by Aimée
Together, they searched the unit and found another bullet strike, which had clipped the windshield on Ella’s side and ricocheted off, but the remaining rounds were still unaccounted for. “Let’s see the slug that’s going to be leaving the mother of all bruises in your side.”
Justine pulled the round back out of her pocket, and held it up again. “That looks like a nine-millimeter, but jacketed. Not a hunting round—maybe military? County might be able to narrow down the weapon a bit once the rifling marks are compared in the lab. It would also help if we could find some shell casings.”
“I got the impression the pistols were semiautos, which means the casings were ejected. Chances are that at least a few went out the shooter’s window and onto the highway.”
Ella looked up as an eighteen wheeler rumbled by, the driver checking them out but not slowing. “If there are any shells in the road, we need to find a few before they get flattened. Set up a perimeter,” she called to Justine, then jogged back up the road.
Five minutes later, she found two nine-millimeter shell casings. Picking them up by the rims, wearing latex gloves, she replaced them with quarters over business cards, so the crime team would know where they’d been recovered. With traffic still flowing and no way to stop it without help, it seemed the best move at the time.
Suspecting there were probably more shell casings around, but anxious to check out the vehicle more closely now that she’d recovered at least two, Ella hurried back. They inspected the SUV inside and out, but were unable to find any more bullet strikes or slugs without beginning the process of taking parts off the vehicle.
“Someone followed us—maybe all the way to Albuquerque and back—or at least was watching for our vehicle once we got close. There are only two even remotely reasonable routes into Shiprock from Albuquerque, so it wouldn’t have been difficult to do either. But the fact that they came from behind suggests they were with us most of the way,” Justine said, her eyes on the rocky soil. “We’re still off the Rez, but in the general area where all our suspects live.”
“Someone wanted us dead,” Ella answered. “Maybe we’re getting too close.”
“To what? We have nothing,” Justine said. “As far as the carjackers go, we don’t have any suspects except for the guy Officer Harvey picked up. The carjackers would have nothing to gain by taking us out at this point. And what we have against the local Guard is shaky at best.”
“We must be making too many waves then, by asking questions about missing supplies and what went on overseas—things that might lead to much more than the identity of Jimmy Black-sheep’s killer or killers.”
“So they’ve upped the stakes,” Justine said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
The county sheriff’s deputies showed up in two cruisers, and the county’s crime scene unit followed. Ella and Justine assisted, handing over what they’d already collected, and helping recover the slug that had wedged in the car body and one more shell casing, which, unfortunately, had been flattened.
“What do you make of the rounds used?” Ella asked the tech examining the slugs and shell casings.
“They’re nine-millimeter, but the one fished from the side panel doesn’t match the one that struck Officer Goodluck. The rifling marks are wrong. The same with the ejection marks on the casings. Three we found don’t match the fourth.” He paused as if lost in thought.
“Tell me what’s on your mind?”
“I think the bullet imbedded in the vest was fired from an Astra, but I haven’t seen one of those since my service in the first Gulf war. These weapons usually go to low-level Iraqi officers because there aren’t enough of the higher-end weapons to go around. The higher ranks, including Saddam himself, usually carried Browning HiPowers—also nine-millimeter. Of course, Astra has imported handguns into the U.S., so we can’t be sure until we examine the weapon itself.”
“Thanks.” Ella reached for her cell phone. Now she had a lead. By trying to kill her and Justine using a weapon obtained in Iraq, the perps might have sealed their fates.
Ella telephoned Blalock and gave him the highlights of what had gone down. “Can you search the databases and see if any weapons issued to the Iraqi military have shown up anywhere in-state?”
“You’ve got it. How are you getting back, Ella?”
“Neskahi or Tache. I sent word out and whoever can get here first will come get us.”
“I’ll have something for you as soon as possible,” Blalock said, and hung up.
Ella called their own station and, learning Sergeant Neskahi was coming to pick them up, called and updated him. “I need a ride, Joseph, but I’d like to take your wheels and have you stay and work with County. They’re about done, I think, and when they’re finished I’d like you to bring the car back to our own garage, along with a copy of everything they’ve learned.”
“I’m on it. I’m passing through Farmington now, and should be at your location in a half hour or less,” he said.
While they waited, Ella joined Justine, who was helping search for more shells. “I wish I’d seen their license plate,” Justine said. “Even if it was stolen, we would have had something else.”
“I know, but at the time, you were a little busy saving our lives with your driving skills,” Ella said. “It took a lot of courage, staying in control after getting thumped with that bullet. I’ve felt it before. It’s like getting hit with a hammer.”
Justine shrugged. “Experience and good training. By the time you think, it’s already half over. You know how instincts kick in.”
Ella nodded. “But you put something more into it than that, Justine. It’s going into my report to Big Ed.”
Justine smiled. “Think I’ll get a raise?”
“No. Maybe a new vest.”
They both started laughing, the pressure finally easing off as it always did once the danger was past.
By the time Neskahi showed up in his squad car, Ella was getting impatient, though it had only been twenty minutes since they’d spoken. The sun had set, and darkness was slowly creeping over the land as Ella and Justine got under way. Justine insisted on driving, giving Ella time to think.
