by Robert Greer
The sheriff bristled. “No, you won’t, Lieutenant. I don’t know how you hotshots in Denver handle situations like this, but you’re out in the country now. You’re staying put.”
Cavalaris frowned. “This situation’s a lot m-m-more explosive than you th-th-think, Sheriff.”
“I expect it is, seeing as how I’ve had the tranquillity of my peaceful little corner of the country shattered by some bozo on a silo armed with a submachine gun. A man who, it ends up, was trying his best to take out the Rocky Mountain region’s top hit man and an M-16-toting bail bondsman. Like I said, Lieutenant, you’re not moving.”
“How about I t-t-talk to Niedemeyer and Floyd again, then?” asked Cavalaris, certain CJ and Pinkie had heard bits and pieces of their conversation.
“You’ve talked to them already, and they barely said a thing.”
“Could be they’re feeling more talkative by now.”
Vickers shook his head and shrugged. “Go ahead. Got nothing to lose from it. I’ve gotta go see what’s taking that Flight for Life helicopter so long to get here.” He eyed the top of the silo. “If they don’t hurry up, it’s a sure bet our shooter’s gonna be dead.” As he pivoted to head for the command post he’d set up, the sheriff glanced back over his shoulder at Cavalaris. “Stay put, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”
As soon as he was certain the sheriff was out of earshot, Cavalaris walked over to CJ and Pinkie. “You two ready to talk yet?” When he didn’t get an answer, he knelt and said, “W-w-well you’d better get your tongues lubricated. Something’s not r-r-right here. No way it should take a Flight for Life chopper an hour to get out here. Not when a police-spotter helicopter was here in twenty minutes. I n-n-need some straight answers, and quick. I’m starting to get a w-w-whiff of something that smells an awful lot like somebody besides the sheriff is orchestrating things out here. So, I’m gonna ask you the s-s-same questions I asked you half an hour ago. Why’d you two c-c-come out here, and who’s up there on that roof?”
Neither CJ nor Pinkie responded.
Cavalaris said, “Okay. H-h-have it your way. The sheriff may not know what he’s s-s-stumbled into, but I do, and trust me, the sh-sh-shit’s gonna hit the fan again real quick. And when it does, I’ve got a f-f-feeling the three of us just might end up in the same lifeboat paddling for shore. So sooner or later b-b-both of you are g-g-gonna have to decide who to cast your lot with. Me, the sheriff, or whoever else happens to eventually sh-sh-show up at this tea party. L-l-like they say, better the devil you know than the ten who w-w-want to cut your nuts off. Think about it.” Cavalaris rose and called over his shoulder, “Think hard,” as he jogged toward the silo.
“He’s got a point,” CJ said to Pinkie, watching Cavalaris disappear into the darkness.
“Screw him; he’s a cop,” Pinkie countered.
“Okay,” said CJ. “But he’s right about one thing. Sooner or later the shit will hit the fan.”
Cavalaris checked to make certain he had a full clip in his 9-mm, patted the three additional clips in his pocket, and started up the silo’s back stairs. When he reached the first-story landing, one of the two SWAT members who were three-quarters of the way to the rooftop shouted, “Hey! Get the shit off of these stairs!”
“The sheriff sent me,” Cavalaris shouted up to them. “Lieutenant Gus Cavalaris, Denver Homicide.”
“Not likely,” one of the men hollered back. He leaned over the stair railing and trained his weapon on Cavalaris. “Stay put!”
Undaunted, Cavalaris yelled, “Shoot me and you’ll be e-e-explaining why for a lifetime.”
“I will if I have to. There’s a guy up there with a submachine gun.” The burlier of the two cops adjusted a communication earpiece as he watched Cavalaris continue up the stairs to stop a few steps below the third-floor landing. “Sheriff, this is Silo One. We’ve got a problem on the stairs.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the smaller of the two, a bug-eyed man with buck teeth, trained his 9-mm on Cavalaris. “Let’s see your badge!”
Cavalaris slipped his badge wallet out of his shirt pocket and handed it up to the shorter cop as the cop’s partner yelled into his lapel mike, “Sheriff, come in. This is Silo One. We’ve got an emergency.”
The bug-eyed cop brought Cavalaris’s badge up to his eyes and said, “Hm.” He handed the wallet back to Cavalaris. “So you’re a cop. Now turn around and get your ass off these damn stairs.”
