Protected Pt. 02

"Quite night?" I asked.

He yawned. "Yeah. You get any sleep?"

"Not much," I admitted.

"She in bed?"

"Yeah."

He nodded in the moonlight. "Did you join her?" he asked with a straight face.

"Shut the fuck up," I growled in a good-natured reply.

"Just asking," he continued with a grin. "I saw how she was looking at you over dinner."

I spluttered. "Yeah, right. Somehow you got heat stroke in the middle of the night."

"Uh-huh," he grunted and then yawned again. "This sucks."

"Yeah," I agreed.

"No sleeping," he warned as he reached for the door to the RV.

"Yeah," I grunted again.

Using Willow's Jeep, I drove to the second hide we'd setup by her RV and crawled inside. The fight against sleep was constant, and I spent the next five hours pacing to stay awake while thinking about Willow and what Fish had said. Without exception, all the brothers who'd met her, liked her, and after she and I cleared the air over lunch the first day, she hadn't ridden our asses about our past. I liked her myself, and there was no question she was the sexiest woman I'd ever met, but this was a job we needed to get the club's ass out of a bind, not to mention a mistake could get her killed. With those twin swords of Damocles hanging over my head, there was no way I was going to fuck this up by being stupid.

-oOo-

The next morning Skids and Donut arrived to relieve us. My ass was dragging from the lack of sleep, but the ride home on my bike helped clear my head. When I arrived, I showered and that also helped perk me. My meeting with Pamela and Harris Larke was at two, and because the ride was five hours, I didn't have time to catch up on my sleep before leaving.

Like my first trip to Larke Oil, I decided to ride, afraid if I drove my truck I'd fall asleep behind the wheel. The ride to Houston refreshed me, and as I rolled to a stop in the parking of the Larke Oil building, I felt almost normal. They knew who and what I was, so I didn't bother with the sport coat this time.

"May I help you?" the woman behind the desk asked, her smile as bright as if I were her long lost brother.

"Colton Arne. I have a two o'clock appoint me with Mr. Harris Larke and Ms. Pamela Larke."

"Yes sir, Mr. Arne. They're expecting you. Someone will be with you in a moment."

She wasn't kidding, because I'd barely stepped away from her desk before a kid that looked like he was fresh out of high school opened a door. "Mr. Arne, if you'll follow me please."

I followed the guy down a short hall before he opened a door into a small conference room. "Mr. and Ms. Larke will be with you in a moment. May I get you anything while you wait?"

"I'm good. Thanks."

"Make yourself comfortable," he said as he closed the door.

Making myself comfortable was a mistake because the creeping sleepies had me under assault, and were wearing down my defenses, when the door opened.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Arne," Pam said, extending her hand as she and a man that had to be Willow's father entered the room. Blinking away the sleep, I rose and shook her hand. "This is Harris Larke, President of Larke Oil, and Willow's father."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Larke," I said as I shook the man's hand. The Larke genes ran strong because there was no mistaking the family resemblance between Harris, Pam, and Willow.

"Please, Mr. Arne, have a seat," Pam said as she motioned me to a chair.

"Pam tells me someone took a shot at Willow again yesterday," Harris said as they sat down. His voice was cool, and firm, but I detected no animosity in his tone.

"Yes, sir. No one was hurt, but we think she was the target."

"Rather than just shooting at the thumpers in general?"

"There is no way to know of course, but if you look at where the gun shot came from, and we found two shell casings, so we know, and where Willow was standing, it appears she was the target."

Harris sucked on his teeth for a moment. "Any idea why?"

"No idea. Ms. Larke," I said with a nod to Pam, "indicated she thought it was drug runners or coyotes, but that doesn't feel right to me."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because if it were a drug cartel, they'd have rolled up with twenty or thirty guys with automatic weapons and killed everyone. They don't do standoff, sniper-like hits because it doesn't send the same message. They get in close and kill anyone, and everyone, who gets in their way. Also, I can't see how there's anything in it for them."

"So you don't think it's related to the vandalism?"

"I spoke to WSS and I don't think it's vandalism. I think it's theft. And, no, I don't think they're related."

"WSS?" Harris asked looking at Pam.

