his second nest. The targets here were actually standing out on the porch of the big stand, looking north toward the stand where the shots came from; that made his job easier.

Aim, fire, pull the bolt to eject, slide it forward to reload, re-sight, and take down the corrupt blue state congressman who loudly espoused the welfare of "his people - the common people who make this country strong!" The 'populist' representative had long ago sold out to foreign and corporate interests that polluted his state and district, but ensured his re-election every four years.

As before, he policed his brass and hurried to the third station.

His arrival at the third offered a bonus. In addition to the bodyguard and the ranking member of the Senate armed services committee, the one who had hired and then destroyed his sister, he saw the woman who recruited and groomed the other young women.

That brought a smile to his face; he would save her for last.

His initial target, the bodyguard, was looking northwest with his binoculars, leaning forward over the railing; the shot rang out, and he fell over the rails, hitting the ground ten feet below. Jack levered the bolt; the rifle jerked again, and the Christian values, conspiracy theorist senator who loved to use and torture the enslaved women, went to meet his manager in the underworld.

That left the woman, who was dancing around wildly, screaming.

He left his cover and raced to the stand; she ran inside and slammed the door shut. He climbed the ladder, kicked the door open, and stepped inside. The woman cowered in the corner. He knelt beside her, and asked if she remembered his lovely red haired wife, April, and his beautiful blonde sister, Janice.

She shook her head in denial. He lightly prodded her thigh with his knife, drawing blood through her jeans. He asked again, in his most threatening tone, brandishing the knife. She shook her head again, so he told her he knew the whole story anyway, but would carve her up piece by piece if she didn't tell him the truth this time.

He asked again. She sobbed that she knew both, but she was an innocent victim of the senators, just as they were! He smiled and shook his head.

He told her she was a liar, but that was not the lie that condemned her to hell. No, what sent her to hell were lying to and drugging at least eighteen young women for the $100,000 per head bounty, paid to her offshore account. That, and partaking of the victims herself.

He produced a roll of cotton rope from his fanny pack and quickly tied a hangman's knot on one end. He pulled her to her feet, told her she had been tried and found guilty by a jury of one aggrieved husband and brother, and slipped the noose over her head.

****

The search was organized faster than he expected, but Jack clung near the banks and paused under overhangs and trees when a helicopter flew over him. The trolling motor produced no sound and little wake, but got him to his exit point in good time.

He was happy when he heard the chopper move down river, where he had previously planted the false leads.

He beached the small rubber raft, made his way to the well, dropped the little motor in first, and listened as it fell for a good five seconds before producing a small splash. His weapons were next, then his clothes, and then the remains of the raft he had cut into sections. He raced to the tree where his change of clothes waited, with the lime and chemicals.

He dressed, raced across the old overgrown field to the well, and dumped his clothes, followed by the lime and chemical packets. He quickly replaced the metal plate that acted as a lid.

The crescent moon produced scant light, but was sufficient for his purposes. He made his way to the old pickup, stashed under an oak in the midst of a patch of brush, and waited for dawn. Lights, reflections, and movement at this time of night, in such a desolate area, would offer something for the searchers to hone in on, so he huddled inside, under the blankets he had stashed.

When he heard the buzz of early morning traffic on the highway a half mile away, he started the truck and made his way through the pasture. It was still dark and he was driving without lights, but the old road had high native grasses growing in the middle and grass or brush lining the sides, so he made it without any problems.

When he stopped near the FM road, he looked back and noted that the grass still looked undisturbed. He waited until no vehicle was in sight, and then joined the scattered oilfield traffic on the Farm-to-Market road. Avoiding town, he caught another FM road, drove to an adjacent county, changed vehicles, and drove north to San Antonio.

Six weeks later, he drove back, reemerging at his business. Roberto, his Segundo who had been running the oil field business in his absence, threw his arms around Jack and told him how glad he was that he was alive. Then he hugged him even tighter and said he was even happier that he had come back "to run this damn business."

Jack thanked him for his good work, waved at his early-arriving employees, went inside, and called Donnie. Donnie called Elias and the sheriff, and the three of them hurried to the shop. It took an hour of explaining why he went into hiding, and another hour of answering questions before the sheriff admitted he would have hid out too, if those shoes were on his feet.

Elias asked if the folks he had been renting from in San Antonio could vouch for his whereabouts for at least a part of his absence, as he was certain the Rangers and Feds would consider him a suspect. He assured him they could and would vouch for him, and asked if they or the Feds ever found any clues to the identity of the assassin; they had not.

The sheriff told him that the assassin was a ghost! A ghost whom no one saw or heard, who left few tracks on the hard ground, and who somehow made it down river to a crude dock north of Freer, where they found a small Zodiac and an old camo hunting jacket, but no other sign.

