by Gavin Reese
“No knocks, got it!” Alex’s cell phone rang, and he retrieved and answered it without breaking stride. “Whaddaya need, Jay?”
“Good to hear your voice, just hoped you were okay enough to answer. You good? Anything else me and D-P-S can take on for you?”
“Yeah, McDougal got shot and transported to surgery. He was alive when they left, but we don’t have any updates on him. Can you and your boys notify his wife and get her over to the hospital? I’ll text you her info in a few. Make sure they know he’s a combat vet, and that his wife gets whatever she needs.”
“Holy shit, Alex, is the shooter still outstanding?”
“Yeah,” he replied while still running, “and we’re gonna get him identified quick. I’ll make sure you know as soon as I do.”
“Copy that. I’ll send some West-side units to the wife’s address. Damned glad you made it out in one piece, brother! Let me know what else you need.”
With that, Alex disconnected the call and quickened his pace.
Eighty-Two
Northeast of US Port of Entry. Lukeville, Arizona.
Special Operations Supervisor Ernesto Fuentes careened his dusty, white-and-green United States Border Patrol crewcab truck along a rocky, undeveloped road. In a dire hurry to meet with two of his agents and their detainee, Fuentes frequently alternated between rapid acceleration and urgent braking. The smell of overheated rubber and ceramic brake pads permeated the cabin, and Fuentes swore nearly every time he jammed on the brakes to avoid a previously unforeseen obstacle in front of him. This road’s barely a fuckin’ Jeep trail!!
“Fuck!!” Fuentes broke hard and swerved right to dodge a downed Palo Verde tree that blocked most of the desert trail. As he pushed the wheel back hard left, the truck’s rear tires lost traction, and its rear-end broke loose on the rocky desert soil and swung forward as the truck turned slightly sideways. “Come on, pendejo, vamanos!” He anxiously watched a stout Palo Verde tree looming nearly dead center in the Ford’s lateral trajectory. Well aware he no longer had time to brake and avoid the imminent collision, Fuentes stomped on the accelerator, turned the steering wheel back slightly right to direct the truck just left of the large, unforgiving tree, and prayed the four-wheel-drive would save him. Almost instantly, the front tires caught on a prolonged, stable stretch of exposed granite, which propelled the rear tires back in line with the front and realigned the truck with his intended vector.
“Ay, Dios mio, that’s my big beautiful baby!” Despite his present abuse, Fuentes loved his truck for having never left him stuck in the Arizona desert, and he started every shift with a small prayer that his present un-stranded streak would continue. Intimately familiar with the area to which he responded, Fuentes knew the crime scene lay only about four hundred yards away and just over the next rise. Now well within a quarter-mile, Fuentes eased off the accelerator and slowed his overburdened rig. Just as he topped the hill, he looked down into the slight valley and found two USBP trucks parked near an old, broken-down single cab pickup. While descending the small hill, Fuentes saw the scene lay before him as he expected, with the old truck stuck in a narrow, tree-lined wash and his two agents standing over a white male, whom they had handcuffed and seated in a narrow band of shade provided by one of the USBP truck bed toppers.
Fuentes slowed further, which required him to press the brake pedal nearly to the floor. The massive dust trail following him overtook his truck and assaulted the three men now only a few yards in front of his bumper. He tossed off his sweat-and-dust stained seatbelt, watched the dust cloud pass over his agents and the detained driver, and waited for the bulk of its misery to pass. Finally opening the door into the triple-digit heat, Fuentes stepped into the dry, silty air and strode toward his men.
“Thanks for the dirt bath, boss,” Morales, one of his agents, sarcastically offered.
“De nada, you said to hurry, so, I hurried,” Fuentes replied before spitting on the ground to clear the quickly accumulated dust from his mouth. Sweat rings already stained the neck and underarms of his olive-drab green uniform shirt; looking at his digital watch, he saw it read 11:15:42. Damn, he thought, it’s too early in the day to already be this messy. Turning his attention back to the scene, Fuentes took a long look at the handcuffed suspect. “Who the fuck is this?”
