by James Tarr
“Armed robbery isn’t federal unless it’s a bank. We passed it on to the FBI. We can’t investigate ourselves, not on something that big.” He got back on topic. “You sure you don’t know where he is? Do you have another phone number for him? I’ve tried his cell several times.”
“He’s only got the one phone.” Aaron crossed his arms. “You’ve talked to John, been to his house…..”
“Called Absolute,” Ringo offered.
“You talk to his girlfriend yet?”
Ringo shook his head. “No, I wasn’t aware that he had a girlfriend. Could he be staying with her?”
Aaron blew out air and shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“You have a phone number, or an address?”
“No, I….” he thought for a second. “Hmm, maybe, hold on.” He tracked down his cell phone inside the trailer and scrolled through incoming calls as he walked back toward the door. He waved Ringo inside the trailer. After a while Aaron said, “Umm, maybe this is it.” He tapped the screen with his thumb, then put the phone up to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, is this Gina?”
“Yes?”
“Hi Gina, this is Dave’s partner Aaron, at the armored car company. I’m trying to track down Dave, but he’s not answering his phone. Have you seen him?”
“No, not for a few days. Seems like everybody’s looking for him, I met a cop at his house earlier tonight looking for him.”
“Shit. You have any idea where he might be?”
“No. He just said he was going out of town, asked me to get his mail for a few days.”
Aaron quickly said, “Hold on, what? He said he was going out of town? For how long?”
“He didn’t say, but the way he said it I’m guessing a while.”
“When was this?”
Gina thought. “I don’t know, three or four days ago. I think it was the day after the shooting. I’m not sure.”
“No shit? You seen him when he left? Just wondering if he took the Cherokee, since it’s gone.”
“No, he left without me seeing him. He called me on the phone.”
“Okay, thanks. You hear from him, you tell him to call me.” He looked at the Detroit detective and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I know where he is,” he admitted to the man. “He’s fine, he just escaped that circus you call a city.”
“Where?”
Aaron shook his head. “No, sorry, I’m not going to tell you. If he went out there, it’s because he wanted his privacy. Get away from this mess.”
“I don’t think you understand. I really need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, I bet. Listen, if I hear from him, I’ll have him call you. You got a card?”
“No, sir, I’m deadly serious, I need to know where he is, right now.” Ringo paused, and took a deep breath. “He’s in danger. Somebody’s trying to kill him”
Aaron barked a laugh out. “Well no fucking shit somebody’s trying to kill him, there’s a bunch of dead bodies in the Oakland county morgue that could tell you that. Probably a bunch more Detroit cops would like to make him just as dead as their buddies.”
“No, I mean somebody is still trying to kill him. And not us,” he felt obliged to add. Ringo looked from Aaron to Arlene. “I was told you’re his friend. That you’re almost his only friend.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but we’re close. He was over here for the Fourth, had spaghetti with me and my mom and Arlene.”
“I know why the shooting happened,” Ringo told him. “And it’s going to happen again, I think, unless I can talk to him. The two of us, we need to figure this out.”
“What do you mean, you mean that wasn’t some random bullshit? They were trying to kill him? Why?”
Ringo shook his head. “It’s a long story, and I don’t have all the facts. But I know who, and I know it’s not over. He’s still in danger. And don’t ask for any more details, you don’t want to know.” He looked into the middle distance. “Hell, I don’t want to know, it’s tearing me up, but I’ve got to do something. I can’t not.” Ringo stared into the face of the man who might be Anderson’s only friend. “You know anything about his parents’ death?”
“Yeah,” Aaron said slowly, frowning.
“I think this whole thing is tied to that. And if I’m right….it’s probably going to get worse.”
“You going to give me any more details than these fucking vague warnings?”
“No. I’ve already told you too much. So can you help me? Help Dave?”
Aaron stared at him for several long seconds. “Shit.” He turned to Arlene and kissed her. “Babe, you want to turn on the computer? We’ve got to buy some airplane tickets.”
