We left the trees, and I caught a glimpse of Texas Guy running past my cabin. He was leaving his buddies to fend for themselves.
I pushed Hispanic Guy toward the mine portal. Guy Three who’d collapsed lay motionless. I pulled off his helmet. He was black. I checked his pulse at the carotid artery. Nothing, even though he didn’t seem to be bleeding. His head flopped loosely on his neck. My shot to his head must’ve snapped his neck back enough to break it.
I frisked my prisoner to make sure he didn’t have any more weapons and locked him in the mine. Then Boomer and I hustled to the north end of my cabin and peeked around the corner to look for Texas Guy.
He stood in the middle of the empty pasture, waving his arms. A dark turbine-powered helicopter swooped toward him. It was a mile away and coming in hot.
Over the prop noise, sirens wailed in the distance. I doubted they’d get here in time. The mile-long road from the creek was such a bitch. I fired my shotgun at Texas Guy, but he was a hundred and fifty yards away. Too far for the pellets to do much damage.
He turned and sprayed bullets at me, but I’d expected that and slipped back around the corner.
What could I do to stop his getaway?
I needed my rifle. Boomer and I ran into the cabin as fast as I could go. From the coat closet, I grabbed my elk rifle, an old Browning lever action .300 Win Mag. One of my uncles had given it to me when I graduated from high school. Several of my friends had thought that was a weird gift, but I cherished it because it was his way of saying he accepted me for who I was.
Unfortunately, its detachable magazines only held five rounds. Always prepared, I had three spare magazines already packed with cartridges. Shoved them into my parka pockets.
By the time Boomer and I reached my deck, the chopper was only fifty feet off the ground and dropping fast. It was big enough to carry a half-dozen passengers.
The black machine faced away from me, so I had no chance to shoot at the pilot. I emptied one magazine into the back of the chopper, hoping to hit something vital.
Nope.
Texas Guy sprayed more bullets at us. I hit the deck and pulled the dog down. Because the ground sloped downward to the east, the front of the deck protected us a bit. His bullets missed us but shattered both of my picture windows.
He jumped inside the chopper. Its turbine roared much louder as it took off.
I replaced the magazine in my rifle and fired five more rounds. Still no effect.
Off in the distance, the first sheriff’s SUV, its lights flashing, emerged from the aspens near my entrance gate.
Someone jumped out of the vehicle. He must’ve seen me shooting at the helicopter because he did the same. I replaced another magazine and fired again. Needed tracer rounds.
Another sheriff’s SUV pulled up behind the first. Two more deputies began shooting, but the helicopter was moving faster now, zooming east.
I was down to my last five bullets. The chopper was quickly gaining altitude. I emptied the magazine. The other deputies kept firing.
Suddenly, the roar of the turbine changed to a shriek. The helicopter pitched forward steeply and dropped from the sky.
I was out of ammo and set my rifle on the deck. The dog and I hustled down the slope toward the giant bird, which was falling fast. Now that it was much quieter, he was happy again.
The chopper crashed inside the large grove of aspens east of my property. We passed through one of the gaps the killers had cut in my fence and slowed as we entered the trees. I held my phone out, using it as a flashlight.
I recognized Randy’s voice when he yelled, “Right behind you, Hank!” The two other deputies followed us toward the impact site. My Glock remained in its shoulder harness, just in case I needed it. If anyone had survived the crash, they could be dangerous.
Even though I had some light, a low hanging branch stabbed my cheek, cutting me again. I pushed the branch away with my free hand. Kept moving forward.
Up ahead, the chopper’s engine hissed loudly. Clouds of smoke wafted toward us. Something was burning.
Boomer and I reached a small clearing. The helicopter had plowed into the ground at the edge. Smoke was pouring out of the back of the machine. The passenger’s door on my side was open, and someone in light camo was lying on the ground outside the door. Had to be Texas Guy.
The pilot was still inside the machine, swearing and pounding on something.