Responding to a rush of static and Sheriff Vickers’s voice in his ear, the other cop barked, “We’ve got a Denver homicide lieutenant up here on the stairs with us, Sheriff. Said you sent him. He legit?”
Vickers slammed a fist into the palm of his right hand. “He’s legit. But I didn’t send him. Get him off those stairs any way you have to.”
The cop readjusted his earpiece, glanced down at Cavalaris, and then looked skyward, startled by the sound of an approaching helicopter. “The sheriff just gave me the okay to toss you over the stair rails if need be, Lieutenant. It would be a lot easier on all of us if you’d just turn around and walk back down.”
“I d-d-don’t—”
Cavalaris’s protest was interrupted by the sound of the helicopter closing in rapidly. Seconds later, the top of the silo was awash in light.
“What the shit? Did you call in another spotter, Sheriff?” the burly cop yelled into his mike.
“Hell, no,” said Vickers. “I asked for a Flight for Life chopper.”
“Well, that’s sure not what’s hovering over our heads. It’s a casualty-evac gunship, the kind we had in Desert Storm.”
Before the sheriff could respond, a military medevac helicopter descended to within thirty feet of the silo’s roof. Seconds later a battlefield-style casualty-evacuation basket, suspended by ropes, dropped out of the open door of the chopper. When the basket reached the rooftop, two men with submachine guns slung over their shoulders and dressed head to toe in black started snaking their way down two ropes that had been dropped from the opposite door.
“What the fuck?” yelled the burly cop. “Sheriff, you seein’ what I’m seein’?”
“Sure am. The damn place is lit up as bright as day. I’m headed your way. Get up to the top of that silo and see what the hell’s goin’ on.”
The two SWAT cops started up the stairs as the two men who’d dropped from the helicopter disappeared from view behind a rooftop stem wall. Cavalaris had become an afterthought.
Barely conscious and bleeding badly from his right shoulder, Napper had crawled to within a few feet of the silo’s back stairway. When he had reached the metal hand rail that looped over the stem wall and tried to pull himself up, he had fallen onto his side and passed out. He was still lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness, when the two men from the chopper—one a former combat medic, the other a onetime army sharpshooter—reached the rooftop. The two men were standing over Napper when the stockier of Sheriff Vickers’s two SWAT cops reached the top of the stairs. As he poked his head over the stem wall, a volley from the sharpshooter’s MP5 nearly took his head off.
Screaming, “Shit!” he leaped down three stairs, looked down at his partner, and yelled, “Don’t know who the hell’s up there, but they’re armed for a damn war.” Glancing up at four cones of light streaming from the belly of the helicopter, he barked into his lapel mike, “We’re outgunned up here, Sheriff. Got two shooters armed with submachine guns.”
“Then get the hell out of there!” the sheriff yelled. “I’ll see if I can’t get some heavier artillery out here.”
Sounding relieved, the burly cop said, “Roger,” as he and his partner started descending the stairs. “Time to head off this tube of concrete,” the bug-eyed cop called out to Cavalaris when they reached the third-floor landing.
“I heard the reception you got,” said Cavalaris.
“Yeah—now, down the stairs, Lieutenant! Sheriff’s orders!”
Cavalaris eyed the two SWAT cops, gritted his teeth, and clambered up th
e stairs as the burly cop fumbled with his earpiece. He kicked his ankle out of the grasp of the smaller cop as his partner yelled into his mike, “Sheriff, Cavalaris just slipped us. He’s headed back up the stairs. Should we go after him?”
“Shit, no! I don’t need you two getting killed because of some nitwit. Get the hell off those stairs. Now!”
As the two SWAT cops retreated, Cavalaris, clutching his 9-mm in his right hand, worked his way slowly up the stairs. Uncertain what he’d do once he reached the top, he realized his head was spinning. But not so much that he failed to recognize that he might have just flushed his career, or that there was someone on the roof of that silo who was important enough to rate having the men and machinery of war dispatched to rescue him. Telling himself that no matter what the cost, he intended to see who the hell that person was, he continued climbing.
