Kill the Heroes

by David Thurlo

  “According to the papers, there’s that guy who’s married to Nathan’s ex-wife. Jealousy is a strong motive. But as far as Back Up is concerned, Nathan never doubted any of us. Of course, I heard a rumor that some of the vets that were being paid in cash by their employer didn’t report all of their income to Anna Brown. We were supposed to pay a percentage of our wages in return for Nathan finding us work. That’s what keeps Back Up running.”

  “You suggesting that Nathan found out and got pissed?” Charlie asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe? He was big on integrity. If he’d have found out, though, he would have shown them the door.”

  “Do you personally know of any people that might have ripped off Back Up?” Gordon asked.

  “Not by name. Besides, I heard that most of the guys were paid by checks sent directly to Back Up. Anna handled the checks, figured out the percentages, and issued the vets their share via checks or cash. I never heard any complaints, and Anna was quick and efficient. It usually took a couple of days for the turnaround, just long enough for the employer checks to clear,” Schroeder said.

  Charlie nodded, having already heard a description of that process.

  “So why did you stop using Back Up for placement?” Charlie asked. “Was it that ten percent fee?”

  “Not at all. On my own I landed a full-time, regular job, and didn’t need Back Up anymore. They’re doing a great service to vets who need the money and can’t find jobs, but I finally developed the skills needed to advance beyond the basic day-to-day labor market and bump up my pay grade. Nathan wrote me a great recommendation, by the way. His loss hurts all the vets,” the man added.

  “Know any guys who left Back Up with a bad attitude in general?” Gordon asked. “Not necessarily toward the staff.”

  The man thought about it for several seconds, then finally shook his head. “I didn’t really meet or deal with the other vets unless we got the same gigs. When I wasn’t working I was out hustling for any job that could keep me off the streets. Most of the guys, and a few lady vets, didn’t show up at Back Up in the first place if they weren’t really desperate for work. Any job beats begging on the streets and sleeping at the shelters. Of course, there were some that couldn’t get placed no matter what, either because they failed to show, did a crappy job, or came to work high. But Max and Nathan didn’t share any of their names with the rest of us. It was none of our business, and I respected that.”

  Charlie looked at Gordon, who nodded. “Well, thanks for the help, and if you think of anything that might help us track down the shooter, terrorist or not, please give us a call.” Charlie handed his business card to the man.

  Schroeder looked at the card carefully. “FOB Pawn. Yeah, fits a vet-run business. Ooh-rah.” He shook both their hands, then stepped back. “I’ve gotta get back to work. You soldiers stay safe.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charlie was in the FOB office logging in some recently available merchandise to the website when the business phone rang. “FOB Pawn, Charlie speaking. How may I help you?” he answered automatically.

  “I need your help, Henry. Don’t say a word to anyone until you hear me out,” came a hurried but distinctive masculine voice Charlie instantly recognized.

  “Not unless you’re ready to turn yourself in to the cops, Azok,” Charlie responded, standing to look through the office glass, hoping to catch Gordon’s attention. Unfortunately, his pal was working on a display and his gaze was focused elsewhere.

  “And don’t put me on speaker either,” Azok added.

  “Okay. What do you want?”

  “I want to turn myself in to the APD cops—not the Feds—and I want you to pick me up and take me there,” Azok said.

  “Why me?”

  “You’re not a cop, and you have a stake in all this. I know you’ve been trying to track me down. Trust me, you’ll want to hear my side of it.”

  “Where do we meet?” Charlie asked, still trying, unsuccessfully, to flag down Gordon. Just then Ruth, at the front counter, turned and looked his way curiously. Charlie held his finger to his lips, then pointed toward Gordon.

  Ruth caught on immediately, walking over toward Gordon.

  “Be in the parking lot of the Home Depot off Coors Bypass in twenty minutes. Come alone. Once you’re there, call this number. It shows on your phone, right?”

  Charlie nodded, looking toward Ruth, who was with Gordon now. Both were looking his way.

