Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  As an FBI Agent, Del Rio’s first duty was the young woman’s safety, but her captor had a lengthy record of killing his hostages once he no longer had need of their protection. As much as he couldn’t risk the woman’s life in a straightforward confrontation, he also didn’t dare let this killer get away to put someone else in jeopardy.

  “Come on out here Lawdog,” the bank robber called out in a mocking drawl, “or I’ll splatter this pretty little lady’s head all over this street.”

  Del Rio rolled his eyes at the “Lawdog” jibe. The man’s affectation for all things Old West extended beyond the cowboy attire he wore at all times. He even talked like the stereotypical cowboy.

  Despite the tense situation, Del Rio found himself admiring the young woman’s courage. She hadn’t made as much as a sound throughout her terrifying ordeal. Clearly, she knew there was little she could do with a gun pointed at her head, and was expecting the federal agent to rescue her. There was only one way he was going to be able to do that. If he pulled it off, he’d be a hero. If he didn’t, she would be dead, and he’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble. The one thing he had going for both of them was that he’d successfully done this kind of thing before.

  His eyes narrowed in thought as he quickly reviewed what his next move would be. It was in this type of situation the intensity that seemingly radiated from Del Rio’s face, even in a relaxed environment, intensified. He’d inherited his mother’s fair complexion and good looks to go along with his father’s athletic build, jet black hair and dark blue eyes. Those eyes had often been described as being as dark as the blue of the upper atmosphere just before the black of space and, when angry, they were just as cold. They were very cold right now.

  “Tell you what,” Del Rio called out. “If I stand up and step out there, you let the girl go and we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  As soon as he finished talking, Del Rio quickly made his way down the length of the delivery truck he’d taken refuge behind. He moved as quietly as he could; hoping his change of position had gone unnoticed. His hope was answered as his quarry laughed aloud and fired another round where Del Rio had last been seen.

  Reaching the front of the vehicle, Del Rio popped up and found himself perfectly positioned. The hostage was still pinned against her captor; her left arm extended away from her torso just enough to present Del Rio with the target he needed.

  Without a second’s hesitation, and before his appearance had been noticed by either hostage or captor, Del Rio squeezed the trigger and saw both bodies silently tumble to the street in a frighteningly large spray of red.

  THREE

  Ben Yazzie’s day hadn’t started with people shooting at him, but the way it played out it might have been a kindness to him if it had. It most certainly wasn’t the way he had wanted to celebrate his first year in office as President of the Navajo Nation.

  It began like every other workday; a peaceful half-hour drive east from his home in Ganado to the Administration offices in Window Rock just barely on the Arizona side of the state line with New Mexico. Then ten minutes of contemplation in front of Tségháhoodzání — “the rock with the hole in it”— that had given the city of Window Rock, Arizona its name. It was these precious minutes of solitude in such a sacred place that helped center and prepare Yazzie for whatever the day would bring. Even on days when he was not expected to be at work he would still make the trek for his ten-minute visit with Tségháhoodzání.

  His years at Arizona State helped him accept the scientific explanation for the unusual formation — the effect of hundreds of years of water and wind erosion — without losing his spiritual appreciation for the Navajo legends that said the hole was formed by the wind that created the world, and had served as a passage way for a giant serpent while hunting.

  It always amused him somewhat when even his own Navajo people would pass him by without so much as a hello or even the slightest hint of recognition much like the tourists did. In truth, he had to admit, there really wasn’t anything physically remarkable about him. He looked much like any typical Navajo man his age, a few inches short of six feet and more than a few pounds over 200 than he’d care to admit.

  Yazzie was certain that if the President of the United States was spotted standing in front of the Window Rock, he’d get noticed pretty quickly. As he turned away to head towards his office, Yazzie found himself remembering the day many years back when a famous movie star had paid the Reservation a visit. The then Navajo President had stepped out of his office without so much as a single cheer from the crowd that had gathered. Seconds later, that same crowd made enough noise to rival the loudest football stadium when the star stepped outside. The President then hadn’t seemed to mind it so much, Yazzie chided himself, so why should you?