“No, no, no,” Ringo said quickly. “I can’t have you going with me.”
“Well then, I’m going without you,” Aaron told him. “Because I’m not giving you the address.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Ringo tried. “This is something very dangerous. When I find him, I’m going to have to put him into protective custody….”
“Dude, really? Dangerous? I ride around Detroit in an armored car five days a week. I’m dancing in the lion’s cage wearing steak pajamas every day for $15.89 an hour. When’s the last time you even had to pull your gun? For me it was last Tuesday. So shut up about that shit. Besides, I don’t actually know the address, I just know how to get there.” Which wasn’t really true, but fuck this asshole, he wasn’t going without Aaron. “Anyway, how do I know that you’re not part of the reason people are trying to kill him? DPD doesn’t exactly have clean hands in this.”
“You’re going to have to trust me.”
“Yeah? Back at ya, dude.” He stared at the cop. “So, we flying together? Or am I going alone?”
“Shit,” Ringo said finally. “So where are we going?”
“Phoenix. To start. I can take care of my own ticket, but you’re going to have to cover the rental car. And on the plane, you’re going to tell me everything you know. No bullshit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“You mean I’ve got to pay for my carry-on as well as my goddamn checked bag?” Aaron said, outraged. “‘American Spirit’ Airlines my ass.”
“You want to fly cross-country on only a few hours notice, in the middle of the night, your choices are sort of limited,” Ringo told him tiredly. Abruzzo was already wearing him down, and they’d only been together a few hours. But he didn’t see how he had much of a choice.
He was pretty sure Anderson was still in danger, and finding him and telling him that, sooner rather than later, was a priority. Ringo wasn’t exactly sure what kind of witness protection he could offer Anderson, but he had to do something.
Doing research, he’d learned that normally it was the Office of Professional Responsibility who investigated the FBI….but the OPR was still a department inside the FBI. Their own version of Internal Affairs. And the feds were well known for circling the wagons whenever they were challenged. His faith that the FBI would properly investigate itself, especially with something this huge, was slim to none.
Internet research showed him that, on various cases when the OPR was called in, it usually discovered the FBI—big shocker—hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. Apparently if the incident was big or important enough the Department of Justice might get called in, but he didn’t have any confidence in that arrangement either. It was more than a little incestuous.
But who the hell did that leave? Who he could hand over the recording to? The press? Honestly, he didn’t want to go that route. He wanted the people responsible for this investigated and punished, and he’d never trusted the press. They rarely did anything right, and true news organizations—as opposed to those who had devolved into editorializing shills and gossip mongers—were almost extinct.
“What are you checking luggage for anyway?” he asked Aaron. “We’re only going to be gone a day or two.”
“I’
m checking my guns,” Aaron said. “The plane would be safer if they let me carry on board, but they don’t feel the same way. Shit, the FAA barely lets the pilots carry guns anymore, it’s like Nine-Eleven never happened. Assholes.” He looked at Ringo, then Ringo’s hands, then the area around him. “Aren’t you checking a bag? Where’s your gun? I didn’t think they let locals carry on board, just federal agents.”
“I left it in the trunk of my car.” It had been a reflex—he never flew on department business, the only time he flew was on family vacations, which had been fewer and less frequent as the years had gone by. No need to bring a gun to the beach, or Disney World.
“Are you shitting me? We find him, what the fuck are you going to protect him with, your shitty ties?” He checked his watch. “We’ve got time. Go back out to your car and get your gun. I’ve got room in my case.”
“I don’t even think I’m legal to carry in Arizona,” Ringo said, pissed, not happy about being told what to do by anyone, much less someone with a Harry Reems moustache. He glanced down at his tie. It looked fine, there wasn’t anything wrong with it. What the hell did Abruzzo know about ties anyway?
