Wind River Lawman

by Lindsay McKenna

  “Yeah. I see a car on the berm about half a mile ahead. I thought you said it was a rollover accident?”

  “That’s what Dispatch was told by the driver who called 911.” She eased off the accelerator, starting to coast, eyes narrowing. There was a dark burgundy van, an older one, maybe a Toyota at first glance. Frowning, she said, “That van looks to be in perfectly good condition, as if it’s never been in an accident.”

  “That van isn’t a rollover. It’s got no dents along the side panel nearest the highway and the top isn’t crushed in either. And all four tires are still inflated. You wouldn’t necessarily see that in a rollover. Usually one or more are blown by the impact.”

  The hair on her neck stood up. They were within a quarter of a mile of the vehicle.

  “The hood is up. Two men are standing on the ditch side, below the berm, but I can barely see them,” he added.

  She appreciated his attention to detail. “This doesn’t feel right,” she muttered, starting to brake.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Before Sarah could speak, three men rushed from the hidden side of the van, all sporting AR-15s and firing directly at them. Bullets smashed into the windshield, thunked along the top of the vehicle, ripping and peeling back the metal. Glass shattered into thousands of glittering, sharp pieces, each a slicing projectile. Sarah cursed. She’d taken evasive car training, and she slammed on the brakes, wrenched the wheel, making the Tahoe perform a one-eighty in the middle of the highway, its nose pointed toward Wind River. The smell of burning rubber, the scream of the tires skidding across the asphalt, entered the vehicle, hurting her ears.

  She’d ducked her head, but never let go of the wheel. Tiny, hot pinpricks of pain struck her chin and neck. Her mind snapped to survival mode. To getting out of this alive. Worse, she had a civilian in the Tahoe with her. “Get down!” she yelled at Callahan as the gravity hurled her back against the seat, the belt biting hard into her shoulder as they swung around.

  There was no way she could take on three heavily armed men with combat rifles. Hell, she had one rifle and a handgun in the SUV and that was it. Worse, a civilian in her Tahoe, and he could be killed. She had to protect him, first, and then herself. They had to escape.

  More bullets crashed into the vehicle. Her whole life, her only focus, was getting out of those gun sights. “Cartel!” she yelled to him as he ducked his head below the dashboard. The vehicle anchored after it turned. Stomping on the accelerator, Sarah hunched over as more bullets came slamming through the cabin. The rear window blew outward.

  Weaving the cruiser, crushing the accelerator with her foot, she tried to make them less of a target. Please don’t let them hit the tires! Zigzagging erratically, she tried to avoid the armor-piercing bullets that tore so easily through the metal. If any of those rounds hit, they would destroy a human. Sarah yelled, “Keep down!” She had on a Kevlar vest, but he didn’t. She powered the vehicle forward, the engine screaming along with the siren.

  Son of a bitch! Sarah would bet her paycheck Pablo Gonzalez was behind this hit. He was setting up sex trafficking in Wyoming. Gonzalez was a well-known drug lord from Guatemala who had hired merciless, hardened Central American soldiers to invade Lincoln County.

  She jerked a quick glance at Dawson, who had his head and shoulders pressed below the dashboard, hands over his neck to protect it.

  “Grab the radio!”

  Dawson reached over, unhooking it from the dash, thrusting it in the direction of her open hand.

  Taking it from him, Sarah saw that the cartel members had stopped firing at her. They were almost a mile away from them. Instantly, she straightened, one hand on the wheel, the other around the radio, calling Dispatch and giving them the situation and instructions. She tried to keep her voice calm and low. Every few seconds her gaze shot from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors, making sure the men weren’t following them in the van.

  When she got off the radio, she saw Callahan sit up, his eyes narrowed. She heard him say as he looked behind him, “The van just left in the opposite direction from us. They’re heading south on Route 89.”

  Sarah called Dispatch again, giving them the information. Damn! She’d been lured into a trap by Gonzalez. And he’d timed it perfectly. His soldiers would know this was shift-change time, that there was no one who could come to help her, much less tail the van and catch up with it. “They’ll take one of many, many dirt roads off 89 and disappear,” she growled, hanging up the radio. Glancing over at him, she asked, “Are you all right? Any wounds?” The wind was screaming through the Tahoe, cold and sharp.

