by Aimée
Bullets flew from inside, striking the doorjamb and ram, which had suddenly become unmanned as the agents scattered. When the ram struck the ground the officers behind the truck returned fire, splintering wood from the box that the man inside was using for cover. An assault weapon fell to the floor next to the box, but the shooter had either ducked back or gone down.
“Cover!” Blalock yelled. He paused a second to make sure everyone understood then ducked inside to his right, crouched low. Ella saw a face appear around the corner of the doorway leading into an adjacent room, and fired. The person ducked back, but Ella heard a yelp. She hadn’t fired at the face, instead aiming for the wall a foot back from the trim.
“Cover!” Ella yelled. Blalock nodded, his submachine gun covering the passageway beyond. She stepped in, swung around the back of the door, and saw a man flat on his back on the floor, a big bruise on his head. Spotting a pistol near his hand, she kicked it away. “Target down! Storeroom clear!” she called into the radio mike at her throat.
Blalock fired a short burst into the doorway, and Ella turned, seeing a man raising a weapon in the other room. He ducked away, and so did she and Blalock. Ella pulled the door inward, realizing it served as good cover as well as giving those outside a better field of fire. She then holstered the pistol and brought up the submachine gun. Someone out of view sprayed the room with automatic fire, but the angle was wrong and all the rounds hit were the wooden boxes lining the wall. Sand began to pour out from the holes, and she realized the owners had reinforced the walls like a bunker.
Gunfire erupted from elsewhere in the store, and she kept low, aiming toward the door leading into the interior. No targets presented themselves, but it sounded like a real firefight was taking place at the front.
“Team Two, hold position,” the call came over the radio. “Flashbangs in five.”
Ella started counting, and at four covered her ears and lowered her head. There was a tremendous flash, then an enormous explosion that shook the building. She looked up, weapon up, as two men stumbled into the storeroom, their hands empty.
“Down on the floor,” Blalock yelled, aiming at their chests. The men, shaken and dusty, one with blood on his arms, went to their knees, then down on the floor. Ella covered him as Blalock moved forward. Once he was in position and guarding the prisoners she was able to advance.
From her new vantage point, Ella could see into the next room, the main display area of the store. The air was hazy and the stench of cordite, strong. She could see a leg sticking out from behind a counter, but the person was faceup, probably wounded or dead, and the leg wasn’t moving. Ella realized it was probably the person who’d stuck his head around the corner to look. Silently, she hoped to find a gun in his hand, or nearby, when she finally made it into the room. Killing an unarmed man would make her upcoming nightmares even worse.
Suddenly there was a shout, a short burst from an automatic weapon, then a loud bang. Ten seconds went by. Ella and Blalock remained in position, ready to engage anyone from the front who might still be mobile and thinking of moving in their direction.
“Front room clear! Take the prisoners into custody, then get the medics in the building,” Ella heard Murbach say over the radio.
Blalock stood, his weapon on the two prisoners as their backup came in from the alley. “You take any hits, Clah?”
“No.”
“Something bothering you?” Blalock motioned for the ATF guys to cuff the prisoners, then came over to where she was standing.
Ella realized she still had the submachine gun facing forward, so she lowered it on the sling until the barrel was facing down. “Yeah. But I gotta see something for myself.”
She stepped around the men on the floor, brushed by the closest ATF man, who nodded grimly, then looked into the front room. Officers wearing raid jackets were all around the room, talking and searching for weapons. She could see two perps down, dead or dying. They’d been armed to the teeth, judging from the assault rifles close by and dozens of rounds of spent brass scattered over the floor. A third man, wearing a helmet, tattered and bulky vest, and some kind of metal thigh protection, was on his back beside the shattered door, a bloody hole in his chest. What appeared to be an AK-47 was close to his lifeless hands. He’d tried to rush the front, apparently, and had come face-to-face with the state police team and their big rifle. Finally she walked back to the spot by the storeroom passageway she’d been avoiding, but there was no body there.