“Everybody’s fucking legal to carry in Arizona,” Aaron told him. “It’s like drinking beer in Europe. Go get your goddamn gun.”
Smith stepped away from the small table and opened the mini-refrigerator. “Anybody want anything?”
“What do we have?”
Smith looked. “Gatorade, Monster, water. We’re going to the high desert, so I’d stay away from anything with caffeine, it’s a diuretic.”
“Thanks, ma,” Bailey said sarcastically.
“If he’s there, it’s going to be a quick in and out,” Marcus remarked.
“That’s what your mom said,” Kyle couldn’t help but say. That got a laugh all around.
“It’s like playing grabass with a bunch of PFCs,” Smith said, fighting back a smile. “Anybody want something or what?” He ended up returning to the table with two Gatorades and a water.
“If he’s not there, we’re going to sit on it until he shows,” Smith reminded them. “So pack all your empty pouches with water bottles.” He glanced around the interior of the Gulfstream G4. As private jets went, it was spacious, and renting one of the things out cost something ridiculous, like a thousand dollars an hour. Flatscreen TVs, leather reclining chairs with cupholders, real wood, carpet, fresh flowers in vases…..too bad every job wasn’t like this. Six big guys clustered around the G4’s small table, though, and it got a little claustrophobic. He wondered which shell company owned the jet.
Marcus, who’d spent a lot of time in the mountains of Afghanistan, said “I’d feel a lot better if we had Camelbaks.”
“Shit, I’d feel a lot better if we could have brought our own gear, or at least had a chance to sight in our shit,” Randy said.
“Yeah, but everyone knows SEALs are whiners,” Haney said to him.
“Did anybody bring any of their kit?” Smith asked the team.
“Heard we were jumping a flight, assumed it was commercial,” Marcus said. “I didn’t bring anything other than a carry-on full of clothes. Just stuff that would make it through an x-ray.” Everyone else indicated they’d done the same. Smith looked around. They were, for the most part, dressed in button-down shirts over cargo pants and boots, typical private contractor attire.
“Well, we’ve all worked compressed timeline jobs before, and sometimes you have to make do,” Smith told them. “I’ve been assured that everything we need is going to be in the vehicle waiting at the airport for us.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then I call it. Can’t do the job if you don’t have the tools. But I have no reason to doubt there will be a problem this time.”
“Anybody else worked a domestic job before?” Kyle asked. He looked at Bailey. “Shit, all you’ve ever done is ops for the Company. So what’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“All domestic ops this rushed?”
Bailey, who had sandy brown hair and looked ten years younger than his age, shook his head. “No, and they’re usually a lot more….covert. Make it look like an accident, or at least leave no evidence of foul play. Just disappear the body. Here, this one, the fact they don’t seem to care…..might be important.”
“Can we get back to the fucking file?” Haney said. He was one of the two former SOF-D operators on the team, the other being Smith. He was the second oldest on the team, and showing gray, although Smith had a few years—and gray hairs—on him. Unlike Smith, who rarely brought up his elite roots, Haney relied heavily on the cachet of being former “Delta Force”. It hadn’t earned him a lot of friends in the business, but then he wasn’t looking for friends.
“Fuck you, Delta,” Kyle said, but Haney chose to ignore it. That might have been because Kyle was the youngest, strongest, and biggest member of the team. He fought amateur heavyweight MMA matches in his free time, with a fighting weight of 265.
The satellite photos were spread around the top of the small, round-edged rectangle of a table, and the flash drive containing the rest of the information was plugged into the side of an open laptop sitting open. “The only way to approach on the road is from the southwest, but it’s open as hell,” Randy said. “If we’re going to come in that way, we might as well drive all the way up to his front door and hit the horn.”
“I don’t know. See this around here,” Kyle said, his finger tracing a feature on the photo, “I think this is a low ridge around the house. It’s set at one end of a shallow oval.” They studied the shadows in the photo closely.