  “No, I’m fine. You?”

  “Pissed, but I’m okay. I’m sorry I got you into this mess.”

  “Don’t be. I’m used to this sort of thing.” His mouth twisted. “I thought I’d left this shit behind in Afghanistan.”

  Snorting, Sarah rasped, “Since Gonzalez, a Guatemalan drug lord, moved into Wyoming last year, it’s been an escalating war zone between his soldiers and our law enforcement. Reminds me of Afghanistan, dammit.” The explanation came out gritty, filled with disgust. She saw Callahan give her a long, appraising look, but he said nothing more. The man was unfazed by this firefight. If she had any worries about him should Gertie need sudden medical help, this man would be her guardian angel, no question.

  “What can you do? It’s nearly 0800. Do you have a drone operator? A helo you can put into the air to follow these bastards and bring them in?”

  Unhappily, she said, “No. Teton County, north of us, where Jackson Hole is, is the richest county in the state. Lincoln, my county, is the poorest, economically speaking. We couldn’t rub two nickels together to make a dime out of them, much less purchase a helo.”

  “Does Teton County have a helo?”

  “Yes, they do. You heard me tell Dispatch to contact Commander Tom Franks at Teton’s sheriff’s office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to ask him to spend some of his fuel budget and fly it over here to try to locate that van and follow it.”

  “Will he do it?”

  “Yes, unless they’re using it for an emergency somewhere in his own county. Gonzalez is pushing into their turf, too. There’s every reason for them to help us out.”

  Her heart sank as she felt a wheel wobble. It was a tire losing air. “I’ve got a tire going,” she told him. “I’m pulling over.” But only after she looked to make sure the van wasn’t following them. It wasn’t.

  “I’ll get the spare. You stay on the radio, okay? I’ll take care of this for you.”

  “I can do it,” she insisted, throwing the Tahoe into Park, setting the brake. She saw Callahan bail out of the seat and give her a one-eyebrow-raised look.

  “You’re the leader. You stay in comms while I do the dirty work,” he ordered, shutting the door.

  Sarah wanted to curse again, but it wouldn’t do any good. Callahan worked hard and fast. In no time, he had the cruiser’s front end up on the jack and was busy changing the tire.

  All the while, Sarah contacted Dispatch, gave their GPS and kept in touch with her deputies. Right now, three Tahoes were headed in their direction at high speed. In about fifteen minutes, they’d arrive. Relief raced through her. Looking at the empty front and rear window, she decided to get out and survey the rest of the damage to the SUV. Those AR-15s had used, she was sure, armor-piercing rounds, because a shell could peel metal off anything.

  Unsnapping the safety on her pistol, she warily watched the highway south of them. Gonzalez was a fox, and he was vicious. She wouldn’t be surprised if the van turned around and came back to hunt them down. Gazing at her side of the cruiser, there were ten bullet holes—large ones—behind where she’d sat. She’d gotten lucky. Her adrenaline was still pumping and she was hyperalert, as she’d been in combat in Afghanistan. Her hand rested tensely against the butt of the pistol as she walked around the rear.

  Callahan was putting the finishing touches on the new tire. The old
, deflated one lay beside him, and she examined it. It was a self-sealing tire, but two slugs into it and the poor thing couldn’t maintain air.

  “That was close,” she muttered, leaning down, touching the two holes.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, lowering the cruiser back to the ground and pulling the jack out from beneath the frame. “See the slugs down the panel?” and he gestured to them.

  “Seven slugs,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I think our guardian angels are both bald about now,” he said, hefting the tire, taking it to the rear and opening it up.

  “Yeah, both hairless.”

  He tossed the tire into the back, pushing the rear door shut.