When they reached the outskirts of Shiprock, Ella finally spoke again. “I need to go by Blalock’s office, Justine. Are you up to it, or do you want to make a quick stop at the station? You can stay there while I continue on.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be sore, but I’ve gone through worse.”
Ella’s cell phone rang, interrupting Justine. Ella answered it on the first ring.
It was Agent Blalock. “Something important’s going down, Ella. How soon before you get back to Shiprock?”
“I’m already here, with Officer Goodluck. We’ll be at your office in five.”
Just as Ella finished filling Justine in, they spotted a squad car’s flashing emergency lights behind them. “Farmington PD,” Justine said.
“Then they’re way out of their jurisdiction,” Ella said, then added, “Pull over. I’ve got a feeling I know who it is, but he’d better have a good reason. . . .”
They parked on the shoulder, and before they’d even come to a full stop, they saw the officer get out of his unit. Officer Samuel Blacksheep, illuminated by his own headlights, approached.
“I was on my way to a briefing when I heard what went down south of Bloomfield. Guess the shooter missed, huh? You two look okay. But I was wondering, do you think the incident is connected to the carjackings?”
“I doubt it, but we don’t know anything for sure yet,” Ella said. “Look we’ve got to run. We’ve got a meeting coming up. Is there something you wanted?”
“I’ve been assigned temporarily to the joint task force that’s investigating the carjackings, so we’re working together on those cases. I just wanted to let you know right away because, in a pinch, I can cut through all kinds of red tape for you with my department.”
All of a sudden she realized that he’d also have access to whatever progress
they made on the carjacking investigation—the very thing Calvin Sanders had wanted. Since the men were former partners, it made things complicated. She still had persistent doubts about the innocence of either man.
“If you need background information, or anything else, just give me a call,” Blacksheep continued. “I’ve got access to all the files.”
“Okay, we’ll be in touch,” she answered, then leaned back in her seat and nodded to Justine. “Thanks.”
Justine drove off quickly, then, after they were a quarter of a mile away, she glanced at Ella. “Is he really trying to be helpful, or was this his way of getting in his jabs—letting us know that he was going to have access to most of what we’d been uncovering?”
“I wish I knew.”
The remaining drive took only a few minutes. As they walked down the main hall of the building where Blalock’s office was located, they saw Teeny unlocking his own office door. As they waited for him to move out of their way—he practically blocked the narrow hall all by himself—he turned and gave Ella a worried look.
“Hey, ladies. What happened? I was talking to Blalock a while ago, and he said you’d seen some action.” His voice was harsh. It was often that way whenever he was really worried about something. Although nothing had ever been said, she’d known since high school that Teeny cared for her.
“Drive-by on the open road,” she said. “Poked some holes in my department car.”
“With you two inside?” Teeny said in a low baritone, his eyes glazing over with anger.
“Yeah. One of the weapons used is believed to be a nine-millimeter Astra.”
“Rare around here, I’d think. If I remember correctly, they look a lot like Walther PPKs, the one James Bond carried in the later books. A small auto.”
Justine nodded. “That’s the one.”
Ella continued. “One of the crime scene unit people said he’d seen a lot of them in Iraq. Reliable, but not fancy enough for higher-ranking officers. I’m wondering if this particular pistol might have come from the Middle East via a G.I. If you hear of anyone trafficking in those, let me know.”
“I’ll ask around and see what I can get for you.”
Hearing her voice, Blalock popped his head out of his office. “Ella, get in here. We’re running late,” he said and ducked back inside.
As Ella walked in, Justine a step behind, Blalock looked up from his desk, which held two Bureau-issue vests and raid jackets. “You and I are taking a chopper to Albuquerque, courtesy of the Bureau. Do you have a vest handy?”
“I’m wearing it,” Ella answered. “Are we going dancing?”
“Oh, yeah. From one party to another tonight, you lucky girl,” Blalock said, then glanced at Justine. “I couldn’t get clearance for you, too. Big Ed said you were needed here . . . and he thought you might still be a little stiff . . . not to mention jumpy? I don’t know about you, but I’m always in a bad mood after getting shot.”
“You got that right. And I’ve got a ton of work waiting at the lab, so I’ll leave you two to your . . . business,” she said, then looked at Ella, managing a smile. “Call me as soon as you get back.”
Ella said good-bye, then heard the sound of a helicopter close by, a relatively uncommon event away from the local hospital. Turning, she saw Blalock pull out his holstered SIG forty-five from the top drawer, along with two extra magazines. He hooked the holster to his belt and slipped the extra ammo into a jacket pocket. “We’ll have additional weapons available to us when we land. Our ride’s here, so let’s go. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
Ella followed Blalock outside, where the whooshing sound of the rotor blades greeted them, along with a cloud of dust. A state police helicopter had landed less than a hundred feet from the building in an empty parking lot. Ducking low, they ran over and climbed up into their seats behind the pilot and crewman. They were airborne with a stomach-dropping lurch ten seconds after buckling themselves in.
“How about filling me in now?” Ella asked, having to shout a little over the sound of the engine. She was still queasy and trying to look at Blalock, not outside into the empty sky and receding lights far below.