“Yeah, but how shallow?” Marcus asked what they were all thinking. “If the house is in a hole, and he’s inside, he won’t see anybody approaching. Hell, he might not even hear a car until it’s right there.”
“And if that depression is only two feet deep, and he happens to be looking out an attic window, he’ll see our vehicle half a mile out,” Smith said. “All our asses are on the line, but I’m on the line for your asses. No unnecessary risks. I think parking here,” he pointed to a narrow gravel road running north/south a mile east of the subject’s property, “and walking cross country is the best bet. I don’t know if we’re getting NODs, but the moon is almost full, and the weather forecast for the area says no clouds. We should be able to work our way in from the road and get into position without a problem.” He checked his watch. “We’re what, ninety minutes from wheels down? Then we’ve got a four hour drive, probably less at this hour of the night. Nothing gets screwed, we should be in position by oh-two-hundred local, maybe oh-three-hundred at the latest.”
“And then what? Pop him as soon as he sticks his head out? I’m not against that,” Marcus assured them, “but we’re going to be bringing weapons we’ve never fired, that were zeroed by other people. Shit, hopefully they’ve been zeroed. What are we picking up? M4s? AKs?”
“I was told sterile domestic commercial stuff, so I’m guessing they’ll be ARs or M4 variants. Semi auto. We’ll find out when we get there.”
“Optics? Handguns?”
Smith shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Shit.”
“What the hell are you guys getting your panties all tied up in knots for?” Haney asked them. “This is a fucking kid, barely out of college, never been in the military, never even been a cop. I can’t figure out what the fuck they’re doing sending six of us out on this douchebag. Between us we’ve got what, like twenty combat tours? I mean, is there something we should know?”
Smith looked at him. “You’ve served with guys younger than him.”
“Yeah? Well, this isn’t that. It’s not like he’s got combat experience.”
Smith paused. “He does now.”
Haney snorted. “Getting into a shootout with a bunch of fat, crooked cops doesn’t count as combat.”
“What kind of weapons is he likely to have?” Bailey interrupted them.
Kyle pulled the laptop over to h
im and scrolled through the information. “According to the ATF, he’s registered a number of handguns over the years, one shotgun……and two AR-15s. No way to tell what he might have sold. Or bought used, in private sales.”
“One of the rifles is now in the police evidence room,” Smith reminded them. “Along with one of his handguns, if I remember correctly. But he could still be armed. We should assume he will be. No way to know how hot he might be. Don’t know if he’s hiding out there or just getting away from it all. But let’s assume he’s got his head on a swivel, looking for bad news.”
“Top, you have any more detail on why they want us to hit this guy?” Kyle asked Smith. That got him stares from everybody.
“How long you been doing this shit, you don’t know better than to ask that?” Haney said.
“How much more detail you want, we’ve practically got everything but his favorite color,” Marcus said, pointing at the open file on the laptop.
Kyle held up a hand. “I know, I’m just wondering, because this thing is so rushed, if we need to worry about him or his house. I’d prefer not to end this op glowing in the dark.”
Smith nodded and smiled. “Roger that. Honestly, you know everything I do. But we weren’t told to secure any intelligence or materiel on this one, so all they’re worried about is him. He’s the mission. I don’t think you have to worry about any dirty bombs or uranium surprises.”
“What about you?” Kyle asked Bailey, since he had a lot more intelligence contacts and time with the Company. “You got any special insights into this one?’
Bailey shook his head. “I don’t know anything more than you guys,” he said. Even though it was true, nobody else on the plane believed him. Working for the spooks just wasn’t the same as doing contracting work. You could never really trust them to tell you the truth. The only thing you could ever trust was the weapon in your hand, and the guy next to you….and with these jobs, not even him.
Smith looked back at the overhead photos. “So, how do you want to handle this? Marcus, you don’t like the sniper angle, because of the uncertainty with our gear. And I don’t disagree. You got any suggestions?”