  She chuckled. “Oh, mine has been bald since I was in Afghanistan. How about yours?” Glancing over her shoulder, Route 89 was empty. No van in sight. She felt jumpy and wary. Looking north, she wished she could see the three Lincoln cruisers speeding their way. She’d ordered her deputies to pair up, get into Kevlar, and carry rifles as well as their pistols. She wanted them armored as much as possible. Who knew what Gonzalez had up his sleeve today. If he was bold enough to attack a sheriff’s cruiser, no telling what he might do next. Sarah knew she’d be calling the FBI as soon as she got back to her office.

  Dawson came over to where she stood. “You sure you’re okay?” and he pointed to her left upper arm. Her shirt was torn open and stained with blood. “And your face and neck has sustained a number of glass cuts.”

  Touching her arm, she muttered, “I didn’t even feel this.”

  “Adrenaline’s still crashing through your system, that’s why.” He wrapped his hand gently below the injury. “Come on, get back in the driver’s seat. Let me at least put a quick dressing on it until we get back to Wind River, where I can do the job right.”

  His hand was firm but not overpowering. He stood at least four inches taller than her. She was five foot, ten inches tall. The look on his face was one of genuine concern. Sarah didn’t want to like his steadying hand on her arm, but she did. Right now, she was starting to get shaky in the aftermath. It was a normal human response, and law enforcement got those symptoms just like anyone else who had just been caught in a trauma. “Yeah . . . you’re right. I’m fine, though.”

  He fell into step with her. “I know. They all say that.”

  She managed a short bark of laughter. Before she could open the door, he opened it for her.

  “Don’t damn me, Sheriff. I’m a Texan. I was taught manners.”

  Her lips drew into a real smile. He released her, and she climbed in, leaving the door open. “Most Texans I’ve run into are bona fide Neanderthals by nature,” she shot back, watching him open the door behind her and dig into his bright red paramedic bag.

  “Naw, we’re not all like that. Some are, though,” he admitted, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, getting out a roll of gauze and some scissors.

  Opening the cuff on her shirt, she rolled it up and over the wound. Staring at the cut, which appeared to be from a piece of glass. In fact, she could still see it stuck in her flesh. Callahan came and stood in front of her, blocking the early morning sunlight from the east. Looking up, she drowned in his eyes, noticing the pupils were large and black. And centered wholly on her. His attention felt good, as if a blanket of calm were coming across her. “There’s glass in it.”

  “Yeah, I can see it.” He handed her the dressing and tape. “Let me examine it a little closer?”

  She sat back, feeling some weakness stealing down her spine, grateful to rest against the seat for a moment. “Sure . . . go ahead.”

  “Relax,” he murmured. “Your people will be here shortly, and I don’t think those drug soldiers are going to head back in our direction.”

  His hand, even in latex, felt warm and comforting as he cupped the area, leaning over, eyes narrowing on the piece of glass sticking out of her flesh. A little sigh escaped from between her tightened lips.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed, sliding his fingers along the one-inch cut. “I’ll dig that out of there back at your office. Simple enough. I’ve got some lidocaine in my pack and I’ll numb the area before I do it. Okay?”

  She had closed her eyes for just a moment, giving in to her crash, absorbing Callahan’s light touch. It crossed her mind that he’d probably be a pretty good lover. That popped her lashes open. Disgusted with herself, she sat up a little. “Yes . . . that would be fine.”

  “I can save you a trip to ER at that little hospital if you’ll let me fix you up at your office. Your call, though.”

  She liked looking in to his eyes. They were a light gray with a black ring around the outside, telling her he was at ease and feeling calm in the moment. Sarah was sure her pupils were constricted, which was how they got when someone was under threat. “I’m fine with it. You’re going to have to stick around anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  With a grimace, she uttered, “You’re a civilian I took along with me. You’ll have to fill out a report. It’s just the regs.”

  He chuckled and took a square of gauze he’d put some alcohol on, wiping away the blood beneath the cut. “Now I really feel like I’m back with Recons. I always had to fill out a sitrep—situation report—when we returned to base. Never mind I was their medic.”

  “Yeah, but you were a combat medic and you carried weapons, fighting right alongside them. That’s the difference.”