  “You got the number?” Azok insisted.

  “Yeah, sorry. But it might take more than twenty minutes getting across the bridge this time of day,” Charlie responded. It was the truth.

  “Then you’ll have to hurry, won’t you?” Azok said. The line went dead.

  Gordon entered the office just then, noting that Charlie had set down the receiver.

  “What’s up?”

  “Grab your weapon, Gordon. We’re going to meet with Steven Azok and hopefully turn him in to the cops.”

  “You think we might need something besides our pistols?” Gordon replied, nodding toward the locked-up storeroom.

  “Yeah. But we’ll have to hurry.”

  * * *

  They took Gordon’s truck, with him driving, while Charlie called Nancy to get her up to speed. After a minute or two of arguing, Charlie ended the call.

  “She think it’s a trap?” Gordon asked, not taking his eyes off the road as they approached the Corrales Bridge across the Rio. Traffic was moderate but typically there was a bottleneck just across the river at a major intersection, so they needed to keep up the pace.

  “Of course, and I have my doubts as well. But this is mid-afternoon, not the time the terrorist usually strikes,” Charlie said.

  “Except for the bosque thing and the van shooter,” Gordon reminded. “Which is why we decided to wear the vests.”

  “Not the latest technology, but they should stop pistol rounds.”

  “Except the terrorist uses a .223 rifle most of the time,” Gordon reminded.

  “Azok has an alibi for the first attack.”

  “So he’s a part-time terrorist?”

  Charlie shrugged, trying to plan ahead as they crossed the river. “Only a few minutes away now. Nancy said there should be a unit in the area, parked in the Walmart lot a few hundred yards to the north. Meanwhile, she’s on her way across the city.”

  Gordon looked at the dash clock. “We’re going to be a few minutes early. Wanna park out in the open, or get in close beside other vehicles?”

  “The latter,” Charlie said, checking the Beretta again before slipping it back into the holster at his waist.

  “Yeah. Any possible sniper will have to get in close for a clear shot.”

  A short time later Gordon parked the big pickup between two other vehicles, close to the center entrance to Home Depot. They both looked around, trying to see if anyone was sitting inside their vehicle, but although they noticed a few workmen or retirees coming and going, they couldn’t locate Azok.

  Charlie made the call, on speaker, and Azok answered immediately. “Get on 528 and drive north through Rio Rancho. Continue driving until I give you the next location. I’ll be texting from now on.”

  “Why text?” Charlie asked, but the line was dead.

  Gordon looked over. “Yeah. For some reason that worries me.”

  “And once we leave Albuquerque, APD loses jurisdiction.”

  “Chances are Azok is in Rio Rancho or beyond by now. Call Nancy and let APD figure out who’s going to shadow us,” Gordon replied, pulling out of the parking slot. “Still, you might want to keep an eye out for a tail.”

  “Or a drive-by,” Charlie added. “Just in case he’s closer than we think.”

  Less than ten minutes later, as they were approaching the northern terminus of Highway 528 where it intersected Highway 550, Charlie got a text. He looked down at the device.

  “Now what? We’ve got to go west, or east into downtown Bernalillo?” Gordon asked, glancing over. �
�Please, don’t say we have to turn around.”

  Charlie chuckled. “Go west on 550 until I text you again, it says.”

  “Out into the boonies and pretty open terrain. If it’s an ambush there can’t be any close backup,” Gordon pointed out.

  “He’s not stupid. This way Azok can make sure I’m, well, we, are alone.”

  “It’s still daylight. He’ll have an easy shot.”

  “So will we,” Charlie said, pointing down at the scoped M-15 resting against his leg. “I’ll update Nancy and see if she can get us direct contact with that State Police officer sitting tight in Bernalillo. He can get ahead of us before we turn west and stay close by.”

  Another text came within ten minutes. Charlie read it aloud. “Left hand turn onto the first dirt road south once past SA pueblo. Locate white trash bag on the fence. Look for the blue pickup. Stop beside black trash bag. Exit vehicle, no guns. Wait.”

