I’d never had such rapt attention from the Irregulars. Not a wisecrack to be heard. Dick looked grim, Liz affronted. Clevenger fixed a concerned eye on Lindsey. Burt sat still, hands on his lap and twiddling his thumbs.
“Y’all shouldn’t be here for this,” Lindsey said, looking at each in turn. “It’s me he’s after. I’m capable and I’m in good hands.”
“Absolutely not,” said Salvano, standing. “You can’t be here, either, Ms. Rakes. We need this area secure and no civilians present. End of discussion.”
She looked at me again.
My turn to stand, though I doubted it would have any impact on the outcome here. “He’s right,” I said. “All you can do here is get hurt or get killed.”
“I disagree with that,” said Dick. He took a big gulp of his cocktail. “I’ve got a perfectly good revolver under my bed. I haven’t shot up any paper lately, but I’m actually pretty good with it.”
“This is a nonstarter,” said Salvano.
Clevenger leaned forward, rapped his knuckles on the wooden table. “Look—I can put a camera drone way up to where nobody can see or hear it. If you know his vehicle, we can pick it up before he even gets to the gate.”
“We can get our own air surveillance and tactical backup,” said Salvano. “But thank you, Mr. Clevenger.”
“All of you,” I said, “Lindsey included—you’ve got to clear out. You know what Caliphornia did last night. He’s more than just dangerous. I’m asking you as friends, and telling you—as the owner of this property—that you have to leave this to us.”
I caught Salvano’s look.
Dick shook his head and looked down at the picnic table. Liz stared at me. Clevenger did likewise. Lindsey reached out and ran a hand over Zeno’s immense head. Burt’s thumbs kept on twiddling as he gazed out over the pond.
Liz took another drink, then stood and looked at Salvano. “Well, count me out,” she said. “Or in. However you say it. This is my home and I’m not leaving. You can arrest me. Either way, nice meeting all of you, and have a pleasant evening.”
She turned and limped toward her casita.
“You are endangering this operation,” said Salvano.
Liz ignored him.
“I’m sticking with my wife,” said Dick, standing. “She’ll be the death of me, but I always knew she would.”
He hustled across the patio to catch up with her, his aging frame bent forward at the waist and knees.
“I’m staying put,” said Clevenger. “Let me know if you want me to get a camera ship up.”
“Washington won’t do it this way,” said Salvano, his hard eyes trained on me. “They just absolutely flat-out won’t.”
“I’m not leaving, either,” said Lindsey. “I wouldn’t even consider it. Come on, Zeno. Let’s get us a little walk by the pond while it’s still light out.” She stood and the dog led the way toward the water.
“I’m out of here,” said Bayless. “I’ve got a wife and a little girl and I’m not going to die on this mountain. I won’t bill you for my time, Ford. This one’s on me.” He nodded, then started down the path toward the barn and his black Mercedes SUV.
Salvano watched them. Put his hands on his hips and shook his head. Looked down at Burt, still sitting, his stubby strong hands now spread flat on the table in front of him.
“You?” asked Salvano.
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” said Burt.
“Well, shit, Mr. Ford,” said Salvano. “I think your renters have effectively shut down my operation.”
“Your call, not theirs,” I said.
“You really can’t talk some sense into them?”
“They’ve already spoken,” I said. “You’re asking them to leave their homes on account of terrorists.”
“I’m trying to defend the homeland,” said Salvano.
“This is the damned homeland,” said Burt. Salvano gave Burt a long stare. I thought he might say something about Burt Short’s shortness, which, I’ve discovered, makes Burt retributory. Jason Bayless’s SUV trundled from the barnyard toward the driveway and he gave us a thumbs-up through the open window.
“Let me see what I’m able to do,” said Salvano.
“I knew you’d come around,” said Burt, giving the agent his weird, bottom-toothed smile.
Salvano’s craggy face creased deeper as he sat back down in front of his two phones—one white and one black—squared them perfectly, pondered them both, chose black, and started in.