The noise and wind whip from the chopper intensified as he got closer. Realizing that he needed to play it smarter than the lead SWAT cop had when he’d breached the stem wall, Cavalaris decided he’d have a look over the wall from somewhere other than the center of the stairs. Perhaps three feet to the left or three feet to the right of center. It didn’t really matter as long as it wasn’t the spot where a man with a submachine gun would be aiming at him point-blank.
He recognized that he had one other thing going for him. Since the machine gunner hadn’t come after the SWAT cop, he didn’t expect the man to come after him, and that gave him an advantage—the advantage of knowing that the two men who’d dropped out of the chopper were on a rescue mission, not a search-and-destroy mission. A mission that seemed to also mandate that no one see who it was who was being rescued, and that offered him another advantage. The men on the rooftop would have their hands full.
A few steps from the top of the stairs, he slipped his 9-mm into his pocket, knowing it would take two hands to maintain a grip on the stair railing and all the strength he could muster to pull himself up by the hand rail, peek over the stem wall, and hopefully duck back down behind it before any shooting started. His hands were moist with sweat as he slipped over the hand rail and onto the edge of the step. As he adjusted his footing, preparing to pull himself up, he heard voices.
“I think I’ve got him stabilized,” someone called out over the noise of the chopper. The man’s words ran together as if they were one.
“Good, ’cause we need to get the hell outta here,” a second person said. “We only had a six-minute window, and it’s closing in on five.” The man’s words were fluid and self-assured.
“I’m gonna need a hand getting him in the basket,” the first man said.
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
The word now seemed to set everything in motion. At almost the same instant that the sharpshooter shouldered his MP5 to help the paramedic lift Napper into the basket, Cavalaris poked his head above the stem wall. In the few seconds it took the precariously balanced Cavalaris to see who it was that the two men were transferring into the basket, the sharpshooter caught a glimpse of Cavalaris’s forehead.
The sharpshooter released his grip on Napper, aimed the barrel of his MP5 at the stem wall, and squeezed off fifteen rounds at the spot where Cavalaris’s head had been. With bullets and concrete chips flying everywhere, Cavalaris, mumbling to himself, “No w-w-way, no f-f-fuckin’ way,” was already scurrying back down the stairs. By the time he reached the second-story landing, the paramedic and the sharpshooter were being hoisted back up into the chopper, and the basket containing the severely wounded former miner, Franklin Watts—a man known in the clandestine world he’d navigated for more than four decades simply as Napper—was being swung into the belly of the chopper. Fifty seconds later, the helicopter’s spotlights went out as the pilot nosed it north. In the span of less than a minute, rescue mission complete, the chopper disappeared into the darkness.
On the ground now and racing toward Sheriff Vickers’s command post, Gus Cavalaris, his heart thumping as hard as it had the day he’d made lieutenant, was certain he now knew who’d killed Antoine Ducane. All that was left to determine was at whose request Ducane had been killed—and why.
Chapter 32
An hour and a half after the helicopter carrying Franklin Watts had disappeared into the eastern Colorado sky, Sheriff Vickers and a regiment of law enforcement officers from six jurisdictions remained on the crime scene while reporters and crews from three local TV stations milled around behind a police barricade scratching for information.
Gus Cavalaris had been detained at the sheriff’s central command post for over half an hour and had been assured by the angry Vickers that by sunup he’d have a misconduct letter as long as the Declaration of Independence in his file, and that more than likely he’d soon have a new rank of sergeant. Cavalaris now stood in the moonlit brightness several yards from where CJ and Pinkie remained handcuffed. All three men were being guarded by a youthful Adams County deputy sheriff who normally worked the department’s evidence locker. But since all hands had been called on deck, the deputy had drawn the assignment of standing watch over CJ and Pinkie and keeping an eye on Cavalaris until the sheriff found time to interrogate the three men again.
When an unmarked police cruiser pulled to a stop behind a SWAT van twenty yards away, the deputy barely looked up. The car’s two occupants got out quickly and walked toward the deputy, moving in unison. The taller of the two men sported a mustache. His wispy thin eyebrows were barely evident, and he was wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with the initials “FBI.” His capless shorter partner was nearly bald and midwinter pale. An ugly six-inch-long scar ran from just below his right earlobe to the top of his shirt collar. The taller man walked directly up to the deputy, flashed an FBI badge, and said, “I’m looking for Lieutenant Cavalaris. I was told I could find him and a couple of other men we need to talk to over here.”
