by John Turney
“Yeahhh.” Gabby’s voice trailed off like she pulled the phone away. “The Feds want to talk to you. I’m putting us on speaker phone.”
“Chief Dawlsen,” said an unfamiliar female voice. The phone speaker did not improve the impersonal sound in her voice.
“Yes,” he said with uncertain caution.
“My name is Emmie Clark, and I am with the FBI. I have a search warrant for the residence of one Richard H. List.”
“I don’t understand.” Rye shook his head. “What’s going on?”
Gabby said, “The FBI, ICE, Yuma Sheriff’s Department and Border Patrol had planned to raid the List complex tonight. Something about gun smuggling and drugs … just to name a couple. And jay walking, I believe. However, the storm’s grounded them.”
Agent Clark spoke up. “The weather forecast calls for the rain to continue for a while. That grounds our operation. By the time the weather clears enough, the transaction of guns, drugs, and money we believe taking place tonight at List’s place—”
“Wait a minute,” Rye interrupted her. “What did you just say about guns, drugs, and List?” Rye watched the headlights of an approaching car. He freed his handgun from its holster and nodded at Noah, who caught the chief’s meaning and readied his own weapon.
“Sir, really, we don’t have—”
“Hold on a second.” He pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket and thumbed to the correct page. “Juan’s message: ‘GS. DS. DHL. DA.’ It’s guns and drugs. DHL. It’s not an airline, it’s someone’s initials …”
“Dick Humphries List!” Gabby interrupted.
“Right,” said Rye. “That means DA is probably a person. But who? I don’t—”
“Demonio Amo,” Clark said. “Head of a military group turned drug cartel. He’s a real SOB.”
Rye peered through the watery traces on the back window as the other car came to a stop behind Whitewolf’s Crown Vic. Heilo stepped out of the driver’s seat and waved.
Rye said with a throaty sound, “And he’s got my family.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rain streamed off the brim of Rye’s Stetson while he unlocked the garage door to his storage unit. Rainwater spilled inside his collar sending shivers down his spine. Rolling up the door, he stepped into the square room, glad to get out of the weather. The smell of gun oil permeated the space. Rain drumming the roof made hearing difficult. His fingers probed the wall until he found the light switch. When the lights flickered on, one of his officers whistled.
In the glaring illumination of a single fluorescent bulb, wooden crates sat on metallic tables or wooden pallets, along the walls and down a middle aisle. Stenciling on each box explained its contents.
“Nice,” Heilo yelled over the noise.
DePute nodded his head in appreciation.
Rye said, “You can thank Iona. She provided the funds to purchase these weapons.”
Rye took several steps into the storage area, his boots scuffling on the cement floor. Behind him, someone shut the garage door.
“And I think our circumstances require it.” He strolled over to a table against the back wall and powered up the laptop sitting on it. “Gather around.” He typed in a password, lighting the screen with the WPD logo and two rows of folders on the left side. Rye clicked on one labeled “Photos.” A window popped up to show icons. He clicked on the first one.
“This is the front entrance to List’s house.” He looked at his officers. “This is where we’re going in. List has been a project of mine ever since I became Whiskey’s chief of police.”
The picture revealed a beautifully southwestern-styled home, with a large vehicle turnaround and a wall that opened to a garden in front of the house.
DePute whistled. “Sweet.”
“As you know, that’s only a fraction of the house. This part sits on top of the cliff.” He opened another photo. “This is the rest.”
The picture showed three stories of glass building tucked against a canyon wall. Rye clicked through several more photos showing the large concrete pad for a patio, the back acreage that led down to a dry gully, stables with a curving ramp leading to the middle story, and blueprints of the building’s floor plans. The next screen shot showed an aerial view.
“This is List’s compound,” Rye explained, drawing an imaginary and irregular circle with his finger on the screen. “The back of his house faces this canyon which opens and drops into this creek. His property continues up this hill to this ridge.” He pointed at each spot. “Any questions so far?”
Everyone signified a no.
