Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Seventy-One

  Landon residence. Dry Creek, Arizona.

  Landon started the matte-black police Charger before the automatic garage door finished rising. Come on, come on! As soon as the door finally slid above the car’s roofline, Landon dropped the transmission into reverse and used the car’s installed police radio to communicate with DCPD dispatchers. “David-33, show me In-Service, and En-Route to downtown Phoenix with J-T-T-F.” No need to broadcast further detail that some asshole reporter could intercept with an encoded scanner. Despite his normal efforts to keep his employment hidden from the immediate neighborhood, Alex jammed the emergency lights and sirens on immediately after the Charger’s tires rolled onto the asphalt below his driveway. Landon knew rush hour speeds on eastbound I-10 would average less than forty miles-per-hour and that Reggie had a thirty-mile drive into downtown Phoenix, so he instead elected to speed down Maricopa County Road 85, which paralleled I-10 a mile to the south. The four-lane highway would allow him to bypass slow traffic and average far greater speeds until it dropped him at 7th Avenue just south of downtown Phoenix. Landon figured Reggie had a ten- or fifteen-minute head start, so, whenever possible, he pushed the Hemi beyond reasonable speed limits and prayed for help to keep the Charger grounded while weaving through pockets of dense morning traffic to make up time and distance.

  Scorching through the empty four-way stop at Jackrabbit Trail, Alex rotated his sun visor forward and down to combat the low morning sun. In doing so, the Saint Michael Police Officer Prayer card hooked under the vanity mirror’s edge caught his eye. Despite his Protestant upbringing, Alex had held onto that card since his academy graduation and devoted its words to memory. Now’s as good a time as any to seek Divine intervention, he thought, and recited the prayer aloud against a backdrop of wailing police siren, intermittent obscenities, and screeching tires as he accelerated, broke, and wove eastward.

  “Saint Michael, Heaven’s Glorious Commissioner of Police, who once so neatly and successfully cleared God’s premises of all its undesirables, look with kindly and professional eye on your earthly force. Fucker, MOVE!” Alex swerved around a slow-moving Toyota Corolla that refused to yield to his lights and siren or move from the left lane, and blared the Charger’s air horn as he accelerated past the obtuse driver.

  HARRRRRR

  “Give us cool heads, stout hearts, hard punches, and an uncanny flair for investigation and wise judgment. Make us the terror of burglars, the friend of children and law-abiding citizens, kind to strangers, polite to bores, strict with law-breakers, and impervious to temptations. You know, Saint Michael,” he paused to swerve into empty oncoming lanes to avoid uncooperative vehicles, “from your own experiences with the devil that the policeman’s lot on earth is not always a happy one.” Alex activated the Charger’s low-frequency rumbler device, which mildly shook the cars and drivers around him as he broke hard for a red light and waited briefly for opposing traffic to stop and let him through. “But your sense of duty that so pleased God,” he jumped back on the accelerator once the intersection cleared for him to do so, “your hard knocks that so surprised the devil, and your angelic self-control give us inspiration.” As traffic ahead slowed and merged right as they were supposed to do, Alex further mashed the gas pedal down and pushed the Charger hard to try to beat Reggie to American Bank Tower. “And when we lay down our nightsticks, enroll us in your Heavenly Force, where we will be as proud to guard the throne of God as we have been to guard the city of men.” If there’s ever been a day I need you on my side, God, this is it. “Amen.”

  Seventy-Two

  Interstate-10/35th Avenue. Phoenix, Arizona.

  Davis had driven west to the I-10/Loop 101 interchange before turning back east and weaving through traffic on I-10 to find the Alero. Maneuvering through the morning rush hour, he found a surprising number of tan Aleros that had different license plates and different drivers than his intended target. As he passed under 35th Avenue, Davis merged into the far left lane to get around a patch of slower traffic and saw a tan Alero accelerate up the 27th Avenue off-ramp four lanes south of him and directly right of his unmarked police cruiser. He saw the white male driver wore a light blue security shirt and he slowed to look at the license plate, but could only identify the first half of it, which read ‘410.’ Davis jammed on his lights, siren, and brakes, and attempted to forcibly merge right through the slow, congested traffic. He had to exit immediately to stop the Alero, but the densely packed freeway had the two travel lanes to his right completely stopped and initially prevented him from exiting. By the time Davis finally arrived at the top of the off-ramp, the Alero had disappeared onto 27th Avenue.