“Joan?” he asked. “Can you get us a pot of coffee?”
“I’m not the waitress, Frank.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “You two try to get your team on the field.”
* * *
—
Burt and I claimed two chaise longues by the barbecue, close enough to the feds to eavesdrop.
Salvano pled his case to his FBI superiors in Washington. We have a chance to stop this terror, sir. The logistics are sound and he’s given us a window. Don’t make me waste it. At times he had two conversations going at once, in parts, pleading with someone on the white line, bullying someone else on the black.
Taucher was busy, too—making her case and answering questions, her usually short temper dialed most of the way down to a softly urgent frequency.
I listened and looked out over the pond. The clouds flushed pink as the sun began to set and from the north the pale face of a storm looked down. It was being billed as an “atmospheric river” that the National Weather Service said could drop “copious amounts of rain” in San Diego County. And it was set to arrive approximately forty-eight hours from now.
Like Caliphornia, I thought, if he was good to his word.
When Salvano went silent, Burt and I wandered over. Salvano sat still, arranging his phones in front of him, squaring them minutely, as if their symmetry were mystical.
I saw him smile for the first time. “I’ll be goddamned. They went for it. We’ve got two snipers and a bomb squad on their way. And seventy-two hours to make it happen.”
Taucher jumped and threw a punch at the air. “Yes!”
* * *
—
By sundown we had the basics:
Dick and Liz in Liz’s casita number six, farthest from the main house. Stay away from the windows and lock yourselves in the bathroom if you hear gunfire.
Burt and Lindsey in the barn watching the back road. Lights out after dark.
Bomb squad in casita one, closest to the patio—our hoped-for point of contact.
Sniper Reggie in my upstairs office, windows with good sightlines.
Sniper Daniel on the barn roof.
Clevenger hidden in the thicket of oleander near the gate, piloting his drone out of eyesight and earshot.
Zeno locked in Lindsey’s casita three, well positioned on the long odds that Caliphornia even got near her front door.
Salvano, Taucher, and I, the welcoming committee, inside the main house.
Salvano to take down and cuff, Taucher and I to cover.
If Caliphornia ran, resisted arrest, or showed a weapon or cell phone, the snipers would shoot him dead, head-shots best in case of armor.
After all, with bombs, hero is another word for dead.
Loose or lumpy clothing, a backpack, bag, or any type of package meant explosives, so cover, cover, cover.
All agents wear their armor; the bomb team was bringing extras for the civilians.
Plan B is hit at the plate.
Fast but loose.
For Darrel and Patrick.
It all felt unreal. For a moment I let myself float up and look down on us, gathered under the palapa, making our plans. I hovered like one of Dale’s drones. There we were, small humans at work. I liked my plan. I saw things that could go wrong. What worried me were the things I couldn’t s
ee at all.
44
LIFE IS WAITING.
Just before dusk, Burt and Lindsey brought back pizza from Vince’s downtown. I watched on Clevenger’s tablet as they made their first delivery to Clevenger himself, hunkered in the oleander down by the gate. Lindsey waved up at the drone she couldn’t see, though she was very clear on the HD feed. So was Zeno in his armor, seemingly aware of the heightened threat level. Clevenger stepped from the bushes, zooming in on himself and Lindsey. The camera was so powerful you could see their expressions and the moving of their lips. Lindsey laughed. Clevenger moved the controller to one hand and accepted the white pizza box.
A minute later, Burt Short’s relatively gigantic Cadillac Coupe deVille came up the drive and rolled to a stop. Out came Burt and Lindsey, bearing stacks of boxes, delivering them from casita to casita.
Later I lit a fire in the great room and sat well away from it, my FBI tactical vest on the back of a chair. The armor was lighter and covered a little more area than that issued by the San Diego sheriff’s office just a few short years ago. Clevenger’s tablet sat propped on a steamer trunk beside my chair, streaming his aerial surveillance of my home and property, eerily green in infrared.