“This is the road to List’s place.” He indicated a gray line that split the compound into two unequal sections. “That’s the road on which Deputy Cruze was shot and killed.” He paused, giving his officers the chance to make the connection between the murder and List’s location.
“We’ll come down this road,” Rye continued. “Park at this little turnaround and make our insertion somewhere along this fence line. Notice the thick vegetation.”
“Where does a mayor of a Podunk town in the middle of the desert get the money to afford all that?” asked Heilo.
“Good question,” Rye answered. “I believe Whitewolf has the answer to that. Tell ’em what you told me.”
Whitewolf bounced a glance between the other three. “Deputy Cruze was not killed by a lone truck that crashed. It was a convoy of trucks taking arms and drugs to List’s place. He’s been trading with one of the cartels.”
Silence.
“Son of a—” Heilo stomped over to a wooden crate stenciled with a black “HK.” She kicked it then smashed a fist on its top. She tilted her head and read the black markings. Caressing the top of the box with loving fingers, she turned to Rye. “Heckler and Koch?”
“Find out.” He snatched a tire iron lying on top of the table and tossed it to her. She caught it one-handed.
She pried under the lid of the box, the nails giving way with reluctant squeals. The lid crashed to the floor.
She closed her eyes and lifted her head skyward. “Thank you, Jesus!” She lifted one of the olive green assault rifles out of the box and cradled it like a newborn. “The HK 21E Shorty Beltfed with a 9” barrel,” she said. “Dig the scope. This is sweet. This baby can fire 800 rounds per minute, and it’s mine. I trained on it in the Rangers.”
Another crate lid fell to the floor, and Whitewolf held up a SIG P226 handgun, the dull black finish looking wicked. “Heilo, check this out.”
Heilo joined Whitewolf. “Coo-ool,” she said making the word into two syllables. “The 9mm, baby. It holds 15 rounds. Now, we can deliver some payback.”
Reese stood next to Rye. “You said Iona paid for these. Where’d you get them?”
“Let’s just say, I’ve got my sources.” Addressing the group, Rye said, “You got a few minutes to get familiar with these weapons. I got several assault rifles, Hydra-Shok bullets, various knives with scabbards, tactical armor vests, helmets with tactical headsets, night vision goggles, and special boots.” He paused for a breath. “I want everyone armed with an assault rifle, several of the P226s, extra mags, and at least one knife. Plus your service handgun. There’s a screened-off area to change clothes. Now all I have to do is figure out how to connect these headsets to the FBI. Let’s get ready, boys and girls.”
“Hey, Chief,” DePute said. “What about that Polaris MV8000 ATV in the back corner. That baby rocks.”
“I want this to be a stealth operation.”
“I can dig that, but how about a little misdirection. While the rest of the team deploys quietly.” DePute nodded to the olive ATV. “With that, I can create all the diversion you’ll need.”
Rye smiled. “This is supposed to be where I argue with you ’cause I don’t want to change my plans. But … you’ve given me an idea.”
He brought the group over to the ATV. He reached down in the back area and opened a door to reveal a hidden compartment. In there, he had stored some nonperish
able food, camping supplies, a couple extra P226s, extra ammo, and half a dozen flash-bangs.
Then he looked at DePute. “Okay … dude … you have your ride.” And Rye explained to him what he wanted.
Afterwards, Rye clapped his hands and shouted, “I want to roll in five.”
Dressed with vest, helmet, goggles, knives strapped to each leg, handguns at each hip and locking in the ammo box to her HK 21E, Heilo stepped from behind a screen and said, “I’m ready to rock and roll.”
Rye studied his officers. “This situation is no longer an investigation. It’s a rescue mission.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
“Boss?” crackled the voice over the radio on List’s belt. Demonio jerked his gaze toward the fat Americano. “There’s some moron playing on an ATV a couple hundred yards out from the house. How should I proceed? Over.”
Sitting in a chair in the shadows of the room, Demonio steepled his fingers and tapped them together. I will see how this vaca handles situations. I’ll see if our relationship continues after tonight.