  Davis recognized he had no indication of where the target vehicle had gone. Despite Landon’s assumption the driver was headed toward American Bank Tower, he knew the driver’s intended parking destination would determine which of the number of available routes would best deliver him downtown from that intersection. Davis shut off the emergency lights and siren to avoid encouraging the Alero’s driver to flee and used the radio to notify his squadmates of the vehicle’s approximate location and possible destination.

  “Charlie-5-16, Squad 5. That target vehicle just exited eastbound I-10 at 27th Avenue, unknown direction of travel from that off-ramp.”

  As he sped south toward Van Buren Street, Davis had to face the tough question with Alex. There’s no doubt this could be a ‘Broken Arrow,’ but it’d be easier if it comes from Landon, he thought.

  Davis called Landon’s cell three times, but it rang and went to voicemail. This is why I get paid the big bucks, he sarcastically thought. He picked up his police radio mic, grimaced, and already regretted what he knew had to be done.

  “Charlie-5-16, emergency traffic.”

  “Go ahead, Charlie-5-16.” The dispatcher’s calming tone always inspired confidence. Things were never really that bad if the dispatcher could remain calm.

  “Charlie-5-16, I need a statewide BOLO broadcast for an older tan Oldsmobile Alero four-door sedan, Arizona license plate 4-1-0-John-Sam-Tom. Driver is a white male, possibly named Reggie Page, wanted for questioning by Dry Creek PD detectives, break.” He paused and swallowed to send his stomach back south, but had to quickly return to the air before his dispatcher started parroting his BOLO. “Charlie-5-16, back, he is believed to be armed with an unknown explosive device, possibly an I-E-D. Last seen in the area of 27th Avenue and I-10, possibly headed into downtown Phoenix and American Bank Tower. Over.” His radio fell eerily silent for several seconds before anyone came back on. Davis assumed that all nearby DPS cars were lighting up and descending on the downtown Phoenix business district, but, at that moment, he felt awfully exposed and alone.

  “Charlie-5-16, radio, we, uh, we copy, BOLO will be sent on, to, um, Phoenix PD, and, uh, everyone else.” Fuck me, the dispatcher’s shook up, he thought, bad news, Jay, bad news.

  Seventy-Three

  7th Avenue/Maricopa County Road 85. Phoenix, Arizona.

  Detective Alex Landon’s cell phone rang just as he turned off MC85 onto northbound 7th Avenue to make his final jaunt to American Bank Tower. He saw Rudiger called, and knew he had to answer it. “Landon.”

  “What the FUCK, Landon? What have you done?!”

  “Sir?” I need more details than that to address my potential fuck-ups today.

  “The statewide BOLO for your bombing suspect!!” Sergeant Rudiger yelled into the phone loud enough that Landon had to pull it away from his right ear as he drove. “Dispatch and the Chief’s office are getting bombarded with phone calls from other agencies, news outlets, scared citizens, about a statewide BOLO D-P-S put out on our behalf for a suspect loose in downtown Phoenix with a bomb. You know who was most surprised by that, behind the Chief, L-T, and me? Yeah, fuckin’ Phoenix PD, that’s who, they really would’ve liked to know that was coming! How did D-P-S blame us for initiating this search, anyway?!”

  “Sir, I gave their guys the info and
asked for their help to find him. They must have lost him or assumed he couldn’t be found in time.” Alex continued his aggressive driving despite having to answer Rudiger’s inquiries. He expertly manipulated the vehicle’s lights and alternating sirens while Verbal Judo’ing Rudiger on his cell phone and maneuvering through the dense morning traffic.

  “Out-fuckin-standing work this morning, Landon, you cluster-fucked the whole day before 8am, congratulations!”

