Reason Under the Law

“Sinaloa?”

“Probably. Maybe Sonora.”

The smell of death was familiar, even if the situation was new. The thumping of helicopters and the barking of dogs created cacophony over the silence of the crime scene. A pick-up truck sat burned and nearby four men lay scattered on the ground, dead. Not the first to leave their life soaked into Texas sands, they wouldn’t be the last.

“If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then it’s Sinaloa."

With the groan of old injuries, Lt. Ranger Jack Embry lowered himself to a knee. Flicking his fingers through the dirt, he produced a trophy of brass and burnt cordite. He turned the casing in his hand.

“Seven point six-two. Extraction scar. Looks like our baddies used AKs… or something like ‘em.”

“Solid call for the bad guys, the AK. Inaccurate, but reliable.”

“Yep.”

“Full-auto it’s a chainsaw.”

“Yep.”

“Cut ‘em into pieces.”

“Yep.”

“Solid call.”

“Yep.”

Embry grunted to his feet, tossing the shell-casing away. Pushing his hat back he nervously scratched a red mark on his forehead before giving orders.

“Get forensics in here; for all the good it’ll do, and have the local types start combing the place for shells and cigarette butts. If we’re lucky, and we sure ain’t, we’ll get a DNA.”

“Mexican DNA?”

Embry snorted something viscous and spit it out.

“Odds are they ain’t Dutch.”

“Close to the King Ranch though...”

“Ranger, you do as instructed."

"Sir."

The deputy left to use the radio.

Embry stayed.

Rubbing the sand from his fingers he wandered over to the destroyed pick-up. Tires flat and paint burned, a corpse hung over the wheel.

“Perdon…” Embry said.

Jack looked at the poor bastard, taking note of the sunlight that passed through his skull. Yet another head-shot Mexican.

“You got got amigo. Buena suerte.”

(TBC)