Free Hostile Borders by Dennis Chalker

military units from acting as a direct part of civilian law enforcement.
    The new headquarters did not come without some strings attached. In order to receive all of the largess from the government, and avoid a lot of criminal prosecution, they had to agree to conduct operations as needed, the missions to be directed from Admiral Straker’s office alone. So now Reaper and his merry band were contractors for the U.S. government, a nice little euphemism for mercenary.
    Reflections on the past year occupied Reaper’s mind as he headed down the road. He was almost surprised when he realized that he was approaching Sierra Vista. Soon he was turning off the main road and heading up the half-mile-long dirt road leading to the main compound of the ranch. The wire fence that went around the 175-acre property extended from either side of a tall set of poles supporting a crossbeam. Hanging from the beam was a big wooden sign in the shape of a bone. Dogbone Ranch was spelled out in big letters burned into the wood.
    This was going to be what he needed. Instead of spending time organizing the Horsemen or training, Reaper would spend some downtime with a friend far away from anything. It would be the first vacation he had taken in a very long time.
    The dirt road leading up to the main house was dusty and winding. It went around the base of a number of small hills and crossed several dry wash gullies that would be rushing, destructive waterways once the rainscame. But right now, the area was dry. Dust blew through the scattered undergrowth.
    A few hundred yards away to his right, Reaper could see tall, full trees, bright green and heavy with leaves. The trees and the grassland around them bordered the San Pedro River, a riparian national conservation area. The thorns, mesquite, and mostly brown sands only a short distance from the trees starkly illustrated the value of water in the area.
    The road ended at a long brick wall surrounding the main buildings of the ranch. A wrought-iron gate penetrated the south wall without a latch or lock anywhere on its face. Next to the gate was a small sign reading DOGS ON PREMISES .
    â€œThat’s an understatement,” Reaper said out loud as he reached out the window. Punching a six-digit number into the keypad on the pole next to the driveway unlatched the gate and powered it open. The electronic gate was only the first layer of security for the compound. Reaper knew that the second layer was going to be a hell of a lot more intimidating to any stranger.
    Beyond the gate, the end of the road widened into a large, gravel parking area. There was a long, low building along the north side of the area, the three wide garage doors giving a good idea of what was held under the roof. Neat spaces of crushed red stone, raked and smoothed around a few scattered desert plants, bordered the parking place and the low adobe wall surrounding the house. Through an arched opening in the wall, Reaper could see green grass spreading out in the shade of several trees.
    As he pulled up to the edge of the parking space, two huge black thunderbolts rushed from inside the adobe wall and stopped on either side of his car.
    The two large, black-and-mahogany rottweilers barked only a little, but their loud voices clearly announced the arrival of the vehicle. It was obvious, as they stood at each door of the car, that they were in control of the situation no matter what any passengers of the vehicle might think. Anyone who didn’t know the dogs would be more than a little intimidated by the mere appearance of the two powerful animals.
    The rottweilers were relatively quiet, but the big brown-and-black German shepherd standing in the shade of the trees inside the adobe wall made more than enough noise to make up for them. The rottweilers kept watching Reaper intently, intelligence shining in their brown eyes. Reaper wasn’t intimidated by the animals, but he was very respectful of them.
    â€œMajor, shut