  “Sir, I think the whole thing is pretty reasonable and precautionary, and I think D-P-S just saved a lot of lives.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a program for that. You’re not the one who has to answer to reporters about their breaking news coverage carrying the BOLO and equating this guy to another potential 9-11 attack.” Rudiger paused, and his tone receded considerably. “You’ve put way too much trust in McDougal and I think he’s playing you. Now, he just got you to play all the cops and potential jurors in Phoenix.”

  “Sorry, Sarge, but I’m just pulling up to American Bank Tower, I have to go. I’ll get back to you when I know more.”

  “I hope you’re wrong, Landon, because I don’t want to see another bombing on American soil, but I also pray to God you’re right on this, because if a Phoenix cop screws his Glock into this guy’s temple off your bad BOLO and he’s innocent, we’re all fucked.” The call abruptly disconnected as though Rudiger had hung up on him.

  “Well, that went well.” Alex parked on the east sidewalk along Central Avenue south of Van Buren Street. He exited the sedan and left the engine and emergency lights running, popped open the remote-activated rear door, and retrieved his department issued M4 carbine from a gunlock concealed behind the driver’s seat. Alex walked away from the Charger and pressed another button on the key fob that remotely closed and locked all the doors, stowed the fob in his left front pants pocket, and then slightly pulled back on his M4’s charging handle to reveal the shiny brass of an already-chambered 5.56 round. Alex held the rifle in his right hand, used his left to slam the bottom of the magazine to ensure it seated properly, and then lifted the attached single-point sling over his head and right shoulder. With the rifle and car secured, Alex ran toward the west entrance to find the security guards he hoped were seated at the marble-covered desk just inside the doorway.

  Alex saw the morning rush of American Bank employees took immediate notice of his Charger and its bright red-and-blue police lights parked on their sidewalk, as well as the sight of him running into their lobby with a rifle and black tactical vest adorned with POLICE placards and a half-dozen rifle magazines. Most were wary enough to step aside and give him room to run, but Millennials who didn’t look up from their smart phones or remove their earbuds forced Alex to haphazardly weave through the mass of humanity.

  Grateful the uncooperative SSH Security sergeant wasn’t at the desk that morning, Alex approached the two guards working there. He saw the same young, fit guard seated alongside a heavyset white male in his early-thirties. Just as last time, the younger man again saw Alex and his rapid approach first, which immediately perked him up and prompted him to more closely examine the crowded lobby between them. Alex thought the fat man looked tired just watching him run.

  While displaying his badge and credentials, Alex again introduced himself. “Detective Landon, Dry Creek PD. I need to know where Reggie is.” He saw the heavy male roughly matched Jonathan McDougal’s previous description of Reggie, and that he wore a nametag that read ‘R. Degliani.’ “Are you Reggie?” Alex instinctively tightened his grip on the M4’s pistol- and forend in anticipation the fat man may pose an immediate, lethal threat.

  “Hell, no, I’m Rocky.” Alex looked to the younger man, who nodded ‘no’ as though confirming the man was not Reggie.

  “Okay, Rocky, do you have some ID to prove that?”

  Alex heard his police radio chirp in his left ear. “David 33, call dispatch.” The dispatcher’s tone of voice revealed her annoyance. Realizing the earpiece kept the guards from hearing the radio announcement, Alex held up his right index finger as politely as possible.

  “David-33, you’ll have to stand by about 5.” He released the mic and returned his attention to the guards. “If you’re not him, then where’s Reggie?”

  The guards looked at each other as R. Degliani handed over a driver license and spoke first. “Ain’t here.”

  “What time does he come in?”

  “David-33.” Another index finger to announce another delay in his questioning.

  “David-33, go ahead.” Now he grew annoyed.

  “David-33, you can cancel the call to dispatch and call Lincoln-4 direct, who advises he better not have to wait five minutes.” Alex knew the dispatcher would later hear from her supervisor about relaying Lieutenant Dobbins’ order in such a direct and condescending manner, even if only from him.

  “David-33, copy.” He released the mic and continued speaking with the guards. “Sorry, when does he get here?”