“He’s the one that set off the ground sensors. Says he was alone, and we didn’t find any sign in the area to suggest otherwise.” Morales spit, but didn’t bother to turn his head away from the detainee. “We were out here jus’ talkin’ to ‘im when the hit came back.”
“The hit off the BOLO?”
“Yep.” Morales spit again.
“So, he confirm his identity?”
“Yep. William ‘Billy’ McDougal.”
Eighty-Three
Dry Creek Investigations Bureau. Dry Creek, Arizona.
"Good news, Landon, we caught another break," Berkshire announced as he strode into the medium-sized, stereotypically tan cubicle. Alex would normally have welcomed the interruption to his typing, but “normal” didn’t accurately describe his composition efforts at that moment. He stopped typing and looked up from his interrupted efforts to digitally compose the Search Warrant and Affidavit forms necessary to forcibly enter and search properties associated with members of The Chosen Few. Berkshire continued as though unaware of his distraction. "Dispatch got the BOLO out about an hour ago, and Border Patrol agents already grabbed Billy McDougal. One of their guys just called dispatch and, in his words, ‘Billy’s gonna get stitches.’ Sounds like he started singing before they could even drop him in the back of their truck."
"Border Patrol? I figured M-C-S-O’s deputies would turn his rock over. Where did they find him?
"Just a few miles north of Mexico. Apparently, young Billy got up this morning, saw the news, and decided he needed to become a Mexican citizen. The agent told me he was headed south through the desert and set off some of their electronic sensors, so a couple agents went out to intercept thinking it might be a money-and-guns load for the cartels. He tried to run from 'em, but the chase only lasted about a quarter-mile until he got stuck in a narrow wash."
"Damn, that is a lucky break. As porous as the Border is, he could've slipped into Mexico and prolonged this thing for months, maybe years."
"Yeah, so, they didn’t ask him any questions, initially, and had just planned on holding him for us, but he started making spontaneous statements. They just let him talk, at first, anyway. After he wouldn’t stop running his mouth, the senior agent went ahead and read Miranda, and then started asking basic questions about why we had the BOLO out for him. Agents said he brought up the American Bank Tower bomb plot without being asked about it, but initially denied he had anything to do with it, and claimed to know nothing about it. That bullshit only lasted until they confronted him with how Jonathan was involved. I guess the agent led him to believe one of Billy’s associates might’ve killed Jonathan at the Tower, and Billy completely changed his tune. He's apparently doing a written statement now, but the agent who called said Billy admitted he originally tried to help The Chosen Few by stealing Jonathan's I-E-D manual, but denied ever intending to frame his brother. Said Jonathan was never involved and had no idea what T-C-F was doing. Said over and over again that Jonathan had no knowledge or actual involvement with The Chosen Few or their crimes."
Alex leaned back in his chair, surprised at the revelation of Billy's unexpected loyalty. "So, he gave up The Chosen Few to save Jonathan's reputation?"
"Despite professing a, uh, recently abandoned, devotion to The Chosen Few, the agent told me Billy said he loved and respected Jonathan more than he hated the federal government, and that he couldn't live with himself if he and T-C-F tarnished his brother's memory by allowing him to be painted as a domestic terrorist. He even said he didn’t feel like a snitch because T-C-F turned their back on him first."
"That is a surprise. Blood's thicker’n water, after all?"
; "Seems that way. He wanted assurances from the agent that Jonathan’s name would not be sullied and he's asked for help to make sure Jonathan gets buried in Arlington."
"Damn, let's hope it doesn't come to that. Any word on his condition?"
"No, nothing, so I assume there's no change. Phoenix P-D detectives are gonna call with any news, but I expect it'll be hours before they do. Bad news comes fast in these things, so no news really is good news at this point. The longer he’s in surgery, the better his chances of survival. If he’s too bad off, the docs aren’t gonna take time to do all the detail work, they’ll fix the big stuff, sew him up, and hope for the best."
"Do you really think Billy’ll roll on The Chosen Few when this goes to trial, or you think he'll just keep the blame off Jonathan?"
“Dunno. Snitches get stitches, though, and he’s gonna have to give up a goddamned lot of important, verifiable info before the A-D-A will consider putting him in witness protection. Wouldn’t surprise me to find him in shallow desert grave about six months from now.”
