The Aftermath
The Aftermath
Redbird Farm
9:12 a.m.
The world had not decided what it wanted to be. Sunlight pressed down hard, unkind for the hour, but the ground still smelled of iron and smoke. Nothing moved in the yard except a hawk riding the updraft, its shadow gliding across bodies already claimed by silence—the heavy hush of the aftermath.
Evelyn shifted Charlie closer, her arms aching from the weight, though she dared not let him go. His silence had a gravity all its own, pulling her inward. Beside them, Sam stood rooted, the shotgun slack in his hands, like a man listening for a verdict only the earth could give.
The Mexican lay where he had fallen, face buried in the dirt, the ropes still tight around his wrists. He hadn’t stirred since the shooting, not a word, not a breath anyone cared to notice. Dust clung to his body in layers, as if the earth itself had claimed him but not yet finished the job.
The violence was gone, yet it lingered—like a story half told, waiting for its final word.
Evelyn’s eyes wandered the horizon. The corn stood tall and watchful, blades whispering against one another. Somewhere beneath that green, a duffel of money lay hidden, heavy as sin. She could still feel the soil under her fingernails, the hard breath of digging fast, the cold logic of marking the spot. A crooked row. A leaning tree. The shadow of the silo at morning’s nine. Memory as compass; secrecy as shield.
She drew in air sharp with dust and silence. “She’s gone,” she whispered, though no one had asked.
Sam shifted, lips parting, but no sound followed; the silence held him fast.
The farm sagged into an ominous stillness, listening. The barn creaked, shortly. A hinge complained in the wind. And for a fleeting second Evelyn thought of the girl again—not riding east, not hunted by engines and orders—but sitting here at their table, scarf folded, voice low. Human. Briefly human.
Then the vision broke. Only the wind returned, carrying dust across the porch, a reminder that nothing had ended—only paused. Now they had to face the aftermath.
Sam stepped into the kitchen, set the shotgun on the counter like it might overhear him, and reached for the landline. Evelyn followed, she wanted to listen in.
The phone clicked twice before a woman answered, steady and clipped.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dallas Field Office. How may I direct your call?”
Sam’s knuckles whitened. The receiver was slick in his hand. His eyes flicked to Evelyn, then to the bodies cooling in the dirt outside. The phone sat on a small table beside the living-room window.
“My name is Sam Wade. I live outside Brownfield, Texas… er—” Sam’s voice caught. He sounded painfully agitated. “We were hit this morning. A group of armed men. Nine of them. Maybe more—I… I don’t know. It was brutal. They came onto my land, beat us, dragged us out to the porch. Said they were cartel, but one of them—Ramiro—swore they weren’t. Claimed they were just desperate men, doing a job. I don’t know what to believe.”
His breath hitched, then steadied.
“They’re all shot. Dropped clean, like it was nothing. She came out of nowhere—like something straight out of my boy’s western novel. Not a cop, not a soldier… more like a vigilante. Or a trained assassin. She just—she just showed up in the middle of it… and saved us.”
A pause.
“Seven dead, I think—the one who led them, too. One more is tied up in my yard. Another, Ramiro, drove off. I don’t… I don’t know where.”
His throat tightened. He looked at Evelyn, then forced the words.
“And there’s something else. The woman who saved us… she said she was the same woman who shot Senator Riddley.”
The line went very still. He could almost feel the weight shift on the other end, agents leaning closer.
He let out a shaky breath. “So you’d better come quick. Before the sheriff does. Because if the man who said he was bought was right… then this county isn’t safe—for any of us.”
The pause on the other end was longer than a breath. Then her tone shifted, low, careful.
“Sir, please hold.”
A faint click. Another voice came through—deeper, harder, trained.
“This is Special Agent Keene, Counterterrorism Division. I need you to repeat exactly what you just told my colleague.”
Sam gripped the receiver tighter. “The woman who saved us… she said it herself. She was the one who shot Senator Riddley.”
No reply. Just silence—taut, electric. Then the rustle of papers. The clatter of keys.
“When did it happen?” Keene asked. “Are you or your family hurt?”
“Just now. Within the past hour. They came, then… then the woman. We’re shaken, but alive. She left only minutes ago, riding east, into the sun.”
“Was she armed when she left?”
“She had weapons. And she mentioned… a fast motorbike, further out. Said she was headed to Lubbock.”
Finally: “Mr. Wade, listen carefully. Stay where you are. Do not speak to anyone else about this call. A team will be in contact immediately.”
The line cut dead.
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