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Eight men poured out of the substation with weapons drawn.
Shit! I dived over the three-foot patio wall. Seconds later, a barrage of bullets struck the brick. I hit the emergency button on my radio.
The dispatcher’s muted voice asked, “Charlie-23 what is the nature of your emergency?”
Seriously? Like officers down didn’t give her a clue that I was being shot at. Scrambling on my hands and knees, I headed for the patio doors. If I could get inside, I could lock myself in the command center until help arrived.
A big, bear of a man wearing a clown’s mask, stepped out of the shattered glass doors. He raised a double-barreled shotgun.
Fuck! I rolled behind a huge Mexican flowerpot.Boom!Shards of pottery pelted my face. I popped up and fired.
The man toppled backward into the house.
The crack of a high-powered rifle sounded.
Before I could move, pain exploded in the middle of my back, dropping me like a rock. I landed on the clown. Black dots danced in my vision as I struggled to breathe. God that hurt. Once again, my vest had saved the day. Up. I had to get up. I hit the emergency button on my radio again.
“Charlie-23 your backup is five minutes out,” the dispatcher advised.
“Your backup is never going to arrive,” a harsh voice commented. He kicked my gun away.
I held the transmit button down on my radio and gasped, “Why?”
“We planted landmines on the highway just before Chuck Hennessy’s house. The one you blew all to hell. Now we are going to return the favor. If you listen closely, you might even hear the screams of the dying.”
I hadn’t hit any landmines. Was he bluffing? My voice a wheezy rasp, I asked, “What. Do. You. Want?”
“Vengeance.”
My vision finally cleared. The man standing over me had to be Grandpa’s age. I blinked. Whoa! The left side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. He was wearing a black Stetson, black velvet pants and a red silk shirt with silver buttons. “For. What?”
The man frowned. “Why aren’t the landmines exploding?” His gaze fixed on the radio clutched in my hand. “You little bitch!” He shoved a cattle prod into my stomach and triggered it.
A scream tore from me as a horrific electrical shock triggered every muscle in my stomach to contract in the world’s worst Charley horse.
Scarface picked up my radio. “If I see any cops within a mile of this place, your deputy is a dead woman.”
“What do you want?” Sergeant Bergman demanded.
“To end the Alpha Dogs.” Scarface threw the radio on the ground and stomped on it until it shattered into pieces. He gestured at me. “Bring her.”
Two goons jerked me to my feet and dragged me over to a cattle hauler.
Scarface brutally grabbed my face and forced my head up. “You will get that bull into the hauler.”
“If I don’t?”
“I will kill him.”
One look at his cold, dead eyes and I knew he wasn’t bluffing. “I need oats.”
“Billie Bob, get her some oats,” Scarface commanded.
He rushed off.
“You’re. Eric Roberts,” I wheezed.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “That man died in the bomb blast. Your grandfather is quite clever at hiding his trip wires. I chose to become James Bass. I now run a cattle ranch called Triangle 8.”