"Wellhead Security Services," she explained. "They're our security contractor. Why do you say that, Mr. Arne?"

"A couple of reasons. Again, why vandalize? Maverick County is poor. Most people are thrilled the oil companies are in the area because they bring jobs and provide a boost to the economy. I toured a couple of the wells and WSS showed me what was happening. What it looks like to me is people are stealing metal to sell for scrap rather than intentionally damaging the pumps."

"Why do you say that?" Harris asked.

"Because they're taking the stuff that's easy to cut away or unbolt. Things that wouldn't look out of place if taken to a recycling yard. Nothing was actually damaged... it's missing. If you really wanted to shut down a well, cut the cable to the sucker rod and let it fall into the bore, but stuff like that isn't what's happening. They're taking steel bracing or electric motors... things that can be sold. Also, there's no pattern to it. It may be a Larke Oil pump one day, then it may be a EOG Resources pump the next, completely on the other side of the field, then the next day it might be Marathon. If it's vandals, they hate everybody. To me it looks like individuals and targets of opportunity."

Harris scratched the side of his face. "I guess that makes sense, but why the sudden increase?"

"Who knows? Maybe somebody started doing it and word got around there was some fast cash to be made. I think once you catch and prosecute one or two people, the problem will solve itself."

She nodded. "Good to hear that. But if it's not related, what about Willow?"

"Beats the hell out of me. All we know is somebody took a shot at her. It could be a drug runner, coyote, disgruntled landowner, or some wacko environmentalist. I have no idea."

"You really think it's an environmentalist?" Harris asked.

"Honestly, no. Why target Willow? They don't know who she is. Besides, I might be wrong, but don't environmentalists normally go after the equipment?"

"Normally," Pam agreed. "Your assessment of the vandalism rings true. I don't know why we didn't think of that. What does your gut tell you about Willow?"

I shook my head. "Nothing about this makes much sense, but if I had to pick, I'd say coyotes, a drug cartel, and then landowners, in that order. Coyotes are nasty bastards who kill people just because they can. At least cartels generally don't bother unless they have something to gain."

Harris nodded. "What do you need from us?"

"Communication equipment. Willow got pinned down out in the brush because they'd left her phone and radio in her Jeep. We won't make that mistake again, but there's no cell service, and I'd like to get a couple of those satellite phones like Willow uses, if I can, so my guys can call for backup if they need it."

She nodded. "We can do that. What else?"

"I think that's it for now. If anything else comes up, I'll let you know."

She nodded again then slid the conference table phone in front of her and dialed a number. "Sarah, I need two Iridium phones with extra batteries and chargers brought to Conference Room A immediately."

"Yes, ma'am."

.

.

.

WILLOW

I peeked out of the shower, but the RV was empty. With just a towel wrapped around my body, I darted into my bedroom and closed the door. I appreciated the guys always waited outside while I showered, but I never took it for granted and always checked before I hurried into the bedroom located at the back of the coach. The bathroom was so small that fully drying myself and changing into my sleep shirt was much easier outside.

Mafic was already in the room with me, piled in the bed as he watched me with sleepy eyes. With another glance to ensure the coach was still empty, I slipped back into the bathroom, hung my towel, and then returned to my bedroom and shut the door. Nudging Mafic out of the way, I turned back the bed, crawled under the linens, and switched off the light. I was still settling in when I heard the RV door open, followed a moment later by the creak of the recliner being tipped back.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I snuggled with Mafic. Before tonight, I'd gone along with my security because Aunt Pam insisted, but tonight I was dammed glad Colt and Fish would be in the RV with me. I tried not to think about it too much, but those shots this afternoon had scared the shit out of me, and I felt better knowing the Buitre del Demonios, or the BDMC as they called themselves, were close at hand.

As I waited for sleep to take me, Mafic's throbbing purr soothing me, I thought about the men who were risking their lives to protect mine. After the excitement of this afternoon, I was impressed with Big Dick and Goose. I was still standing around, wondering what was happening, when Big Dick had realized we were being shot at and knocked me to the ground. I'd frozen for a moment, but not Big Dick. He'd started dragging me to safety until I could get my shit together and help him.