List’s face reddened. He struggled to get the radio from his belt while mashing the remains of a cigar into an ashtray.
The hombre struggles to keep his emotions in check.
List put the device up to his mouth and pressed the call button. “Well, idiot, go check it out. If there’s any doubt, kill the SOB.”
Too reactionary.
List returned Demonio’s stare. “If he’s on my land, he’s one dead punk.”
It would have been better to try and extract intel from the trespasser. Perhaps, he is more than a kid playing in the rain.
List rose from his chair and stormed over to the window. Demonio trailed him with his eyes.
Demonio grabbed Amalia’s hand resting on his shoulder. He did not miss her slight flinch when his skin contacted hers. This one still fears me. Buena.
“Do we have a situation?” Demonio hissed at the mayor.
“Yeah,” snapped List, “we got some idiot riding his ATV out in the rain. On my property. People think they can come out here four-wheeling or horseback riding. Pisses me off.”
“Do you need me to take care of this … situation?” Demonio’s voice whispered like a snake through tall weeds. How easy it would be to fillet this vermin … But not yet.
“No.” List shot him an angry look. “I’m going to my Tech Room and take a gander at the monitors to see what this fool is doing. Dawlsen should be showing up soon. Make sure things are ready for him.”
On his way out, List slammed the door behind him. Demonio stood, brushed imaginary lint off the front of his black shirt and returned his empty glass to List’s desk. He meandered over to the window and peered out.
In the window’s reflection, he watched the girl. She glanced at List’s desk and flipped her gaze back to him. A humorless smile passed across Demonio’s face. This one wants to kill me. The strength of the Skinwalker started to swell within him.
Wheeling, he pounced on the girl, grabbing her by the throat. One-handed, he lifted her from the floor. She grabbed his arm and kicked at his shins, but to no avail. Demonio’s gazed pierced her. Her eyes grew big with fright. She gasped for breath.
“Listen to me,” Demonio said in a snarl. “I must leave for several minutes. I want you to stay in this room. Comprendido?”
She nodded the fraction of an inch his grasp permitted. He let go, and she collapsed to the floor, gasping and rubbing her damaged throat. An aching sob escaped her lips as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Don’t screw with me,” he warned her and slipped out of the room.
<><><><><><><><><><>
When the door clicked shut behind Demonio, Amalia suspended her tears and snorted a derisive laugh. She made him believe she cried like a weak little muchacha. Que idiota! Because of her pervertido uncle, she had learned how to cut and shuffle with men’s inherent stupidity regarding women. She swiped the faked wetness off her cheeks. In rapid Spanish, she muttered curses upon men. But, this Demonio’s something else … not quite human. A monstruo.
Amalia’s gaze turned to the door. Demonio’s absence offered freedom. Maybe my only chance. Yet, if he caught her leaving, he’d kill her without reservation. She had witnessed his cold murderous rage at the cave. And overheard his murderous threats against others. Besides, he was going to kill her anyway.
She tiptoed over to the door and listened. No sounds. Cracking it open, she peered into the hallway. No one. Now’s your chance. Correr.
But she had two things to do before she escaped this crazy casa. She tiptoed to the desk and snatched the sword-like letter opener from the cut-glass penholder. She scratched several long lines into the desk’s surface. Then she plunged the letter opener into the chair’s leather backing and dragged it through the material. Now, time to find those two girls and escape with them. The uninjured one had been kind to her. Now she could return the favor.
The steely glint of determination crossed her face. Besides, I need an English speaker.
She stepped into the hallway and eased the door closed.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Sheriff Anne Oakmann peered over Agent Clark’s shoulder, staring at the agent’s 17” monitor on her laptop. Two dozen video feeds from List’s house played on the screen.
She watched as DePute immersed himself into his role of ATV junkie playing in the rain. The treacherous hills in the background were mere gray phantoms.