Texas Guy didn’t move. He was a white man with no helmet and no obvious weapons. Even so, I approached cautiously.
In the darkness, it was hard to see far.
“Police!” I yelled. “Throw out your weapons!”
“I’m trapped!” the pilot yelled back.
Behind me, the other deputies were pushing their way through the trees.
I reached Texas Guy and confirmed he wasn’t armed. His breath came in loud, wheezing gasps. A large gash on his forehead oozed blood that covered his face. He didn’t seem conscious.
The pilot was still swearing and pounding. “Smell jet fuel! This thing will blow up at any second.”
From behind me, Randy said, “I’ll worry about the pilot, Hank. You and Greg get this bastard away.”
Texas Guy was completely limp. Out cold. Greg helped me drag him through the trees. Boomer churned around us, doing his best to get in the way.
A few seconds later, a loud whoosh made me look back. Randy and the other deputy, Simon, yelled at each other. A bright light flashed. The helicopter had burst into flames. Its pilot screamed in agony. Because there were only two in the chopper, the pilot had to have come of his own free will. That being the case, I didn’t feel sorry for him.
Greg and I kept moving the shooter away from the inferno.
Chapter 25
When Greg and I reached the open ground near my property, we laid Texas Guy flat on his back on the snow. He continued to wheeze, but his breaths were regular. Maybe he’d broken some ribs in the crash. His pulse was fast. Still unconscious.
The front of his chest armor showed pockmarks from my first shot that had knocked him over. It didn’t look like any of them had penetrated. The only blood came from the gash on his forehead, and the flow had slowed dramatically.
Randy and Simon staggered toward us, their faces smeared with soot.
“Are you guys okay?” I asked.
“We’re all right,” Randy said. “Crumpled metal had pinned the pilot’s leg in place. Couldn’t get it out. The fuel lit up, and that was it for him.”
I’d seen the size of the fire, and I was sure Randy and Simon were lucky to have survived.
In a moment of silence, I thanked God for keeping me and my mutt alive.
“Didn’t recognize the pilot,” Randy said. “If he was local, we’ll have to notify next of kin.” He stared at me for a few seconds. “Hank, you’ve taken a few more shots to your face.”
I reached up and felt the cuts. Nothing too serious. “Boomer and I made it through some anxious moments. We’re okay, except for a few gashes caused by traipsing through trees in the dark.”
“What about this asshole?” Simon asked.
For the first time, I took a good look at the guy we’d saved. He was probably in his forties. Darkly tanned skin and long black hair. Short, scruffy beard. He had to be a paid hitman, him and his two partners.
“I think he’s going to make it,” I said. “Which doesn’t say much for my aim. I did my best to kill the son of a bitch and both of his buddies. It’s probably lucky I failed, at least partly failed. Maybe this guy or my other prisoner can tell us who sent these bastards.”
A few minutes later, several EMTs arrived. They quickly checked me then began work on the killer I’d saved. Boomer and I sat on our asses and watched the remnants of the fire burn down. Because of the cold and snow, it wasn’t spreading. What a crazy fucking night. My stump was aching like crazy because of all my running from place to place.
-o-o-o-
&
nbsp; And the night was far from over. More cops arrived, including Jenkins himself. Although he disliked me as much as ever, I supposed he felt he had to show solidarity. We both said the right things, and we both pretended to care about what the other one thought.
Finally, Randy said, “I think we need to push the two survivors into revealing who’s behind this catastrophe. One of the hitmen is locked in Hank’s mine.”
“The EMTs are hauling away the asshole you saved,” Jenkins said. “He needs medical attention. We won’t be able to talk to him ‘til morning at the earliest. He has regained consciousness, though. That’s a good sign.”
I was relieved because these two survivors were by far our best chance to learn who our real nemesis in LA was.
“You three” —Jenkins pointed at Randy, Skip and me— “go check on the other dirt bag. See if you can get the ringleader’s name out of him. I’ll work on finding out where the helicopter came from. It sure as hell didn’t fly all the way from Southern California.”