* * *
—
The dark made everyone jumpy and fretful, except for Taucher, who hummed to herself contentedly as she carried Clevenger’s tablet back and forth from Salvano in the kitchen to me in the living room, where she would look from the screen to me with her brown hawk eyes, fiercely beautiful within her heavily made-up face. She said that Lark and Smith had wanted to be a part of this, but they were running You Got It surveillance, which was Salvano’s call, and Salvano knew this kind of business better than anyone. Said it a little loudly, so he could hear. Joan’s nice-girl routine was sweet and funny if you knew her.
Back and forth with the tablet.
Forth and back.
For me it was coffee and memories of a woman I loved, snippets of dreams unlived. And a growing wonder at the things we human beings do to one another.
Barn lights out at eight. House lights out at ten.
The slow crawl of hours.
If there’s a dead of night, why no dead of morning?
At 3:17 a.m., Taucher came across the room, looking down at the tablet screen. “I’d like you to come to my home and meet my people someday,” she said.
“I’d be honored, Joan.”
“Yes, I think you would be.”
I saw a pair of headlights far down on the road. Then a glimmer in her eyes when she looked up at me.
“A white Taurus just went by the gate,” she said.
Salvano came to the window beside me. We watched the car go past and disappear.
Five minutes later the Taurus approached from the opposite direction, slowed at the gate, and turned in. Pulled up to the keypad as the motion light came on and driver’s-side window went down. The driver reached out to punch the numbers and I got my first clear, high-def look at Caliphornia. He resembled his father and his sister—the trim face, slender nose, and heavy eyebrows. Younger-looking than his twenty-two years, a mass of black hair, clean shaven. Eyes bright as he watched the gate swing open. Beside him the silhouette of a woman, shrouded in a darkness that even Clevenger’s infrared camera could not fully penetrate.
Up the drive slowly, headlights off, running lights orange in the dark. I buckled on the tactical vest. We stood away from the windows and drew our weapons. I heard the creak of the floor in my upstairs office—Reggie the sniper settling in.
The car came up the drive between the house and the barn, setting off the motion lights, then continuing past their beams. In the semidarkness farthest from the house, the driver half-circled the vehicle to face back down the drive, and parked.
No movement inside that I could see. Stillness, as the seconds slid into minutes and the motion lights went off. Then the car doors opened. Ben Azmeh emerged. Taller and heavier than I had imagined. Jeans and athletic shoes and a half-zipped U.S. Air Force sweatshirt over a dark T-shirt, the hood now pulled over his head. He shut the door softly with both hands and a nudge of his hip. In the faint light from the house I saw the glimmer of a gun just above his belt buckle—easy access, up front and in the open.
Kalima came around the passenger side. Tall, trailing layers of silky fabric—a caftan or a full-length duster—billowing pants and combat boots. Hair tied back, bunched at the top and flowing behind her.
And a bundle in her arms. She looked down at it, adjusted a blanket.
I saw what looked like a small face within the bundle.
Thought of Ben’s letter to Marah: Want to marry Kalima and have us a baby!
“Oh, Christ no,” whispered Taucher.
Salvano groaned softly.
Another little squeak from the floor upstairs.
I remembered Joan’s description of the full Bakersfield video: Someone walked past that security camera thirty seconds before Caliphornia . . . A woman . . . Carrying something against her side . . .
Had Kenny Bryce opened his front door not only to a woman, but to a woman and her newborn?
Kalima led and Ben followed. Practiced and purposeful but not in a hurry. Silent on the concrete, touched by weak moonlight, Kalima cradling her infant, Caliphornia with his hoodie up. A young family. The future ahead. They came along the shadowed edge of the driveway, toward the house and the branching walkway that led to the patio. Caliphornia tall but swift, Kalima tall, too, striding more heavily with boots and infant.
