“Who are the vehicles registered to?”
The analyst hit some keys.
“Running the plates right now. An “Alvaro Ruben”. East L.A. address. Don’t know the connection yet.” He answered.
I’ll inform Mr. Brown. Excellent work.” Stephens replied, before pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
• • •
Stern sat on the couch, watching ESPN Sports Center on a Vizio flatscreen TV as Wolfe searched the refrigerator for something to drink.
“Have you ever stayed in one of these places before?” Stern asked his partner.
The men waited for word on Luthecker’s movement in a comfortable if not sterile two bedroom unit, with Ikea-quality furniture; inexpensive, neat, and clean, but noticeably neutral in style.
“Yes.” Wolfe answered. “The whole seventieth floor of the building is apartment units. Any time an agent is on active duty or on his way to a new theatre, they prefer you to stay on Coalition property. I’ve kicked back here, well not this unit exactly, but other ones just like it, as long as a month.
“In other words, it’s the barracks.”
“Whatever. Pretty nice for barracks if you ask me.”
Wolfe settled on a can of Coca Cola, pulled it from the refrigerator, and popped the top.
Stern picked up the television remote from the coffee table in front of him and turned off the TV. He looked at Wolfe.
“You want one?” Wolfe asked, holding up the can.
“Sure. Is there any Sprite?”
Wolfe took one from the refrigerator, and tossed it to Stern.
Stern opened his drink, took a sip. He looked back at his partner, examined him a moment.
“What?” Wolfe reacted.
“I really want to know what this Luthecker cat is all about. He’s kind of stuck in my head. I don’t know why. I mean I saw him, a direct view in that club; and he’s just this scrawny little punk.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, you know that.”
“Yeah I do, but aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No. I’ve seen enough in my life. I know better.”
“Well I’m curious. Why’s he got a guy a like Brown so spooked? What makes him so damn dangerous?”
“He won’t be so dangerous once we get a hold of him.” Wolfe replied, as he finished his can of soda.
A phone rang, and both men looked at each other a moment before Stern found it on the dark brown faux-wood end table next to the couch.
“Agent Stern here.” He answered.
He listened a moment to the voice on the other end, then looked at Wolfe.
“What is it?” Wolfe asked.
Stern held up a finger for him to keep quiet, and kept listening to the voice.
“We are good to go.” He finally said before hanging up the phone.
“They found him. All of them, actually.” He announced to Wolfe.
“Really? That was fast. Where?”
“On their way to Phoenix. Which is where we’re headed to intercept. Right now.”
• • •
Stern and Wolfe exited the elevator onto the rooftop heliport of the Coalition Properties West Building, where a trademark Coalition gloss-black painted Bell 429 helicopter waited for them. The four-blade turbines of the seven passenger aircraft were spinning at idle, but still managed to kick up a considerable dust and wind, forcing both men to duck low before climbing inside the aircraft.
Once inside Stern slammed the passenger door shut, abruptly cutting the exterior noise and wind. A high pitched whine began to sound as the engines picked up speed, the rotor blades quickly spinning fast enough to lift the aircraft up off of the building rooftop and over the city grid of Los Angeles.
“What’s our ETA?” Stern yelled out to the pilot seated in front of him, as he strapped on his seat belt.
The pilot pulled the radio mike boom of his headset away from his face before turning back to reply.
“We’ll touch down at the Santa Monica Airport in fifteen minutes. From there a plane is waiting to take you to Luke Air Force Base, wheels up to wheels down in sixty-seven minutes. The base commander will be waiting to assist you once you arrive. Don’t worry; you’ll be way ahead of the target. You’ll have plenty of time for prep.”
He turned his attention back to manning the helicopter, pushing the control stick forward, tilting the nose of the bird down and then hitting the accelerator.
• • •
The Bell 429 touched down at Santa Monica Airport in fourteen minutes, and the two agents quickly exited the helicopter and hustled towards a waiting Piaggo-Areo P180 Avanti Turbo Prop. A new and stylish design, the Piaggo was a luxury vehicle usually reserved for the very wealthy, and its unique lines actually made Stern stop and take a look.
Manufactured in partnership with Ferrari Motors, the aircraft had a sleek wind tunnel tested look that was more elegant curves than traditional angles. Also painted Coalition black, the P180 was the fastest turboprop aircraft ever made. With a cruising speed of nearly 450mph, it rivaled many private jets, but required considerably less runway for take off and landing, making it the perfect choice for darting in and out of smaller airports on short notice.
“I hear this is one of Brown’s personal birds. Wolfe stated, as he stood next to his partner.
“One of the smaller ones. The rich sure got it good, don’t they?” He added, as he walked past Stern towards the waiting aircraft.
Stern crested the top of the plane’s air stair and stepped through the clamshell-style doorway before taking a seat in one of the plush leather chairs. He looked around the small but luxurious cabin.
“Yeah, I could get used to this.” He mentioned to Wolfe, as his partner sat down across from him.
“Couldn’t we all.”
The men strapped on their seat belts.
“Gentlemen.”