“You looking for the guy on the floor?” an FBI agent Ella vaguely recognized said, coming across the room.
“Yeah. He still alive?” Ella managed, not seeing any blood on the floor.
“Lucky SOB. He’s outside, in custody. Nearly peed his pants. According to him, one of you Team Two guys shot the pistol right out of his hand . . . through the wall! That wasn’t you, was it?”
Ella nodded, a stupid grin forming on her face. Now, the nightmare would be a lot easier to take.
“Ella?” Blalock called from the doorway. “You ready to meet with Murbach?”
She followed Blalock back into the storeroom, where the ATF man who’d led the raid was examining the boxes stacked around the room. “I know they’ve got what we’re looking for in here someplace, but all that’s in these crates so far is sand. They had Iraqi-stamped Astras, Brownings, various models of AK assault rifles—fully auto, and more. My guess is they stashed them inside heating ducts, vaults in the floor, behind cabinets, or in the ceiling. Check everywhere you can think of. We’ve got three wounded men, and one of them might not make it to the hospital. I’m not leaving this hellhole until I find the cache.”
Two hours passed, and the evidence had all been processed and the wounded and dead removed from the scene. Officers were still searching, but except for the weapons the perps had used in the firefight, nothing had turned up yet that wasn’t part of the legal inventory of the business.
As the search teams met at the doorway between the display area and storeroom, frustration was evident on everyone’s face. The adrenalin was wearing down, and everyone seemed dead tired.
“We’ve searched everywhere,” one ATF agent grumbled. “It’s obvious they moved the stuff.”
“One more pass,” Murbach ordered. “It’s here. Why else make a stand like that?”
Ella watched a few heads shaking. They’d already searched the obvious and less obvious. But if ATF Agent Murbach was right, the guns were here—somewhere. She looked around the room, trying to see if anything looked out of place, and, as her gaze strayed over the new-looking, very large refrigerator, she decided to take a closer look. Officers had looked inside several times, directed a light beneath and behind, and always walked away. But she had to see for herself. Inside were several cans of beer, and what looked to be a leftover sandwich.
“Clah, whatcha got?” Blalock said, coming up to her. “You’re not thirsty, and I can hear the little wheels in your brain working overtime.”
“Look at the size of this thing, and it must be brand new. Why would anyone put this large of a fridge in here for just a few cans of beer? There’s a diner at the end of the block. Help me move this thing out.”
Blalock grasped one side and tried to move it forward while she pushed from the opposite side. “Ya couldn’t have picked a desk, Clah?”
Seeing them struggle, two other agents came to help. “What are we looking for?” the taller one asked.
“The reason why this thing is really here,” Ella answered.
“There’s no hidden space behind the refrigerator,” he pointed out. “I checked with a flashlight an hour ago. No secret panels either.”
“Humor me,” she said, putting her shoulder against it. The problem was that the fridge was wedged between two built-in counters. And wedged was the word. It seemed to have been glued in place.
“Is this thing stuck in cement?” muttered the younger Hispanic agent.
“We need to wriggle it back and forth, loosen up the space, then
walk it out,” Ella said.
Another agent came over to help and, working in tandem, they finally managed to move it forward. As it came away from the wall, only a large, empty space remained.
“Oh, yeah, this was a brilliant idea,” an ATF agent behind her muttered.
Ella climbed up over the counter and slipped past the fridge into the area they’d just uncovered. “The space beneath a refrigerator is usually grungy and dirty as hell.”
“My wife would say something like that,” one of the agents cracked.
“Maybe you should help her clean the house instead of sitting around making wise-ass comments,” Ella shot back, crouching down.
“I hear a voice, but I don’t see anyone,” the agent responded, and a few officers laughed.
Ella ran her hand over the floor. The outline of the press-on tiles had obscured it, but she could see things more clearly from this close-up position. “This floor was recently redone. I bet there’s a trapdoor beneath me,” Ella said, standing up into view again.