Then there was Colt and Fish. I found it interesting that the members of the club obviously respected Colt, even though all of the those I'd met so far were older than him. It was also clear the men cared deeply for each other, and Big Dick and Goose had proven today they took my protection seriously. While Colt was plainly in charge, Fish was just as clearly his right-hand man, and his friend.

These men might not have a PhDs, or even a college degree, but they were far from stupid. The BDMC could have washed their hands of me today by sending me back to Houston, and nobody would have questioned it, but Colt had quickly realized the danger in that, and the men had elected to continue to risk their lives to protect mine.

I sighed again as sleep tugged at me. I was in the twilight between consciousness and sleep when everything seemed so clear. Sexy as shit, and smart, Colt wasn't a total asshole, just a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to work for it. He obviously had a vision for the club, and for himself. I didn't know him well, but he seemed to have that elusive mix of self-confidence and kindness I was looking for. Better, he said he didn't have a girlfriend, and I wondered if he was a man who could simultaneously sweep me off my feet and kick me in the ass when I needed it.

I smiled sleepily. His enchiladas were also as good as any I'd ever tasted, and he was certainly good company. I began to relax into sleep, knowing that Colt in the front of the RV, and Fish was outside somewhere, were watching over me, and that made me feel safe.

-oOo-

Packard and Limpkin stood in front of me, my Jeep directly behind me, as the massive, seven axel derrick truck whistled and bellowed like some kind of prehistoric monster as it fought its way across the dry Texas landscape. While my Jeep skipped over the hard desert soil like a stone on water, this giant red and white, fourteen-tired behemoth, cut ruts deep into the ground as it moved across the countryside as slowly and inexorably as a steel glacier.

"That's one big-ass piece of machinery," Packard said as the truck lumbered closer.

"That it is," I said.

I watched over their shoulders as the support trucks began to spread out in well-choregraphed chaos. Tankers loaded with fuel and both potable and industrial water followed the derrick tuck, along with other trucks brimming with drilling mud, spare parts, drill pipe, tools, a kitchen, and other supplies required to keep thirty men fed and working. Once the rig went online it wouldn't stop until it hit oil. Now the real fun began.

It'd been over a month since I'd been shot at, we'd finish mapping sometime in the next few days, and this was going to our first exploratory well. I was anxious to look at the core samples the rig brought up so I could compare what was down there with what I thought was down there. We should be standing on a veritable lake of crude trapped in millions of microscopic voids, voids my software said were full of oil. If we found the oil, and I was confident we would even without using my software because we were drilling into classic oil-bearing strata, we'd sink a full-size well, frack the shit out of it to bring the oil to the bore, then start pumping up that black gold.

Once the test well was drilled here, I was going to sink two more test wells, one over what my software said was a large aquafer, and another where my software said I'd have a dry hole. I'd be pissing away a lot of money sinking worthless wells, but it was the only way to confirm my software was accurate, and I finally had enough confidence in it to spend the money to validate it.

"How deep you going?" Limpkin asked.

"About twenty-five hundred meters," I said, but then remembers. "That's about eight thousand feet."

"Eight thousand?" Packard asked. "And I was bitching when we went to two hundred feet for water at my house."

I snickered. "Yeah. We go a little deeper than your typical water well."

"How long's that going to take?" Limpkin asked.

"Depends on how many problems we encounter. We're drilling into fairly soft rock, so figure twenty days if we don't break any cutting heads."

We could drill nearly anywhere within a hundred meters in any direction of where we were standing and hit the center of the oil patch, but I'd staked out a thirty-meter by thirty-meter square with red flags to mark where I wanted the derrick set up. I'd have normally simply paced it off, but under my new security rules, I had to stay in the Jeep, stopping where I wanted a flag planted so Packard could open the door and stick it in the ground. Nobody had shot at us in weeks, but I wasn't taking any chances, and was following the BDMC's instructions to the letter. The only thing that still kept me awake at night was wondering if the shooting had stopped because it had stopped, or because the BDMC had prevented me from making a target of myself, and the shooter was still out there, just waiting for an opportunity.