Both agents looked at the pilot as he stepped from the cockpit, a sliver haired man with a military gait and build.
“We’ve been cleared to land at Luke Air Force Base. The targets have crossed into the state of Arizona, and I have just been informed that the Arizona State Highway Patrol is tracking them. We should have you on the ground before they reach Phoenix.” He finished, before making his way back to the cockpit.
“I don’t see why they don’t just pick them up.” Wolfe thought out loud.
“Limited exposure, remember?” Stern responded. “It has to be us.” He answered, a certain eagerness in his voice to get another chance at Luthecker. He wasn’t going to get away this time, he told himself.
Both men sat back in their seats as the roar of the Piaggo’s twin turbo props increased, and the plane began to move.
• • •
Camila checked the rear view mirror again.
“Yaw.” She barked, loud enough to stir him awake.
“What - what is it?” He asked as he sat up, trying to shake off the sleep.
“We picked up a tail.”
She checked the side-view mirror, and caught sight of an Arizona Highway Patrol car about twenty car-lengths behind them.
“Are you sure?” Yaw asked.
“He’s been hanging there behind us, same distance back, for about ten minutes.”
• • •
“Who called in the Arizona Highway Patrol?” Director Stephens announced, a calm but irritated tone in his voice. He, along with the analyst manning the satellite feed, watched as a patrol car inching up closer behind the van.
“The Homeland Security Office was understaffed, and they asked for local support.” The analyst answered.
“And you didn’t think to tell me this? Tell them to back off. Now please.”
“Yes sir.”
The analyst hit a few quick key strokes, and almost like magic, they watched the patrol car pull off the side of the freeway.
“Thank you.” Stephens responded. “Please note that Mr. Brown’s plane will touch down in less than an hour, which means he
will be on sight within the hour. Mistakes of this nature are sure to get his attention.”
“Understood sir. Won’t happen again, sir.” The analyst replied, embarrassed.
“Good. How about the intercept team. Are they in place?”
“They just touched down in Phoenix.”
“Perfect. Tell them to be ready.”
• • •
Stern looked out the window of the Piaggo turbo prop as it smoothly touched down onto the runway, and saw row after row of F-16 Flying Falcon jet fighters. Luke Air Force Base housed over half a dozen fighter squadrons and was home of the 56th Fighter Wing, one of the largest and most respected fighter training squadrons in the U.S.
As the turbo prop completed its taxi route, it passed by several of the elite fighter planes before making its way to a large unmarked hanger at the end of the base. Once inside the hanger, the engines of the aircraft quickly powered down, and both men exited the plane to find a black Chevy Suburban vehicle waiting for them.
“Agents Wolfe and Stern?” A man in a camouflage uniform and black beret asked, as he stood at parade rest next to the large SUV.
“Yes sir.” Stern instinctively replied.
“Colonel John Devlin.” The man announced as he stuck out his hand. Stern shook it, followed by Wolfe.
“Colonel.” Wolfe acknowledged.
“Welcome to Luke Air Force Base. How’s the private side, gentlemen?”
“Can’t complain, Colonel. Can’t complain.” Stern responded.
“Maybe one day I’ll join you. Colonel Richard Brown’s an old friend.” Devlin pointed back to Suburban. “The equipment requested is in the back of the vehicle. If you need any further assistance, just give my office a call.”
“Will do sir. Thank you sir.” Wolfe acknowledged, and the three men shook hands. Devlin made for the hangar exit as Stern made his way to the back of the Suburban. He pulled open the back doors, and he paused as he looked over the equipment provided: Two AR-15 semi automatic rifles with long range scopes. A pair of Glock 9mm handguns with laser sights. Several clips of ammo. Night vision goggles. Flashlights. Duct tape. Nighttime camouflage fatigues. A zip tie handcuff pack. Half a dozen black hoods. A med pack with sedatives. Several blankets. Two large empty backpacks.
Two shovels and two picks.
“How are we looking?” Wolfe asked.
Stern picked up a Glock and pulled back the slide to check for tension.
“Good. Real Good.”
• • •
“They’re backing off.” Camila announced, as she kept her eye on the rear view mirror. She watched as the highway patrol car slowed down, and pulled onto a freeway exit ramp.
Yaw checked the side view to confirm.
He sighed in relief.
“False alarm.” He said, before sinking back into his seat.
• • •
“Goodyear Road, right? That’s the next exit.” Chris announced, as Alex clicked on his turn signal, checking his rearview mirror, making sure the van was right behind him.
“Why Snaketown? Man, it’s nothing but desert out there.” Chris commented.
“It’s more than that. A lot more.” Alex replied.
• • •
The young analyst watched the satellite image of the Prelude making its way through the minimal grid work of a small rural town. He tilted his head in confusion as the car moved south, away from Phoenix, and headed towards the open desert outside of Pima County.
“Where are they going…?” He thought out loud.
No sooner had he finished the thought, he realized their destination. He swiveled around in his chair and looked at Stephens.
“They’re not headed to Phoenix. They’re headed to the Gila River Indian Reservation.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense.” Stephens replied.