Given the size and intensity of the manhunt, they had no idea how the assassin(s) escaped, but the slayings set off a firestorm of epic proportions. First came the weeping and gnashing of teeth, the threats and promises that the killers would be brought to justice, then the finger pointing because he / she/ they escaped, and finally the conspiracy theories.

Various and sundry terrorist groups, Antifa, Neo-Nazis, and a deranged lone gunman were all discussed at length on the 24 hour news channels and blogs, but nothing came of any of it.

The histrionics extolling the virtues of each of these great Americans were playing on loop by the time their memorial services were scheduled for week two, but those were suddenly drowned out when allegations, accompanied by substantiating documentation, pictures, and videos, emerged from disparate sites around the country, Canada, Australia, and the UK.

At first, these "false, slanderous, and unpatriotic" allegations were shouted down and denied, but as the evidence massed, was reviewed, tested, and found to be valid, their defenders became scarcer than hens' teeth.

Select Senate and House committees were promulgated with much pomp and speechmaking, promising to get to the bottom of the issues raised by exposure of "The Ring," and the Justice Department opened a "far-reaching investigation."

Soon thereafter, additional evidence emerged from classified sources. It seemed that agencies within the DOJ had known about The Ring for years, and it was common knowledge among lobbyists and congresspersons. Some members of the select committees were outed as not only being aware of The Ring, but as having been partakers of its services.

Emboldened by the truth telling, others came forward to tell their tales. Women who survived growing too old to be of service spoke up, claiming they were warned that they and their families would perish gruesomely if they ever spoke out. Videos made by the selfsame "honorable and patriotic" men showed them making the threats, and forcing the women to look at pictures of husbands and fathers who had been tortured and killed because their wives or daughters told them about their situation.

Their stories validated, they filled a class-action lawsuit naming every name they knew, and every agency that should have known and intervened.

That turned the spotlight on law enforcement, which had listed the men as "missing" or "victims of unknown perpetrators," and too quickly relegated them to the cold case files. There they languished, without evidence that any further effort had been made to find the men or their murderers.

Emboldened by the deaths of the leaders of 'The Ring' and the disclosures about the agencies and other congresspersons, two retired FBI agents came forward. They told of conducting an investigation over a decade ago that found substantiating evidence tying three disappearances to The Ring.

After submitting their report to their superior, however, they were warned by the Attorney General that their careers and their families were imperiled by their findings, all records of which then mysteriously disappeared.

That opened another line of inquiry, which yielded even more proof of corruption and conspiracy among the mighty, the rich, and their government lackeys.

Many tall trees had already been toppled by the events in the Brush Country, and the search for the assassin, who had become something of a folk hero, flagged. Meanwhile, the spotlight shone brightly on the Beltway and Park Avenue.

****

Jack had been back on the ranch for five weeks when he saw dust on his ranch road. It was just before noon on a Saturday, and he wasn't expecting visitors. He pressed a button alerting others on the ranch, picked up his 'riot gun' from the umbrella stand, and then his pistol from the table. He holstered it, and waited behind the doorframe. Jack watched through the screen door as two women emerged from the vehicle.

One was a medium sized brunette with a pixie cut; the other had long, straight black hair and a long, lean body. Cousin Carl emerged from the bunkhouse with his shotgun, and hailed the women.

After a moment, he approached them, lowered his weapon, and hugged the tall one. The brunette turned toward the house and began running toward the front door. When she reached the porch, Jack slung the screen door open, stepped out, pointed the weapon toward her, and warned, "That's far enough!"

"Jack," the woman stopped on the first step, tears streaming down her face, and then continued, "it's April and Janice - your wife and sister! I know we look different, but we're free now! We were allowed to leave Washington two days ago. We tried to call you, but your phone says it's out of service!"

The cold look on Jack's face never wavered. "No, that can't be true: my wife is a red head and my sister a blonde. They serve as whores to men of power and riches in Washington, New York, and Europe."

The brunette blanched and began to cry; the raven-haired one with the angry face started across the porch toward him. He jacked a shell into the chamber of the riot gun and pointed it at her. "I told you that's far enough! Back up and get off my porch."

"Jack, it's Janice, your baby sister! Why are you being like this?" she yelled at him.

"You can't be!" He yelled back. "My baby sister chose to betray her upbringing and become a whore! When I sent my wife to rescue her, she turned her into a whore too!

As far as I know, they are both still whoring in the swamps of the Potomac, or on Park Avenue!"

The women turned to one another and hugged desperately, sobbing and wailing.

Jack stood unmoved; Carl watched, looked down, and shook his head. He understood Jack's feelings, but this was way harsh!

Jack stepped back into his house, shut the screen door, yelled, "Get off my land!" and slammed the door.

After hugging and wailing for several minutes, the crying women left.

*****