The deputy nodded toward Cavalaris. “That’s him over there, but you’ll have to get permission to talk to him from the incident commander, Sheriff Vickers.” The deputy smiled. “The lieutenant—well, he’s sorta under house arrest.”
“We’ve already talked to Vickers, son. Who do you think sent us over here?” the man in the cap said.
“I’ll have to check,” the suddenly nervous-looking deputy said, watching Cavalaris walk toward him. Speaking into his lapel mike, the deputy said, “Sheriff, it’s Potter. I’ve got a couple of FBI types over here wanting to talk to Lieutenant Cavalaris and the two guys in handcuffs. Is it okay?”
“Yeah,” came the sheriff’s response, loud and harried.
“We need to talk to Cavalaris and the other two men in private,” the taller of the two FBI agents said to the deputy. “Why don’t you take a five-minute break?”
“Sorry; I’ve got orders not to budge from here.” He eyed the two men circumspectly as Cavalaris, who was now standing beside him, asked, “You l-l-looking for me?”
“We sure are, if you’re Lieutenant Gus Cavalaris.”
“I am.”
The man in the cap pulled out an ID wallet and flashed his FBI shield. “Agent Ron Demming, Lieutenant.” Nodding at his partner, he said, “Agent Hogan.” Introductions completed, Demming turned quickly back to the deputy. “We’ve got it from here, son. Why don’t you take a stroll?”
“Can’t,” said the deputy, eyeing CJ and Pinkie.
“I told you we’ll watch them,” said Demming. “This won’t take but a few minutes.”
“The sheriff’ll have my hide.”
“We’re FBI, son,” Demming said with a scowl. “I’m afraid we’ll have your hide if we don’t get a couple of minutes alone here with these men.”
The deputy looked at Cavalaris. “Think it’s okay, Lieutenant?”
“It’s okay,” said Cavalaris. “Go on.”
The deputy looked briefly at Pinkie and CJ, checked his watch, and announced authoritatively to Demming, “Three minutes; that’s it.” He walked away toward a throng of other cops.
“Thre
e minutes it is,” said Demming. “We need to talk, Lieutenant,” he added when he was sure the deputy was out of earshot.
“About what?” asked Cavalaris.
Demming slipped a 9-mm automatic out of his shoulder holster, glanced around into the moonlit darkness, and aimed the gun directly at Cavalaris. “I hate to have to pull rank on you, Lieutenant, but we’ve got a national security issue to deal with here. Don’t make a ruckus. I want you to listen to my instructions and follow them to a T. You’re going to walk over to the two men in handcuffs, uncuff them, and then walk back with Agent Hogan and me to our vehicle.” He handed Cavalaris a handcuff key. “This should work. Once we reach the vehicle, you’ll find three sets of handcuffs on the back seat. I want each of you to slip on a pair of cuffs, take a seat, and stay quiet. Now, you wanna hand me your weapon?”
“And if I d-d-don’t?”
“Then I’ll have to shoot you. Them too,” Demming said, nodding toward CJ and Pinkie.
Cavalaris laughed. “Here, in the middle of three dozen cops?”
“Like I said, we’re dealing with a national security issue here, Lieutenant. I shoot you; they shoot me. Bottom line’s the same either way. Security doesn’t get breached.”
“You’re serious,” Cavalaris said in disbelief.
“Absolutely. Now, why don’t you trot over to the men in handcuffs, pass along my instructions, uncuff them, and walk with me and my partner back to our vehicle?” Demming looked around to make certain the nervous deputy wasn’t on his way back yet and that there was nothing but open space between where he stood and the car. “And Lieutenant, we’re on the clock. That deputy’s going to return any second, so move it. Oh, one last instruction. Once the three of you are in the vehicle, look down at the floor. You’ll see several spring loaded U-bolts sticking up out of the floor. Slip your handcuff’s chain under the lip of one of those bolts and clamp the bolt down until it locks. You’ll be a tad uncomfortable anchored to the floor and bent over like pretzels, but that’s okay. The ride’ll be a short one. Now, get going. And make sure you tell those other two that if they so much as walk anything but a straight line on our way to the car or lift a head up once you’re all in the back seat and anchored down, I’ll shoot every one of you point-blank. You with me?”