  It wasn’t his looks, but rather his ability to balance the modern with the traditional that had landed him in the Nation’s top office with the mandate to lead his people fully into the 21st century without losing their precious heritage. One year in and there had been progress along those lines, painfully slow, but progress nonetheless.

  As she had every day of his presidency, his secretary, Anna Kinlichee, was waiting for him with coffee and a stack of messages. He’d made Anna his secretary partly because she was his mentor’s niece, but mostly because he appreciated her no-nonsense approach to her job and to life in general. She could be described as rather plain looking, partly because she was a little shorter in height than Yazzie and slightly heavy-set in build; mostly because she didn’t bother with trivial things like make-up and the latest fashions. Anna’s approach was “this is who and what I am -- no frills or facades”. She kept her hair shoulder-length with minimal styling, and always dressed conservatively.

  This morning Anna deviated from routine when she produced a large card and handed it to her boss with an air of great ceremony.

  “Happy Anniversary, Mr. President,” she said, flashing a prim smile. Yazzie had long given up trying to get her to call him Ben, at least when no one else was around, since they were practically family after all, yet she always addressed him by his title no matter where or when. “Albert is waiting for you in your office.”

  Yazzie’s Chief of Staff, Albert Etsitty, barely let Yazzie settle down at his desk with his morning coffee and the large stack of mail awaiting his attention. Although Yazzie would never admit it aloud, he often thought of his aides in terms similar to the Zuni fetishes — rocks carved into the shapes of animals. If Anna reminded him of the Zuni armadillo — slow, sure, getting things right, and keeper of the home — then Albert was the lizard — small, thin, always darting about, and seeming to constantly be talking.

  “EPS flagged a message from our friend Tolchini,” Etsitty said. “Tso has his people keeping an eye on him. If he gets anywhere near here, they’ll turn him over to Chief Shirley.”

  “Were they planning on actually charging him with a crime or just completely ignoring his civil rights?”

  “I think they said something about unpaid parking tickets…”

  Both men chuckled after a moment’s pause. Anaye Tolchini — who had been born Adam MacDonald before changing his name four years before — was a self-proclaimed Navajo traditionalist. Tolchini was always addressing anyone foolhardy enough to listen to him on the evils of the white man’s way. From technology all the way down to Big Macs, if it hadn’t been done by the Navajo before the white man had invaded in the 1600s, then it was evil and must be purged from the entire reservation.

  It was certainly no great secret that Tolchini was extremely opposed to Yazzie and his plans for their people to immerse themselves more into the modern world. He was very vocal about his opposition, so far, but the head of EPS — Executive Protection Services — Frank Tso, and the Chief of the Navajo Police, Terry Shirley, were each keeping a wary eye on him.

  Still, Yazzie had to shake his head at Tso and Shirley’s deciding to use parking tickets on a man who wouldn’t be caught dead within ten feet of an auto
mobile.

  “Okay, since my personal safety seems to be secure,” Yazzie said as he set down the stack of mail, having found nothing needing his immediate attention. “What’s up first on the agenda?”

  “Speaker Jim would like a brief word,” Etsitty replied, ignoring the brief grimace on his boss’ face at the name of the Navajo Council Speaker. Yazzie and Emerson Jim were long-time rivals. They managed to be polite opponents most of the time, but neither would be inviting the other over for a family picnic. “Then you can expect most of the council to wander by to mark your anniversary. I’ve seen the local media’s stories on your first year in office. Very little negative; mostly positive across the board, so it looks like that little set down we had with all of them last week paid off. The staff has a small party planned and you have one or two minor bills to sign. Nothing to worry over too much, then you are a free man.”

  Yazzie shot a look at his aide that spoke volumes about just how “free” a President was at any given time before reaching for the intercom to have Anna let the Speaker know he was ready to see him.