“Yes it does.”
They all turned at the sound of Richard Brown’s voice, and watched the tall, barrel-chested soldier turned CEO approach them, taking off his jacket without breaking stride.
“Welcome, sir. How was your flight?” Stephens said as he held out his hand.
Brown responded by handing Stephens his jacket.
“The Gila River Indian Reservation is part of the Pima Indian Nation.” Brown continued, as he took a closer look at the satellite images.
“And that’s technically not American soil. Indians are not exactly open to having white men with guns and uniforms running around on their land.”
“So what do you want us to do?” Stephens asked.
“What you’ve been doing. You have night tracking capabilities. Just stay on the vehicles, and whoever is in them. They’re going to have to sleep at some point, and I want to know when and where.”
Brown pulled his cell phone, hit a number on the speed dial and held it to his ear. As it rang, he noticed that Stephens was still looking at him, confused.
“The next phase is what Special Ops are for.”
• • •
Stern slammed the rear doors of the Suburban shut just as Wolfe’s cell phone rang. Wolfe checked the caller ID, looked at Stern as he answered.
“Yes sir.”
He moved his hand in a rolling motion, indicating to his partner that they were on the move. Stern nodded, and quickly climbed into the driver’s seat. Wolfe scrambled into the passenger side of the SUV, his phone still against his ear.
“Yes sir.” He said again. “We’re on our way now. We’ll establish a perimeter, wait for your call.”
He hung up his phone. He looked at the device waiting for a text file. It pinged, indicating he had just received a GPS map of their destination.
“They’re headed to the Gila Indian Reservation.”
“We gotta get them before they reach there, I take it.”
“No.” Wolfe shook his head.
“The last thing Brown wants is any sort of incident in broad daylight.”
“So what’s the order?”
“Stay on the perimeter and watch. Wait for the call. Take them into custody in the middle of the night. And call Brown when we have them secured.”
“Bag’em and tag’em. Got it. Not a problem.” Stern replied, before firing up the Suburban, slipping it into drive, and pulling out of the hangar.
• • •
The only road that led into Snaketown became unpaved less than a mile beyond the freeway. Alex carefully navigated the rut and rock filled desert pass, going past occasional mud huts, car skeletons, and dilapidated structures, the van driven by Camila right behind him. It was just past five p.m. in the evening, and the deep orange colored sun hung low on the horizon. As the light faded the shadows grew, the desert seemingly coming alive as it turned towards the night.
Alex noticed a pick up truck ahead in the distance, the vehicle tilted at an angle as it sat parked just off the road, the front of the vehicle pointed in their direction. As Alex got close enough to see a human form behind the wheel, the pickup signaled with a flash of its headlights. Alex slowed to a crawl as he approached, pulling to a stop about five car lengths before the truck. He watched as the silhouette of a man in a cowboy hat stepped from the cab. His large frame crossed in front of the headlight beams of his truck, revealing a shotgun in his hands.
“This place was on the list, right? Of safe havens?” Chris commented nervously as he watched the man approach the driver’s side of the Prelude.
“We’re fine.” Alex answered. “I hope.” He added.
Alex motored down his window as the man waited.
“This is private property. No tourists or campers allowed.” The man said to Alex, the shotgun barrel held visibly just below the window, a warning height, one that would be quick and easy to raise to a head level blast on both passengers in the Prelude, should he choose.
“My name is Alex Luthecker. Master Winn from Los Angeles said we would have safe harbor here. I was told to ask for William Hayes.”
The man looked at Alex a moment before looking
inside the car, carefully examining both Chris and the back seat of the car.
Alex looked straight ahead, and noticed the shadow-figure of another man quickly sit up from the bed of the pickup truck, shotgun first, propping the weapon on the roof of the truck cab, the barrel pointing directly at the van with Camila and Yaw, parked behind the Prelude.
“Proof?” The man at his window asked.
Alex turned to Chris, and Chris reached into the back seat of the car.
“Slowly.” The man requested, his shotgun now trained on Alex’s head.
Chris pulled one of his Kali sticks from his backpack, one of the specially designed aluminum ones, and held it across Alex towards the open window.
The man with the shotgun took it from him, and carefully examined the intricate handcrafted markings. Satisfied, he looked to the man in the back of his truck and nodded. The other riflemen lifted his barrel.
“I’m William Hayes.” He stated. “The 3rd. You’re looking for my Grandfather. He’s been expecting you.” He said, as he handed the stick back to Alex. “Follow me.” He added, before turning back towards his pickup truck.
Alex and Chris watched as the man in the truck bed sat back down and out of view. William Hayes climbed back in the cab and kicked the truck in gear, spinning it around in a cloud of dust onto the Gila River Indian Reservation.
EIGHTEEN
AN OFFER
“I’m really craving pizza right now.” Ben Ellis said, his voice low and cracking from lack of use.
“I’ll see what I can do.” His sister replied with a smile, as she sat on the side of his bed, his right hand in both of hers.
Luthecker Page 17