  Rocky flipped through a sizeable stack of papers on a clipboard that had been concealed behind the large desk, and found his desired sheet only a few in. “Doesn’t, not for another four days. He’s just a part-time fill-in, so he’s not here all that often. Not surprised to see cops looking for him, though, that guy is creepy as all get-out.”

  This news surprised Alex, which somewhat ebbed his trust in Jonathan. Maybe Reggie was working at another site?? Maybe American Bank Tower wasn’t the target?? Maybe there was never any target and Jonathan did play me. “Do you know where he parks when he does come to work?”

  “No, I don’t think he had a car until he bought my Alero a few weeks back. I did see him park it over by Washington and Central right after I sold it, and I remember because he was still driving around with my plates on it. I knew I should never have let that cheapskate keep those plates.”

  “You’re Joe Degliani, the Alero’s registered owner?”

  “Yeah, but everybody calls me Rocky.”

  “Do you know if Reggie works at any other buildings in the--”

  “Wait, I think that might be him.” The younger guard, whose name tag read T. McNealy, rolled his desk chair closer to the bank of camera monitors hidden from Landon’s view behind the desk. Landon slid around the outside of the open desk to join McNealy. “There, in the southeast stairwell at 22, a light blue uniform shirt caught my eye. Should be coming back into view on the next floor.”

  “No, not right now, because there are no working cameras anywhere on 23. He has to go to 24 before you’ll pick him up again.” Rocky spoke with the air of someone who had clearly spent a lot of hours looking at the bank of monitors.

  “David-33, dispatch, please call Lincoln-4 immediately.”

  “David-41, radio,” Berkshire’s voice broadcast before Alex had a chance to respond to the request, “I copy that last for 33 and I’ll call Lincoln-4 on his behalf.”

  “David-41, thank you for your help. Can you please call dispatch after Lincoln-4?”

  “41, copy.” Alex reminded himself to thank Berkshire for helping put out the fires erupting around him this morning, and elected to deal with the matter in front of him instead of following normal radio protocol and clear the air to tell dispatch that he, also, heard their transmissions. “Can you back up the footage so we can see what you saw?” Alex’s faith in Jonathan’s allegations flowed back toward credible, but he still needed to see that the man in question was, in fact, Reggie, and not some other, unknown entity.

  “Yessir, give me a second.” McNealy retrieved a keyboard slung under the desk in a fold-away tray, and began alternately typing commands and manipulating the mouse to bring up the saved footage from that specific camera.

  “Why aren’t the cameras working on 23?”

  Rocky looked at Alex and spoke as McNealy operated the computer. “It’s under construction, a total renovation. It’s down to the studs and girders in there. Only the freight elevator will even stop on that floor and you ha
ve to have one of our security key rings to get onto 23 through the stairwell doors. Building managers don’t want anybody getting’ hurt up there or stealing construction equipment or tools.”

  “It’ll be up in just another few seconds.” McNealy stayed focused on the computer while Rocky spoke to Alex and let the younger man do all the work.

  “So, anyway, there was a water leak in a couple places on 24 last week, which killed the only two stairwell cameras on the floor beneath it. Been dark ever since, supposed to be fixed next week some time.”

  “K, we’re up.” McNealy scooted back from the desk, and Alex and Rocky moved closer to the main screen. “He will be coming into view…right…there.” He pointed to the light blue uniform shirt with what looked like an SSH Security shoulder patch, but the man wearing it didn’t look like Reggie Page.

  “I don’t know who that is, or why they’re there, but that ain’t Reggie.” Alex heard disbelief in Rocky’s voice, and saw concern spreading across McNealy’s face.

  “Are you sure?” An escalating sense of regret began overtaking Alex. “I need you to be sure.” And so does my enraged lieutenant, he thought.

  “Well, I can’t tell you the guy’s name or his schlong size, but I can tell you Reggie has short salt-and-pepper hair and that guy’s got brown hair and almost a mullet. He looks like…well…”

  “You.” McNealy answered for him. “He looks like you, Rocky. Did you notice the backpack?”

  “No, back it up again.” Rocky and Alex both leaned in closer to try for a better look at the rewound footage. “Sonuvuhbitch, that looks like my medic pack.”