  “The guy is really paranoid. I don’t like it, Charlie.”

  “One of us can get out at the highway and flank the blue pickup,” Charlie suggested.

  “Meaning me.” Gordon said. “Good. I’m a better shot than you.”

  “In your dreams.”

  “Hey, I’m good enough. And I’m nearly invisible out in the brush…”

  Charlie nodded, not adding because you’re a little guy, which tended to feed further comments. “I’ll notify Officer Willie, but ask him not to contact the tribal authorities. If someone unexpected shows up, that might cause too many problems.”

  “Santa Ana is the first pueblo ahead, right?”

  “Yeah, the second one west is Zuni.”

  Traffic was light at mid-afternoon and before long they passed the exit that led to the pueblo. It was less than a mile before Gordon saw the dirt side road leading through a gap in the fence, across a cattle guard. The white trash bag was tied to a fence post. As soon as they were inside the fence, Charlie stopped the pickup. They put on Bluetooth ear pieces, needing to keep their hands free now that they were vulnerable.

  “I don’t see any sign of a blue pickup, but the junipers and sagebrush here are pretty thick. There’s a low ridge ahead. The pickup might be just beyond, out of view from the road,” Charlie observed. “Want to go a little farther?”

  Gordon shook his head. “No, once we see the pickup, Azok will see us too and know you’re not alone. I’ll circle to the right, around the west side of that ridge, and hope I don’t have to hoof it very far. Give me five minutes before you continue down the road, and maybe I’ll be able to spot the pickup and let you know where I am,” Gordon added, climbing down out of the truck.

  Charlie handed him the assault rifle. “Be careful. I’ll call you as soon as I get a visual on the pickup or Azok.”

  Gordon fed a round into the chamber of the M-15. “Same here.”

  Charlie slid over to the driver’s side as Gordon crossed the dirt road and moved into the brush. He looked down at his watch. Gordon was already out of view. He hated to wait while someone else was moving into danger, so he checked his pistol one more time, slipping off the safety before putting it back into the holster. Then he waited.

  The dirt track was at least solid enough from last month’s rains to avoid getting stuck, despite there being at least three new sets of tracks. One of those came from a pickup, judging from the width of the tracks, which made sense. The road turned to the left, east, angling along the side of the low ridge, away from where Gordon was moving, so Charlie slowed down even further to give him more time to locate the blue pickup.

  Less than a quarter mile from the highway, the pickup tire tracks led around the ridge covered with junipers and clusters of head-high piñon trees, then turned back to the west, on higher ground. Ahead, up a gentle slope, Charlie could see a tall juniper beside vehicle tracks. A big black trash bag was attached to a branch with blue plastic ties. He inched forward, trying to locate the blue pickup.

  He got a call and switched on the phone. It was Gordon.

  “The pickup is uphill, about fifty meters south of the juniper with the black bag,” Gordon said softly. “Someone is inside the cab, looking toward the highway, I think. It looks like Azok through the scope, but there’s some glare on the rear window and I can’t be sure.”

  “I’m going to drive up to the bag and see what he does,” Charlie said. “But I’m not getting out into the open until the guy calls me.”

  “But, if he shows a gun…” Gordon said.

  “Only if he points it in my direction,” Charlie said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. The guy is probably not the killer,” Charlie replied.

  “He could have done Colby,” Gordon reminded.

  “Hold back anyway,” Charlie decided. “But stay on the line.”

  “Copy,” Gordon answered.

  Charlie drove up the hill slowly, and finally saw the blue pickup as he pulled up almost even with the plastic trash bag, which was flapping in the light breeze. The whole set-up was just a little too planned for a quick surrender, so Charlie wasn’t about to present a clear, open target. He leaned back in the seat, using the front doorframe as protection as he looked for Azok.

  The guy was sitting there, wearing a baseball cap, leaning against the driver’s-side door and looking straight ahead, not toward Gordon’s truck. Charlie reached into the glove compartment and brought out the small but powerful binoculars they’d brought along with them.