We stood well out of the way, watching the men scurried about, getting things setup. Sinking a test well was always like Christmas for me, and I was all but bouncing on my toes in excitement. The driver of the drilling rig pulled to a stop in the center of the square and began to extend the stabilizing legs as other men began pulling heavy steel plates from behind doors to place under the stabilizer pads to spread the load of the rig over a larger area.

As the men went to work setting up the rig, I and my two shadows moved closer to the drilling platform. I needed to talk to Enrique, the Toolpusher, and the man in charge of the rig's operation. He needed to know what he was drilling into so he could set the rig up properly. I'd given him all the specs when I'd schedule the rig, but it was always best to speak to the Toolpusher in person to make sure there was no confusion and to convey those nuances that always seemed to get lost in written communication.

"Can you talk?" I yelled to be heard over the whine of hydraulics and the roar of the heavy diesel engine.

Enrique glanced at the two men standing at my back, protecting me with their bulk from behind while the drill rig did the same in front of me. "Sure!"

He started to walk away from the bellowing rig out into the open, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. "Over by the pipe truck!" I yelled.

He looked at me strangely but reversed course and I followed him toward the line of trucks parked well away from the derrick truck. He stopped when we were far enough from the drill rig to talk without having to shout, but I kept going until I was standing beside the pipe truck. With a confused look, he followed.

"Willow? What's going on, and who are your friends?"

"This is Dale Packard and Neil Limpkin," I said, motioning to each of the men. "Dale, Neil, this is Enrique Cardenas, Toolpusher extraordinaire." I waited as the men shook each other's hands and muttered their greetings. "We've had a little trouble, and they're here to deal with it. Nothing to worry about. So, any questions on what I sent you?"

He shook his head. "No. Looks like a standard exploration drill. You said you wanted to go to eight thousand?"

"Yeah."

His head jerked slightly as if he had a twitch. "Jesus, that's deep for around here."

I shrugged. "That's where the oil is. You'll probably start picking some up around six thousand, but the big deposit is down around eight. You brought enough pipe, didn't you?" I teased.

He grinned. "You know drillers love laying pipe, so yeah, I've got it. You want me to hold the samples on site for you to look at like last time?"

I nodded. "Yes, please. I'll box them up and send them back to Houston after I have a quick look-see."

"You still working on that program of yours that'll put me out of job?" he asked with a grin.

"Yeah, but you know the whole damn company will fold if you're not around, so what are you worried about?"

"Yeah, well, I don't--" Enrique began before his shoulder exploded in a spray of blood as he went down with a cry of pain, the crack of a rifle following arriving just as he hit the ground.

Limpkin shoved me down just as another shot shattered the truck mirror that was behind where my head had been only moments before.

"They're coming from over there!" Packard yelled as he dropped beside Enrique and pointed along the side of the truck toward its rear. The only reason I wasn't dead was because Enrique was standing between me and the shooter. "Get her to the front of the truck!" he bellowed as men scrambled for cover. Staying as low as possible he unbuttoned Enrique's shirt. Another shot rang out and I heard the bullet thud into the truck somewhere.

"We've got to move!" Limpkin snarled he started pushing me toward the front of the truck by the ass.

Even though I rose just enough to belly crawl in the direction he was pushing me, another shot holed the front tire just inches higher than my head. I dropped back flat and tried to burrow into the ground.

Limpkin snarled as he squirmed, trying to pull his sat phone out of his pocket without raising up. Apparently they couldn't hit us so long as we stayed flat, but as I discovered, we didn't have to rise much before we were a target. Flat on his stomach, he held the phone out in front of him and dialed.

I heard a tinny voice, but I couldn't tell who he was talking to or what was being said. "We're under fire!" he yelled. More tinny voice. "No, but we're pinned down!"

"Enrique! You okay?" I called.

"Fuck it hurts!" Enrique growled.

"I know, man. Hang in there for me," Packard said as he tried to work his way out of his shirt.

"I don't fucking know!" Limpkin raged. "Out in the fucking desert somewhere! Larke should know! It's wherever they're sinking a well for Willow!"

Another shot echoed and the bullet again holed the truck somewhere as Packard ducked. He finished getting his shirt off and pressed it to Enrique's shoulder and then placed Enrique's hand over it to hold it in place.