“A sporting-goods shop owner in Albuquerque sold an undercover ATF agent an Astra with Iraqi military markings. There’s reason to believe that there are other weapons of interest in there as well, including AK-47s, AKMs, and other variants of the original design. Considering the case you’re investigating, and the connection to an Astra, I thought you’d be interested in taking part in this raid.”
“Absolutely.” Ella thought about the bartered “goods” mentioned in Jimmy’s story, obviously not really nails and shoes. If this was a coded reference to illegal weapons trade, they were getting closer. She already knew how high the stakes were after nearly getting killed just a few hours ago.
Ella struggled to sit still and conserve her energy, but adrenalin was coursing freely through her now and her body screamed for action. As the helicopter hurtled through the air at over a hundred miles per hour, she could feel her heart racing nearly as fast. It was a curious fact, but nothing made you appreciate life more than facing the possibility of death.
TWELVE
Ella met with a dozen FBI and ATF agents at their office. Everyone was equipped with compatible radios, vests, raid jackets, and caps. Pistols, MP-5 submachine guns, and Armalite M-15 rifles with night vision scopes were the most common weapons in hand. A two-officer sniper team from the state police was burdened with an enormous fifty-caliber autoloading rifle on a bipod.
“The firepower the perps have inside that store is impressive,” the senior ATF agent, Jerry Murbach, told them. “I’ve been inside and, near as I can figure, that place sees action twenty-four/seven. Employees work late into the night after the place is locked up, and someone sleeps in a back room. They also have security cameras set up covering the front and rear exits of the building. Surprise will be difficult to achieve. Expect resistance, and be aware that the perps may be wearing vests, maybe even better than ours. That’s what the fifty caliber is for.”
Ella checked her own weapons, aware that the others on the team were doing the same. She trusted her pistol in close-range combat more than anything else they’d offered her, and knew a head shot would take anyone down despite body armor. But she’d also qualified with other tactical weapons, including submachine guns. If required, she could handle an MP-5. But it was a room-clearing weapon that allowed for little finesse in selecting targets. It did, on the other hand, provide excellent firepower when clearing out a sniper’s nest at close range or encountering a roomful of armed perps.
A half hour later they moved in silently, using a variety of unmarked vehicles, and the teams got into standby position, backed up by APD’s SWAT team. The shop was located in the city’s north valley, with a major street at the front and a small alley in back. Another row of warehouses lined the street behind the business, most of them closed at this hour, then came the railroad tracks. They’d make their moves simultaneously from front and rear, giving the people inside only a few seconds’ notice. Any delays in making an entry would only endanger lives. A city garbage truck coming down the alley would provide walking cover so the rear assault team could get close before being seen. The front assault group was using a city bus to screen them in a similar manner. With a bus stop at the curb right outside, it was the perfect answer.
The first move front and rear would be against the video cameras. A sharpshooter on each team would take out the lenses with a silenced twenty-two using special rounds. Then they would attempt a simultaneous break-in with battering rams. The garbage truck was scheduled to go out of service, so, if it became necessary, they’d use it to crash the back door, which had been reinforced.
Ella crouched next to Blalock. “I hope taking part in the raid will give us dibs on questioning the suspects.”
“It’ll get you that chance a lot faster than if we’d shown up tomorrow morning with a formal request. ATF doesn’t have to
cooperate—they’re after the guns and they’re taking point on this. But I thought you’d want to see this up close and personal, and your own training qualifies you as an expert here. These weapons are now making their way into some big-time gangs working out of Mexico and California, and I think the pipeline starts with your suspects.”
“Snipers, take out the cameras!” Ella heard through her radio earphone. She was half jogging, keeping up with the garbage truck as it eased down the alley, screening her and the rest of Team Two from the flat-roofed, one-story brick sporting-goods store to her left. Blalock was a few steps ahead, his MP-5 ready. His weapon could have carried a noise suppressor, but, because the doors would have to be broken down anyway, stealth wasn’t going to be an issue except at the beginning. Ella had the submachine gun slung to her right at the waist, ready, but had already decided on her familiar nine-millimeter pistol loaded with armorpiercing rounds.
A low pop from the suppressed twenty-two pistol in the two-handed grip of an ATF sharpshooter was barely discernible over the engine noise from the garbage truck. “Two out,” Ella heard, followed instantly by a similar message from the shooter out front. With both cameras down, anyone inside watching a monitor at the moment would react. But until they looked out, whoever was inside had just been blinded. “Execute!” came the order over the earphone.
The truck stopped, and two helmeted men in bulky flak jackets, carrying the heavy battering ram by handholds on both sides, ran up to the back door. Ella and Blalock followed, covering them. Two more officers, with assault rifles, watched the windows and rooftop.
“ATF! Open up!” one of the men yelled.
The ram, basically heavy pipe filled with concrete, came back and hurtled forward, striking the door right above the lock. The door gave an inch, but no more.
“Again!” Blalock yelled, and the big men with the ram swung once more. The door flew open like it was on springs.
“Gun!” Ella yelled, yanking the man in front of her by the back of his vest as a rifle barrel appeared from behind a big wooden box.