  Through the binoculars Charlie could confirm that the man was Steven Azok, but his head was dropped down, his chin on his chest. Azok’s eyes were closed and his mouth open, as if he was asleep.

  “It looks like he’s dozing, Gordon,” Charlie said. “I’m getting out now.”

  “Copy.”

  Charlie slid across the seat and exited through the passenger side, placing the truck between him and Azok. Once he was out, he waited, looking across the hood toward the blue pickup with the binoculars. Azok still hadn’t moved, but there was something odd about the situation. “His windows are up, and it’s probably ninety degrees right now,” Charlie observed, feeling the heat immediately.

  “Maybe he’s running the AC,” Gordon commented.

  “I don’t hear any engine noise.”

  “Maybe he’s passed out. Let’s move in slowly and keep watch. If he wakes up and sees us closing in, he’s liable to freak.”

  “Right. Stay put and I’ll call his number,” Charlie said, staying out of view to make the call. He heard the ringtone, but Azok didn’t pick up.

  “No response,” Charlie reported, now looking at Azok through the binoculars. “You in a position to cover me?”

  Gordon waved, and finally Charlie spotted his pal, down on one knee behind a juniper to his right. They were about equal distance from the blue truck now.

  Charlie stepped out into the open, walking up beside the pickup tire tracks. He stopped fifty feet from Azok’s truck and brought up his binoculars. “Azok still hasn’t moved an inch.”

  “I’m going to wake him up,” Charlie said. He put the binoculars into his pocket, brought up his Beretta, then reached down and picked up a rock about the size of a golf ball. “Ready?”

  “He’s filling the scope. Go for it.”

  Charlie threw the rock, which thudded against the side of the pickup.

  “Nothing.” Gordon reported.

  “Something is definitely not right,” Charlie observed. “Keep your sights on him while I look around.”

  Charlie turned slowly, checking each juniper and stand of brush for a second perp. From this point he could even see the highway, maybe a quarter mile away. A faded gold or yellow sedan was parked there, not the State Police unit, and someone was standing by the car, watching them.

  He brought up his binoculars for a look, then was rocked by a massive pressure wave and an enormous boom. Searing heat flashed him and something struck him in the back, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him to the ground.

  “Gordon!”
he tried to yell, but it came out more like a croak. Rolling onto his side, he tried to spot his pal.

  “Yeah? You okay?”

  Charlie muttered a quick prayer of thanks his dad had taught him as a child. “Think so,” he managed. “You?”

  “Concussion rattled me, and I have some cuts and picked up some shrapnel. Frigging Azok set us up,” Gordon said.

  Charlie managed to stand, then looked at the burning shell of the pickup. The upper half of the cab was gone, along with the back and both doors. He thought he could see two legs—at least the lower halves—then decided to look away. The rest of Azok was probably all over the place, and he didn’t want to see any more.

  “I don’t think so, Gordo. I think he was probably dead already, propped up so we’d come in close and get caught in the blast. I saw someone standing over at the highway, watching. When I raised my binocs for a look, that’s when the bomb went off.”

  Charlie glanced back in that direction. “The car is gone now—a gold something…”

  “Hey, check this out,” Gordon called.

  Charlie turned and saw what Gordon was pointing at. There were shreds and pieces of posters, fluttering around in the air. He recognized the images—slogans and ISIS flags like the ones they’d seen recently. “Terrorist confetti?”

  “Maybe the guy did blow himself up. That martyr tactic is usually part of their end game,” Gordon said. “But he set it off too soon to take us out.”

  “Still don’t think he triggered the blast, Gordon. My money is on the person watching us from the highway. When we started getting text messages instead of live conversations, I think Azok was already dead. He was the lure,” Charlie added. “At least we now know what happened to the rest of the explosives found in Colby’s trailer.”

  “You’re probably right,” Gordon said, walking over toward him, a limp in his stride. “Whoops, can’t trip over that,” he mumbled, sidestepping what looked like blast debris on the ground.