“Snitches are a dying breed.”
"He might actually be willing to testify, though, Border Patrol said he's already signed a consent form to search his property, and they're gonna fax it over with his statement as soon as it's finished. They said he signed consent-to-search forms for his truck and his trailer, but the truck's a done deal because he was arrested from it." Berkshire paused and smirked. "He didn't totally abandon his principles, though, because his only demand so far has been to make sure he doesn't get a ‘fuckin' Jew lawyer,’ to use his words. How're the warrants coming?"
"Almost done with the affidavit for Ned Foster’s place. Chris and I were up surveilling it ourselves a few days ago, so I can provide firsthand knowledge of that place and good faith hearsay from Agent Williams about Foster's criminal association--"
"Foster?"
"Yeah, Ned Foster, the guy who went by 'Cleveland.'”
“Okay, right, the place on 411th.”
“Yep, but, the other property, the one up on Sunvalley Parkway, the only affiliation we have to the property up there is through Jonathan's statements, so I'm gonna have to spend a bit more time writing that one. It's gonna need a lot more to explain how we have that guy tied to The Chosen Few.'
"And, if Jonathan doesn’t make it or can’t testify, you’re gonna have nothing.” Berkshire appeared concerned about that possible outcome. “You need any help with background info on the owner, John Bennett?”
"No, he comes back clean as far as I can tell. He must've just managed to stay off the radar. Our SWAT team is set up watching the Foster place, and Buckeye SWAT has eyes on Bennett’s. Sergeant Templeton texted me about ten ago that there’s been no movement at either location and they’re just waiting for me to get these warrants signed to kick the doors in.”
"Lemme know if there's something I can do,” Berkshire offered as he checked his watch.
“Yeah, actually, you can grab Billy’s statements when they come off the fax, and follow up with him by phone if we need to corroborate our probable cause for Foster’s place, and maybe get something to help clearly establish P-C for Bennett’s.”
Lieutenant Dobbins walked into Alex’s cubicle, which immediately struck max capacity for the relatively small space. “Hey, so Hansen just called. Phoenix P-D Bomb Squad finally disabled the device inside that gold Alero and he and the Phoenix detectives just finished searching it. He said there was a damning amount of evidence against Joe Degliani, that fat security guard? But Hansen said he had already interrogated Degliani and run his cell phone records. Degliani has a rock solid, continuous alibi for the last, like, five days, so it looks like this ‘Reggie’ imposter was hoping to frame him as a locally-radicalized Islamic terrorist.”
“That’s good news for Degliani,” Alex offered. “Did Hansen find anything to help I-D who this guy really is?”
“No, crime techs are sweeping the car for prints and taking D-N-A swabs for touch transfer, but there’s nothing so far. No documents, no phones, nothing that doesn’t have Degliani’s name on it.”
“Damn. D-N-A’ll take time.” Alex didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
“Yeah, days, certainly,” Berkshire interjected, “but this’ll get pushed up to the front of the line. Especially after the F-B-I steps in. Every lab tech will be solely devoted to this case as soon as those swabs land.” Berkshire’s confidence did little to assuage Alex’s emotions.
“Ron, can you call that Border Patrol agent back, and see if they have the gear there to dump Billy’s phone?”
“Sure, Landon, it’s anybody’s guess how long it’ll take ‘em to do that, though, even if it’s in the same building.”
Dobbins stepped in before Alex could respond. “I’m the only cop in Dry Creek without a current assignment, Ron. If they can’t get that done in the next hour, tell ‘em I’ll drive down and pick it up. Just make sure they get the consent form and the password, and shout at me if I need to haul ass south.
“Alex,” he continued, “lemme know if you need anything else from me. I’ll be in my office waiting on the response from Border Patrol. This might end up being my longest code-run.”
“Lukeville’s like, a hundred-and-twenty miles, L-T. Where the hell did you go lights-and-sirens that’s even close to that?” Alex’s smirk and tone clearly revealed his disbelief.
“Well, I guess I stand corrected. It’ll be a close second to the Yuma run. What was that one, Ron?”
“One-forty-nine, on the dot.” Ron smiled at the memory and shared a knowing look with his supervisor. “One-forty-nine at one-forty-nine.”