Randy, Skip, Boomer, and I headed up the slope. We passed my cabin on the south side. The familiar stink of gasoline filled my nostrils. “Watch out. Smells like one of them had started splashing gas around before he figured out I wasn’t asleep inside. Any spark could set off another fire.”
We gave my cabin a wide berth. I couldn’t think of anything to do about the fumes than to let them disperse on their own.
My heart ached at how easily I could have lost everything inside, but I didn’t dare delay our work. Our best chance to wring information out of Hispanic Guy would be while he remained shell-shocked. Their plan had gone horribly wrong.
When we reached the metal mine door, I yelled, “Time’s up, asshole. There’s three of us here with guns drawn. Come out slowly with your hands high. If you get cute, we’ll send you straight to hell.”
I knew that the only possible weapons inside were a couple of two-by-fours. Hispanic Guy apparently didn’t feel cute because when I opened the door, he came out slowly, his hands up.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Chico Manuel. I want a lawyer.”
“Yeah, you’re really going to need one,” Randy said. “We’re arresting you on one count of attempted murder against a law enforcement officer, a count of domestic terrorism with an explosive device, and two counts of felony murder.”
“Murder? I didn’t kill anybody.”
I cuffed his hands behind his back. “That’s the crazy thing about felony murder. If anyone dies during the commission of a felony, even if the cops do all the killing, every criminal involved is guilty of murder, too. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a cell.”
I could’ve told him that he had something we wanted desperately, but better to let him stew about his future.
Randy took our prisoner down to where the others were gathered. Skip and I found Manuel’s rifle, a fully automatic AR-15, in the grove of trees. Then, I put my elk rifle back inside the cabin and made a mental note to find someone to fix my windows before the next storm could roll in.
That done, we headed into town to confront Chico Manuel.
-o-o-o-
As several of us headed to the office in Randy’s SUV, he used his departmental radio to call our dispatcher. For the second time in as many days, we woke up the district attorney, who lived in Glenwood, and told him he had to find someone on his staff to cover plea negotiations. Our dispatcher also contacted the after-hours number for the public defender’s office and made arrangements for both lawyers to meet us at the sheriff’s office at one o’clock in the morning.
Poor Sarah showed up to negotiate on behalf of the DA’s office again. Another private attorney arrived to represent Manuel.
While I briefed Sarah, Skip called over to the emergency room.
“Good news,” he said. “The guy you dragged out of the smoldering chopper is on the mend. The ER doc on call, who happened to be the coroner, says his patient has four broken ribs and a concussion. He’ll make it and should be available for an interview sometime late in the morning.”
After I brought Sarah up to date, she talked to Jenkins and the district attorney about what kind of deal they should offer a man who’d done his damnedest to kill a cop. Without Boomer’s warning, he and I wouldn’t have made it through the night. That thought sent shivers through me, and I hugged my mutt several times to thank him.
One thing I knew for sure was that I was damn tired of being shot at while minding my own business.
The only way to stop the carnage would be to lock up the Crips leader responsible. So, we were all willing to give up a lot to learn the bastard’s name.
Because I had bruised Manuel’s balls, and I’d disarmed and arrested him on my own, the DA and Sarah thought I’d be the best person to confront him first. Jenkins frowned but eventually agreed.
I couldn’t wait…but I had to.
Skip ran Manuel’s rap sheet, and sure enough, he was a professional hired gun working out of Denver. His last trial had ended in a hung jury, probably because a key witness had vanished before he could testify.
This time, I was the key witness, and I wasn’t going anywhere. Manuel had only one way out. A deal.
Manuel and his lawyer were still talking. So, I used the opportunity to call Willow in the middle of the night and let her know what had happened. After calming her down, I said, “Whatever you do, stay safe. The son of a bitch we’re after will stop at nothing to retaliate against me.”
She promised to remain holed up in Montréal, and I felt a lot better.