  FOUR

  Del Rio kept his gun leveled on his target as he swiftly approached the fallen bodies and kicked the gun away from the man’s hand.

  “Ow,” the fallen man complained, his old west drawl replaced by a distinctly Bronx accent. “Damnit Jack, that’s not playing fair.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re a better FBI agent than you are a bank robber, Dave,” Del Rio replied, grinning down at the fallen “robber” he’d just “killed” at the Bureau’s training facility.

  “I suppose,” David Archer groused. “I know I’ve been overseas for a few months, but since when did the rules of engagement when a hostage is involved get changed? Last I heard shooting through the hostage was frowned on.”

  “Didn’t shoot through her,” Del Rio replied cheerfully with a nod toward the “hostage”, one of many very life-like mannequins used as props for a seemingly endless amount of training scenarios. “I had at least an inch of clearance on all sides. More than enough room. She’ll have to change her blouse of course, but she makes it home alive. You on the other hand…”

  The mannequin’s off-white blouse was splattered with several small red droplets, but Archer’s blue and green plaid shirt had a very large red blotch on it. Both men knew the angle Del Rio had shot from. If Del Rio had been using his service weapon instead of a paint ball gun, the bullet would have struck Archer’s heart and he would have been dead before his body hit the ground.

  “Alright, you win,” Archer conceded. Del Rio extended a hand to help his fellow agent up. Archer pulled out his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, withdrew a single bill and handed it to Del Rio. “At least now I know why I can’t buy my own beer in any pub in Britain.”

  Dressed in his traditional white polo shirt and black jeans, Del Rio pocketed the fifty with a modest shrug. As long as Archer had known Del Rio, they had been classmates at the Academy, he always wore a white shirt and black pants. The only change would come when Del Rio was on the job, at which time a black suit jacket, white collared dress shirt and black tie would be added to the ensemble. Archer had tried to get Del Rio to add a little more color to the mix, at least when off duty, but Del Rio had taken one look at one of Archer’s more “colorful” getups that gave the appearance of a man from a beach city in South Florida, and stayed with the more simple style.

  To Archer it was as if the clothes mirrored the man inside. Jack was a black-and-white kind of a person, and an agent. He just didn’t do shades of gray, or shades of any other color for that matter. It was black and white, right and wrong; no nonsense about it. Archer had to admit it suited Jack well. When Archer — who was a little more laid back — replaced Del Rio in London, he had found following in the footsteps of his by-the-book, strict friend to be a tougher task than he’d anticipated.

  “So how is London treating you aside from the free beer?” Del Rio asked

  “I’m getting settled in,” Archer replied as the pair headed off the faux street. “Callum is pretty easy to work with. He and ‘the lads’ said to say hello by the way.”

  “No word from Laura Cassidy?”

  Something in the way Del Rio said the woman’s name told Archer there was quite a story to be told; the look on Jack’s face clearly communicated that now wasn’t the time to ask. He shot an upward glance over at his friend, Del Rio was the taller of the two by three inches, and tried to read the expression in the suddenly hooded eyes.

  “Never got a chance to meet her, Jack. She’d been assigned to an op over in Northern Ireland before I got there,” Archer waited for a response. Getting none, he tactfully changed the subject. “Hey, why don’t you let me use some more of my unspent drinking money and buy you lunch? I haven’t been able to find a place that makes a decent hamburger over there.”

  “I’ll have to take a rain check,” Del Rio replied, visibly shaking himself out of whatever memory the woman’s name had evoked. “I’ve got a couple of things to wrap up in D.C. today before I head down to Norfolk. My brother’s sub is coming into port in the morning and we haven’t seen each other in a few years.”

  “What?!” Archer exclaimed in mock surprise. “Baker’s golden boy is actually taking a day off? Unheard of. When do the pigs start flying overhead?”

  “Smartass.” Del Rio retorted, a bemused smile on his face. “Keep it up and I’ll have Callum show you some of the seedier sides of London.”