  He smiled a little, set the bloody gauze back in her hand and took the roll of gauze. “We got in a few of ’em,” he offered, quickly and expertly wrapping it around the wound. “There. How does that feel?”

  “Okay,” she said, glancing over at it. The bleeding had stopped. The white was bright against her skin. “Feels good. Thank you.”

  Nodding, he took the rest of the items back from her and transferred them to his bag.

  Sarah rolled down her sleeve, buttoning it around her wrist. She looked up at the rearview mirror. “Here are my people,” she called to him.

  Dawson zipped his bag shut and closed the door just as the three Tahoes rolled up. One parked in front of Sarah’s vehicle and two behind. Six deputies bailed out: four men and two women. And they were dressed for a firefight, no question. He stood aside. Sarah quickly introduced him, and he remembered each of their names and shook their hands. They were all grim-looking, and he didn’t blame them. This was not only a serious incident, but also an escalation between a drug lord and the law. They were getting ballsy in his opinion. And that was dangerous for everyone in this county.

  As he stood back, he watched Sarah lead. She asked a lot of questions, got her people’s input and that was good. He also saw the respect they all had for her. They reminded him more of a team out on a mission with a possible firefight than law enforcement per se. They were in their twenties and thirties, he would guess. And there were no prejudicial reactions from the males in the group. They looked to Sarah and respected her, regardless of her gender.

  Once she was done speaking to them, a call from Dispatch came in, and she answered it on her shoulder radio. Dawson heard the Teton County helicopter was coming their way. It would set down, pick up Sarah, and the other three Tahoes would follow on the ground, awaiting further instructions should the helo find the escaping van. Once the radio call was completed, Sarah turned to him.

  “Would you mind driving this poor old Tahoe back to the courthouse? We have a garage beneath it, and we’ve got two mechanics who service the vehicles.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Good. Do you have a pair of tweezers, Dawson?”

  His brows rose. “Yes. Why?”

  She pointed to her arm. “That helo will be here in ten minutes. Can you dig that piece of glass out of my arm? When we get back, I’ll make sure I get medical attention. Okay?”

  He nodded. “Sure. Go sit down.” She was a gutsy lady, for sure. Digging into his paramedic bag, he pulled out what he needed. The other deputies went back to their vehicles, preparing to be part of
the coming chase.

  She rolled up her sleeve, exposing the bandage. “Thanks for doing this. You’ve been indispensable today. Are you sure you’re all right? It isn’t every day you get shot at.”

  Chuckling, he quickly cut the bandage away and swabbed the area with anti-bacterial liquid. “Over in Afghanistan, it was like this at least two or three times a month for me and my team. It just feels like I’m back in the swing of things.”

  In no time, he’d given her the lidocaine, pulled out the offending piece of glass and placed a dressing over it. “You need a stitch or two in that, Sarah.” He wanted to say her first name because it felt right, felt more intimate. His protective hackles were rising, and the need to be close to her was growing within him. He knew to cool his reaction because she was fully qualified to do her job. She didn’t need a protector, as much as part of him wished she did. “There,” he said, satisfied. “The only thing I’d watch for is redness or swelling. That means it’s infected and your doc should get you on the appropriate antibiotic.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks,” and she quickly pulled down the sleeve. “A shame to have to throw away a perfectly good shirt,” she added, scowling at the torn fabric.

  “You’d never get the bloodstains out of it anyway.”

  She smiled at him as he stepped away. “What a mother hen you are.”

  “Naw, now don’t go tellin’ anyone,” he said in his best Texas drawl. Zipping up the bag, he shut the door. In the distance, he could hear the helicopter blades whapping through the air. Following the black dot in the sky, he turned, holding her warm green gaze. She was a beautiful woman, makeup or not.

  “I like your accent, Dawson.”

  “It’s all I got, ma’am.” Now he was teasing her.

  She stepped out of the Tahoe, handing him the keys. “I want you to fill out that report at our office. After that, you’re free to go. Just leave me your motel name, phone number and your personal cell phone number. I was serious about interviewing you for that job with my grams.”

  “And I’m still interested,” he said.