Crouched and watching within the darkness of my living room, I saw Kalima lead the way around the house and toward the patio. When they’d gone past the window I sidled from the living room toward the kitchen. Salvano and Taucher massed behind me. Knowing my home and its dimensions, I saw that Ben and Kalima would be at our ground zero—on the patio, just under the palapa and directly in front of us—if we came through the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen approximately right . . .
Now.
Kalima triggered the motion lights.
I drew my weapon, pulled open the mudroom door, and followed Salvano and Taucher into the cold morning.
“FBI! Facedown on the ground!” boomed Salvano.
Salvano broke right and Taucher left. Beyond them stood Caliphornia and Kalima, frozen in the light. I dropped to a shooter’s stance, both hands on the gun and the bright red dot of my laser sight dancing center-left on Caliphornia’s chest.
Salvano again: “On the ground now!”
Kalima looked at Ben. I couldn’t read her expression—an agreement or a confirmation, maybe—and at the same time she hugged the baby closer. It cooed softly.
Caliphornia had frozen. Kalima gave us a defiant glare.
“Put the infant on the ground and step away!” yelled Taucher.
Kalima seemed to consider, her expression changing from obstinate to hopeful. She nodded and knelt and snugged the bundled blue blanket. Again the infant cooed and warbled. Kalima then set it on the ground and arranged the blanket once more, raised a pistol at Taucher and fired.
The return volley was immediate and deafening, exploding from the guns of Taucher and Salvano on either side of me, and from Reggie above me in the house, sending a cloud of gun smoke into the damp cold air. I fired once and didn’t miss. Kalima staggered back into the barbecue, but, apparently well armored, she scrambled over the blue-tiled counter and fell out-of-sight into the horseshoe-shaped island. Bullets smacked after her, tossing blue tile and brick dust into the smoking air.
Ben grabbed the baby and threw himself over the barbecue, too, back first, like a high jumper. In the sudden silence I heard the infant cooing affectionately, oblivious. Caliphornia rose and fired and ducked down again. Daniel on the barn had a bad angle and couldn’t risk big-bore fire in our direction. Then a frustrated cease-fire. In the eerie silence Caliphornia slammed home
a fresh magazine and asked frantic questions in Arabic of Kalima.
“Enti kowais? Enti kowais?”
No answer.
Salvano ordered them to throw out their weapons and come out. The baby cried. Then, holding fire but brandishing the newborn at us, Caliphornia rose gracefully from behind the counter and began backing his way up the driveway toward the Taurus.
Taucher and Salvano sidled after him. I covered them from behind a palapa stanchion—a palm trunk as thick as my body. Good protection and a steady brace for shooting.
Caliphornia backpedaled hard and fast, but straight into Lindsey, charging him from the barnyard dark. She hit him at the knees and he went down, a janbiya clanging to the concrete. He rolled quickly upright, tucked the baby tight, and turned for his truck. Sniper Daniel took one shot, muzzle flashing orange from the dark.
Caliphornia’s hips shuddered and he crashed to his back, another janbiya and his phone clattering to the concrete. Still he clutched his infant close. His gun spun to a stop inches from his outstretched right hand. The baby cooed.
Lindsey rose to one knee, steadying her handgun on Caliphornia, as Taucher and Salvano took aim from behind her.
Taucher: “Hold your fire!”
Glass shattered violently behind us, from the direction of the casitas, and I understood what was happening.
In the smoke and strange eardrum-pounding silence Caliphornia’s blood snaked down the drive.
Then, as if charged by new life—or by Hector’s Captagon fighting pills—he struggled to his feet. He swayed, a torn and bloody being, the infant still in his grip. He looked at the gun on the ground, then at us. I felt mass and energy behind me, as armored Zeno flew through the air, knocked down Caliphornia as if he were made of paper, then straddled him and took the man’s head into his cavernous jaws. Held it still as the baby finally rolled free.
Lindsey screamed, “Lasialo! Lasialo!”
With a splat, Zeno dropped Caliphornia’s head to the concrete. Then gazed at Lindsey expectantly, a red pendulum of drool swinging from one side of his mouth.
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