  “Well maybe at least then I’d be ready to win that fifty back from you my next trip home,” Archer replied. “Okay Jack, I need to get a few things wrapped up before I head back across the pond anyway. I’ll catch you next time.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Del Rio said as the men shook hands and went their separate ways. Although Archer was a very good friend, Del Rio felt a guilt-ridden relief that they’d skip an extended lunch conversation this trip. Archer knew him too well and was too sharp of an agent not to eventually pick up that something was troubling Del Rio.

  For each of the past eight nights Del Rio had been plagued by a recurring nightmare so vivid he could recall every detail with perfect clarity. So much so that even now, wide awake in the light of day, it came to him.

  A raven-haired woman, her face unseen, running through the evergreen trees and heavy snow that lay on the ground between their trunks for all she was worth; yet still so painfully slow. Her four-legged pursuer — whether a wolf, coyote or wild dog he simply cannot make out — relentlessly closes in on her; the trees and snow posing no barrier between it and its prey.

  She knows, without looking behind, that it is futile. Yet still she runs, hoping against hope for a miracle; hoping that help will still arrive to save her from a terrible fate.

  It does not.

  The hunter closes the gap mercilessly and leaps for the kill. Seeming to sense her time has run out, the mysterious woman turns to face her relentless pursuer, her face blocked from view by the leaping mass of fur and snapping jaws.

  Her last word is a name and a plea all in one.

  “Jaaaacccckkk….”

  It was at this point, each and every night, that Del Rio would sit bolt upright in his bed, his hand easily finding the Glock on his bedside stand in the darkened room, and level the weapon on … absolutely nothing. No mystery woman, no canine hunter, no trees or snow, just a warm and very dry, tenth-floor flat in Washington D.C.; empty save for the spartan furniture and belongings of an FBI agent bathed in sweat and breathing hard from the nightmare he’d just escaped.

  Even now, wide awake and merely thinking about the dream, the memory left him in a cold sweat. If it continued much longer, he knew he’d have to talk to someone to try to work out what was behind it, but for now he was content to ride it out and hope that tomorrow’s reunion with his brother would chase off whatever it was that was haunting his dreams.

  FIVE

  All in all, Yazzie’s day had gone smoothly enough. Many were genuinely sin
cere in their congratulations on what had been a mostly successful, if not occasionally bumpy, first year in office. He had shaken dozens of hands and posed for pictures with nearly every member of the tribal council, family members, and friends, before noticing the one person he’d most expected to be there hadn’t shown up yet. Anna’s uncle, Martin, Yazzie’s mentor for as long as he could remember dating back to his early high school days, had not come by.

  Surprised and somewhat hurt by Martin’s absence, Yazzie mentioned it to his Chief of Staff. Etsitty promptly called Martin at his office and his home. When the calls went unanswered for too long, Etsitty sent out everyone he could muster in an all-out search for the missing man, who held the distinction of being the longest serving member of the Tribal Council. Fortunately, for Anna’s sake, it was a pair of EPS officers that found the old man lying face down on the kitchen floor of his home instead of his niece. They rushed him to the Indian Hospital in Fort Defiance, somehow getting his heart to start beating again on the way in and giving everyone a small glimmer of hope for recovery.

  As the evening wore on, with Yazzie and his wife Beth sitting at Anna’s side, the test results came in, clearly showing there was no hope. His brain had gone too long without oxygen, the doctor had said to Anna; there was nothing to be done. A heart attack, he added sadly. There was a machine that was faithfully pumping his blood through his veins, moving oxygen in and out of his lungs, but that which had been Martin Kinlichee was gone beyond recall.

  Beth had gone to stay with Anna while Ben drove home alone with his grief at the loss of a second father. Once home he tumbled into bed, not knowing that sleep was claiming him just as a recurring nightmare was waking up Jack Del Rio for the ninth consecutive night far away to the east. Yazzie’s head had barely hit the pillow — or so it had seemed to him — when the phone by his bed loudly jangled for his attention.