She’d spoken softly but there was an instant flurry of activity and several agents came over. Everyone was suddenly wide awake again.
“Move that fridge completely out of the way. Now!” Agent Murbach barked.
Five minutes later, an expertly designed trapdoor was uncovered beneath a layer of tiles. It had been glued into place, but the work was so recent the glue was still pliable, and agents were able to pry the door open. A wooden ladder led to a large area below. Covering each other, Agent Murbach and one of his men descended, followed by Ella and Blalock. Locating a cord with his flashlight, Murbach turned on an overhead lightbulb. The large, carved-out, earthen basement held at least fifty weapons inside plastic storage boxes of every size. There were pistols, automatic weapons—mostly assault rifles of foreign manufacture—and even several Russian-made sniper rifles. A few boxes contained military-issue ammunition.
A quick search revealed no additional hiding places or possible exits, and an old trapdoor with a handle attached was standing in the corner.
“Welcome, Hole-Mart shoppers. Here in our basement complex, you can find weapons for everyone on your shopping list,” Ella said in a familiar singsong voice.
“If you have the cash,” Blalock added, matching her tone, “you can equip the entire gang with more firepower than the average police force.”
“Most of these weapons aren’t U.S. made, which tends to narrow down the source, doesn’t it?” Murbach said.
“Some of the markings have been filed down, but you’re right,” one of the ATF agents commented. “Most still have the country of origin—Iraq.”
Ella and Blalock exchanged quick glances. “Was the owner of this shop in the military, say, within the past few years?” Ella asked Blalock.
“No, but all these arms were in somebody’s army recently. I’d be interested in finding out how they got here.”
“You and me both, Blalock,” ATF Agent Murbach added, holding up a plastic storage box containing several ornately carved pistols. Ella could see Arabic markings on most of them.
Another two hours went by before Ella and Blalock were finally allowed a turn at questioning the store owner—and that was mostly because no one else had been able to get anything out of him. He’d played dead, apparently, when the shooting started, and it was his foot Ella had seen earlier behind the counter.
Ella sat across from the suspect. “Remaining silent is only going to ensure you end up in prison. If the wounded ATF agent dies, it’ll be capital murder, too. If that happens, no one is going to offer you a lifeline. You realize that, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Those guns were there in your shop. You can’t deny that.”
“I’m as surprised as you are about that. I knew about the cellar, of course, but I never realized someone had hidden guns in there. I only deal in legal weapons sales and service.”
“Right, so why did you resist arrest?” Ella pressed.
“Our security cameras went out, then somebody broke in armed to the teeth. We thought we were being robbed. That’s why we defended ourselves. Our lives were on the line. Nobody ever heard anyone identify themselves as the police, so we just reacted to the threat.”
“That’s your story?” Ella said, staring at him.
“It’s the truth, ma’am,” he said with a smug smile. “When my lawyer comes in tomorrow morning, he’ll make sure I’m vindicated.”
“Several officers were wired for sound. The warning and notification of our identity comes out quite clear when you play it back,” Blalock pointed out, holding up his own digital recorder.
“Recorded somewhere else, obviously at another time, to cover your butts while you storm troopers trampled over the Constitution.”
“Bet we can find some fingerprints, Ella,” Blalock said. “It would be hard to place all those weapons and boxes down there without leaving any. And what about that old trapdoor?”
The store owner shrugged.
“Just one more question. It’s an easy yes or no. Or you can just nod. Did you serve in the Army, Reserves, or National Guard?” Ella asked.
“Me? No way. Put my life on the line for somebody else’s political agenda? Do I look stupid?”
This time Ella was the one who shrugged. Shaking her head, she turned, heading for the door. Suddenly she stopped, and glanced back at him. “I bet we’ll get some answers when we learn where you went to school, who your friends were, and when you graduated.”
