Secession: The Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

cautious law enforcement. Deep-seated fear was as thick as the late summer humidity. The people were burdened with confusion and frustration – emotions that were quickly morphing into anger and rebellion.
     
    He saw it in the faces of a group of National Guard troopers mulling around a truck stop, waiting for someone to order them somewhere... anywhere.
     
    The deputies manning the countless blockades went about their duties with curt voices and faces colored with apprehension. It was if the entire region was experiencing a collective bout of anxiety.
     
    His truck stop meal was spent listening to a neighboring table of drivers; all of them furious over FEMA’s lack of clarity regarding where they were supposed to deliver their cargos of water, blankets, and other emergency supplies. One man claimed to have been waiting for almost three days, another voicing his irritation over having been turned back from New Orleans twice.
     
    As he drove, Zach thought back to Houston and his quip to Putnam. He had been recruited by the FBI. A Masters in Criminology, combined with an undergraduate degree in Forensic Chemistry, tended to open many doors. But what really set the young Texan apart, besides his GPA, was the fact that he’d financed part of his college education with a baseball scholarship. Brains and athletic talent were a winning combination for any wanna-be cop.
     
    Despite the bureau’s energetic recruitment, Zach yearned to be… had always longed to be a Texas Ranger. The solitude of the Louisiana highway brought back a rush of memories – engrained visions from long ago.
     
    Zach had been just old enough to see over the dash. Riding with his father in the ancient Ford pickup, the two had been on a rare errand to the feed store in Fort Stockton.
    It wasn’t often the young Bass had the opportunity to visit the “big city,” the event worthy of his wide-eyed, curious gaze taking in every detail of the journey. He could still remember the Country and Western song playing on the rambling old truck’s AM radio. The cab smelled of hay and his father’s Old Spice aftershave.
    “Looks like the law is on the job today,” his father had said, nodding toward the flashing lights of a police car ahead on the shoulder. The scene piqued Zach’s inquisitive nature, his spine stiffening as he leaned forward to take it all in. The boy couldn’t believe his luck, thrilled by the opportunity of watching a real Texas crime fighter in action.
    Mr. Bass was more than aware of his son’s fascination with cops and robbers. The lad was constantly behind on his chores, often immersed so deeply in the fantasy world of play that his assigned tasks were forgotten. Occasionally, a sharp word was required to bring the boy back to the reality of a working West Texas ranch.
    But it was a small transgression. Mr. Bass was proud of his son, watching him grow straight and tall, enjoying his easy laugh, and reassured by the lad’s honest conscience. Mrs. Bass had surely chosen well in naming their newborn son; he often observed. She had taken one look at the infant’s eyes and noted the resemblance to his great grandfather. Through the years, the namesake would demonstrate his predecessor’s resolve as well.
    The original Zachariah Bass had traveled west and settled in a harsh land. Despite the struggles of the drought, the Great Depression, and finally the Dust Bowl, the Bass homestead had survived.
    Hoping to allow his son plenty of time to view the roadside police officer, the elder Bass had slowed the pickup considerably more than necessary. It had been a life-altering decision.
    “Why is the policeman on the ground, daddy?” young Zach had asked. “It looks like he’s shooting at somebody.”
    “Stay down!” the normally calm father had shouted, swerving the vehicle harshly to the side of the road.
    Ignoring his dad’s warning, young Zach couldn’t help but peer over the cracked plastic of the dash. The officer was lying