Then Manuel’s lawyer waved us in. He was known for advertising to represent DUI defendants. That wasn’t a particularly highbrow criminal defense practice, but crooks who relied on public defenders had to take what they were given. In this case, Manuel had been provided the talents of a guy who spent more time in bars than before the bar.
After we waded through the introductions and preliminaries, I said, “In light of how late it is, why don’t we cut to the chase? We’re only talking to Manuel because he’s the least injured. One of his buddies is dead, and the other one is in the hospital. Take our offer now, or we’ll approach the guy in the hospital with the same deal after he gets his beauty sleep.”
“If he wakes up,” the lawyer said.
Stupid first move. Talking about problems only works if you know the facts are on your side. “Actually, the Texan only got a bump to the head and broke a few ribs. His doctor at the hospital says the asshole’s sure to recover.”
“What’s the deal?” Manuel asked.
“Life in prison, maximum-security, with your choice of mixing with the general population or solitary. After forty years, you become eligible for parole.”
That was our opening bid, not our final offer. We were desperate to get our hands on the gang leader, but we didn’t want to show our desperation.
“My client may as well roll the dice,” the defense lawyer said. “The worst you can do to him is life without parole.”
I’d expected that comeback and had time to prepare a response. “The worst we can do is to fill him with poison from a syringe. Look, your guy’s only thirty-seven. If he takes care of himself in the joint, he could easily live another fifty years. Depending on how he behaves in the big house, he might spend his golden years as a free man.”
We haggled for another half-hour before Manuel accepted life with the possibility of parole after thirty years.
“Who sent you? I asked.
“Denzel Lomax, the Crips boss in Compton.”
“Good to know,” I said. “He has somebody working inside as part of a rap reality show being filmed here in Aspen. Who would that be?”
Manuel shrugged. “Don’t know about no show. Reggie, the Crips leader in Denver, gave my name to Lomax. I didn’t even want to do this damn job. Everything was too rushed. Lomax told me it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, unless I wanted to move back to El Salvador. I hope you
nail the bastard.”
With that worked out, we arrested Manuel on attempted murder, and Skip locked him up. Sarah agreed to work with Randy to get an arrest warrant and extradition request for Lomax. I’d take it to the law enforcement folks in LA later in the morning.
Because I was running on fumes, I got another chance to sleep on Sarah’s sofa bed. It was actually better than mine at the cabin, and I didn’t have to worry about burning to a crisp. Boomer slept on a couple of blankets next to me.
I didn’t get to sleep quickly because I couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow. God willing, I’d be part of the raid that grabbed the guy who had tried twice to kill me. But first, a lot had to come together quickly.
Chapter 26
At six a.m., Skip woke me up. “How do you expect to be elected sheriff, Hank, if you’re constantly sleeping on the job?”
I checked my phone, and I’d only gotten four hours. It would have to do. “Tell me you worked your ass off all night long and got everything ready so I just have to jump on a plane to La-La Land.”
He yawned. “Bet your ass. Got the arrest warrant right here, and Sarah prepared an extradition request.” He handed me a folder. “Your plane leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes. Be on it or I’ll kill you myself.”
I would’ve preferred clean clothes, but the uniform I’d worn yesterday was the only clothing I had with me. It would have to do. After I took a quick shower and dressed, Cindy agreed to deliver Boomer to my neighbor, Sally, who knew how to take care of the lunatic. I was going to have to splurge with nice dinners for a lot of folks when this shitshow was over.
Fortunately, Aspen’s airport was only a few minutes away. I made the flight and tried to get comfortable in coach. Willow had spoiled me with one ride in first class. I agreed to pay for Wi-Fi, so I could text back and forth with various helpers. My lone wolf days were long behind me.
Skip had given me an email address for Ellen Shaw, an LA Sheriff’s Office lieutenant who was coordinating the raid in Compton. The city was outside of LAPD’s formal jurisdiction, but LAPD’s SWAT team was still going to work with LASD’s Special Enforcement Bureau to bring in Lomax.
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