His expression suddenly became guarded. “I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer gets here,” he said in a flat voice.
Once they were out of the room, Blalock gave her a thumbs-up. “You scored a hit on that last one. But what were you after?”
“I think we should cross-reference him against our local suspects who just returned from Iraq and see if we can find a link between him and them.”
After reporting what they’d learned to the ATF, Ella paced in the hall, sipping coffee. “It’s almost five in the morning, I haven’t had any sleep, but I’m still too jazzed to wind down.”
“I hear you. But my bones are older than yours,” Blalock said. “I’m better off sitting than pacing. So what do you say we head home? I know a helicopter pilot . . .”
They ended up catching a red-eye commercial flight back to Farmington, and, by the time they landed, Ella could feel the first twinges of exhaustion despite having caught a half hour catnap. “I think I’m going to need a ride home. You renting a car?”
Blalock nodded. “Yeah, but Justine is waiting for you. I sent word ahead.”
Ella saw the cruiser Neskahi had provided for them hours ago parked in the lot reserved for service vehicles, Justine at the wheel. “Some partners are worth their weight in gold.”
It was barely six-thirty and the sun was perched on the horizon, bathing the desert in a rose-tinted glow as Ella left the Shiprock station. The barren, rocky landscape shimmered in that early light. It was at dawn that the desert was at its most beautiful. Her mother would be outside now, saying prayers to Sun and offering pollen as a blessing.
As Ella drove home, now in her own vehicle, the bluish purple of the sky and the presence of the sacred mountains that guarded the Diné Tah filled her with peace. People and animals all came and left, but the earth remained, giving life and waiting to welcome in death.
She was less than a mile from home when her cell phone rang. Ella muttered a curse, wishing she’d failed to replace the battery back in Albuquerque. She’d been feeling decidedly mellow, but now that was undoubtedly about to end. Early morning phone calls usually meant trouble.
This time, her instincts were off the mark. Hearing Ford’s voice at the other end made her smile. “Did you break the code?” she asked, quickly dispensing with amenities. Surely there was no other reason he would have called so early in the day.
“I’ve got some ideas, Ella, but I need to talk some things over with you first. Can w
e meet at the Totah Cafe for breakfast?”
“Sure,” she said, turning the cruiser around. “But I should warn you I haven’t gone to bed yet, and I smell like gunpowder.”
“Wonderful,” he said, laughing. “The scent of danger and a beautiful female all in one. Who can resist?”
“Then I’ll see you at the Totah.”
As she hung up, she smiled for the second time in a minute. She liked Bilford Tome’s style. But she had to stay focused. The important thing now was breaking Jimmy Blacksheep’s code and finding out what secrets he’d hidden in his story. She wondered if Ford had managed to make some sense out of it, or if all he’d come up with was more theories.
By the time she arrived at the Totah, it was six forty-five, but the 24/7 diner was already primed for breakfast customers. Ella parked the cruiser and was just getting out when an old green pickup came up the road, slowed, then picked up speed again and continued down the street.
Ella recognized the young men inside immediately. Tony Henderson and Winston Brownhat were in the Many Devils, and although out of high school now, they were too lost to know what to do with their lives. They’d probably been out partying, drinking, or up to no good all night and hadn’t been to bed yet today . . . or was that yesterday?
She was still watching the truck when Reverend Tome drove up in his sedan, parking beside her. Ella smiled for the umpteenth time, and stepped up onto the sidewalk beside the door to wait.
“Good morning again, Ella,” Ford called. “You thinking of going back to traffic duty?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I was just watching that pickup. Couple of gang members in there, probably looking for trouble.”
“I know who you’re talking about. North Siders, right?”
“No, and don’t say that around them. That was Winston Brownhat and Tony Henderson. Many Devils—hardcore.”
“Good to know. By the way, I’ve heard that the gangs are starting the turf battles again, leaning on people in the neighborhoods, trying to impress and intimidate.”