One feed showed List exiting his office and heading down the hall until he was out of the camera’s range. Her stomach knotted. That man had caused law enforcement untold problems while evading prosecution for the last fifteen years. Slick pony-tailed lawyers always managed to get him off on technicalities. She was tired of him trampling over the people in her jurisdiction. .
Another feed revealed six armed men exiting the house headed towards the back lot.
Anne pointed at the feed, and Clark nodded.
DePute’s voice came over the radio. “This is Rider. Eye, tell me what you see. What’s going on?”
“Rider,” said Clark, “this is Eye. You have six barking dogs headed your way. They just exited the north side of the dog pound. Over.”
“Roger that.”
Rye’s voice crackled over the radio. “Rider, this is Crawler One. We are in position. I repeat. We are in position. Over.”
“Roger,” crackled DePute’s voice. “Time to find the backdoor. Over.”
The radios went silent in the dispatch room. Everyone crowded around Clark’s monitor to watch the events unfold.
Anne snapped her fingers. “I can put two horsemen on that ranch in half an hour. Give or take. Mostly give. We’ll miss the opening of the dance, but we can get there to mop up any wallflowers.”
She bounced looks between the federal agents. She held out her hand. “I can take the warrants so no lawyer screws us out of a conviction.”
“Do it.” Agent Clark leaned forward. “I will inform our team there will be backup. But they are to proceed as planned.” She looked at her watch. “Our window to capture List and Amo is beginning to close.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye motioned for his group to follow him. They had hidden their vehicles on a muddy trail in a thicket of red barked madroño trees and pine-oaks a half-mile back. Crouched in a single file, guns at the ready, they crowded the fence line to List’s property.
“Careful,” he called over his shoulder to his officers behind him. He nodded at a sign on the fence. “We have an electric fence. Knowing List, it’s hot.”
He studied the desert inside the fence and an uneasiness nagged Rye’s thoughts. Though dotted with various acacia trees and some hackberry, the landscape exposed him and his people to List’s scrutiny. They had no knowledge of what they faced inside List’s house. How well armed were they? How many? But his wife and son were in danger, and nothing else mattered. Urgency forced him into playing this hand, no matter the cards dealt him.
Dee,
hold on, babe. I’m coming for ya.
Waterfalls of rainwater poured off his helmet and soaked him. Winds drove the relentless rain into his face. Yet the discomfort only added to his resolute determination.
A dead tree, unable to withstand the storm, had toppled over, crushing the barbed wire and providing a route over the fence. A treacherous access, especially with the buffeting winds, but an access nonetheless.
“Eye, we found means to infiltrate the fence.”
“Roger. Proceed with caution.”
Easy for you to say. You don’t have to cross this live electric fence lying in a growing pool of water.
Clark spoke again, “Wait, Crawler One. Voice has an urgent message for you.”
What’s Gabby want now?
“Crawler One this is Ga … uh … Voice. The Yuma ME office just faxed us an update on our ME shooting. It appears the bullet they extracted from his … from him was fired from the gun of someone we know.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Barend Jilt.”
Rye whistled. This just keeps getting better and better.
<><><><><><><><><><>
“Mom.”
The voice of a child whispered into her ear. The child sounded … scared. Why? A hand on the shoulder shook her. Dee did not want to leave the comfort of the darkness. Her skull throbbed, and when she tried to talk, her jaw exploded in hot pain.
“Mom.”
Still hushed but more urgent. She knew that voice. Who? With a shock jolting her to consciousness, she recognized the voice. Manny.
“Mo-om, wake up.” The hand on her shoulder gripped her tighter and shook harder. Dee opened her eyes to a lighter darkness.
“Manny … where …” her voice croaked. She touched the side of her swollen face.
“The bad men brought us here. It’s by the house. It’s a stable, I think. But there aren’t any horses around.”
She wanted to reach out and hug the fear out of him. Then she remembered. “The others?”
“They’re in the stall next to us.”
Dee rolled over on her back, mostly to escape the dank rotting smell of the ripened straw, dirt, and manure filling her nostrils with every breath. A moan escaped from deep in her throat.