“That’s right, it was exactly an hour, wasn’t it?”
Eighty-Four
411th Avenue/Tonopah-Salome Highway. Tonopah, Arizona.
“Zulu-One, we’re one minute out,” Sergeant Templeton said into his tactical microphone to communicate to the second armored vehicle, and his containment personnel therein, “say again, one minute out. Godspeed.”
“Zulu-Two, we copy Zulu-One, one minute. Godspeed,” came the response from Zulu-Two, his Assistant Team Leader.
“Sierra-One, copy.”
“Sierra-Three, copy. Overwatch in place. No movement.”
Templeton always felt confident relief knowing both of his two-man sniper teams were in place well before his containment and entry personnel arrived on-scene. Especially true today, considering he expected the team’s armor to be exposed for the duration of their entry along the driveway into the isolated desert property.
“One minute out, gentlemen, one minute out!!” Sergeant Templeton yelled to the ten SWAT operators and two armed tactical medics immediately present with him inside Dry Creek Police Department’s larger, primary armored vehicle.
“ONE MINUTE!” The twelve-voice chorus responded in near unison as they had done hundreds of times before.
Eighty-Five
Ned “Cleveland” Foster’s residence. Tonopah, Arizona.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?” The fear and surprise evident in Mikey’s voice immediately tore Cleveland’s attention from the late-morning news broadcast, which had been entirely devoted to the chaos in downtown Phoenix and, in the absence of facts, had been filled with pontification and hyperbole. Cleveland rose from his dilapidated recliner and hustled toward the other end of the trailer.
“What, Mikey? You see something new on this American Bank bombing? They already grab some ragheaded fuck and string him up?”
“FUCK NO, MAN, IT’S THE COPS!”
The statement filled Cleveland’s heart with terror, and he feared his suspicions were coming true. “COPS?! WHERE?!”
“FUCK! HERE! SWAT TEAM’S COMIN’ UP THE DRIVEWAY, RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!”
Cleveland entered the bedroom and immediately saw two olive-drab-green armored trucks lumbering as fast as the rough, rocky driveway would reasonably allow, which meant they moved no more than a few miles an hour.
�
��What the fuck’re they doin’ here, Cleveland?!” Paul’s voice came from the back of the small room opposite the monitor; he had shrunk so far into that corner that Cleveland hadn’t noticed the man as he entered the room. “We had nuthin’ to do with that!”
Cleveland shifted his gaze from Paul, back to the monitors, and then to Mikey. A growing pit emerged in Cleveland’s stomach as he mulled the likely cause of the SWAT team’s presence. He watched Mikey’s expression quickly erode to shock and terror as his subordinate must have read his own uncontrollable expression.
“Right? Cleveland?!” Mikey’s voice rose as adrenaline clearly coursed through his veins. “We didn’t, did we?!”
“Nobody never said nuthin’ about bombin’ no fuckin’ building!” Paul chimed in from the corner as though he and Mikey shared the same thought process.
Cleveland’s mind spun as he fought to understand the situation at hand, and decide how to best address it. After a prolonged, anxious pause between the three men, Cleveland slowly reached a shaky right hand down to the textured grips of his .45-caliber 1911 handgun and slowly, unsteadily, withdrew it from the holster on his right hip.
“Cleveland! What’re you doin’, man, there’s only three of us, ‘n a whole fuckin’ SWAT team out there!!”
“I suggest you boys follow my lead, and do exactly what I’m gonna do.” Cleveland mustered all the calm he could, but his hands, and thereby the .45, shook and betrayed his wishes.
“CLEVELAND! They’ll cut us down like dogs, man!!”
As Cleveland turned away from his followers and toward the front doorway, he saw the vehicles reach the end of the driveway and turn north toward his home. He walked from the bedroom to the front door of the trailer, and stopped just before he reached the open threshold. A loudspeaker began issuing commands from outside.
“OCCUPANTS INSIDE THE TRAILER! THIS IS THE DRY CREEK POLICE DEPARTMENT SWAT TEAM! YOU ARE SURROUNDED! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEADS AND OBEY COMMANDS!”