“No, I didn’t see the pickup or Mom’s old car when we were coming down.” Sticking to a precise schedule was more of an Anglo preoccupation. Things on the Rez usually ran on Indian time.
“Dawn’s coming with them, right?” Kevin asked.
“Yeah. Nothing could keep her away,” Ella said, grinning widely. “She’s probably got a million things to tell us now that she’s finally in middle school. Her life seems to run at a faster pace than ours.”
Hearing the faint squeal of tires, Ella noted the arrival of the white van she’d observed during the approach. It looked like a FedEx ground service van, though she couldn’t see the sign from this angle. Glancing back toward the aircraft, she saw Pete retrieving their luggage, three soft side bags and two carry-ons.
“Someone was supposed to meet me here with a car,” Kevin grumbled, bringing out his cell phone. “I should have called ahead to remind them when we reached Albuquerque.”
“You got spoiled in the big city where there’s a taxicab going by every thirty seconds,” Ella said, laughing. “Maybe the tribal car’s in the shop and that van’s your ride.”
Ella glanced at Adam. His gaze was focused on the van, which had whipped around, then come to a stop, rear doors facing them. An uneasy feeling crept up her spine and almost simultaneously, the badger fetish at her neck, a gift from her brother, became scalding hot—a sure sign of danger. Ella placed her hand on the butt of her pistol.
Adam took a step closer to Kevin, his gaze still fixed on the van.
Suddenly both rear doors flew open and two bulky men in black overalls armed with assault rifles jumped down to the pavement.
“Guns!” Ella dove for the asphalt as the men began firing from the hip.
Glancing back, Ella saw Adam yank Kevin to the ground beside the starboard side landing gear, then drop to one knee, grabbing at his thigh, instinctively reaching for the service Beretta he’d worn for years. A second later he flinched, then toppled to the pavement, blood spewing from his head.
Groaning from an apparent hit, Kevin curled up behind the meager protection of the landing gear wheel.
Ella, her nine-millimeter service pistol in hand, snapped off three quick shots, then rolled to her left, trying to use the shadow cast from the aircraft’s tail for concealment. The two shooters stopped moving forward but kept their weapons up by their shoulders, squeezing off round after round. The pilot, in line when the men first opened fire, had already taken a stray bullet to the shoulder, but the assailants were no longer paying any attention to him. Their targets appeared to be the men wearing suits. As she fired at the pair, the pilot dove back into the aircraft through the open door.
Ella aimed directly at the closest gunman’s chest, and fired twice. The man flinched, and staggered back. A hit.
Ella shifted, trying to get a sight picture on the second man, who was at least ten feet from his partner. Before she could squeeze off a shot, he located her in the shadows and fired a half dozen rounds of suppressing fire.
Ella rolled, the bullets digging up asphalt where she’d been an instant before, and returned fire. The man’s partner, the one she’d thought she’d hit twice already, hadn’t even slowed down. He took another step forward, firing four or five more rounds at Adam and Kevin, who were bunched together now.
She squeezed off more rounds. She was scoring hits, the bullets rocked the attackers, but neither would go down. They were probably wearing body armor. Out of ammo, Ella dove for the only concealment around—the luggage beneath the storage compartment. One of the shooters was reloading, replacing the spent magazine with another, but his partner kept snapping off one round at a time, and she had to roll again to stay out of sight.
On her back, she released the spent magazine and groped in her jacket pocket for the spare clip. Bullets ricocheted off the pavement, striking metal, and she wondered what a hit on the aircraft would do to her chances. Hoping the airplane’s fuel tanks were in the wings, higher up, she inserted the new magazine and closed the action with a touch of her thumb.
Ella looked around the edge of a carry-on to get a fix on the gunmen. They were retreating now, walking backwards toward the van. One of them snapped off a round, which whined overhead and forced her to duck behind cover.
Ella knew she had to get a sight picture and go for a head shot. Her third magazine, the one with the armor-piercing rounds, was in her purse, somewhere over by the right wing. Rising to a crouch, she dove toward the left side landing-gear wheel. The metal post and wheel would give her more protection than a suitcase full of clothes. With a little luck, there was still an outside chance that she could take them down.
One of the men reached the van and jumped into the back, giving her an opening. She brought her weapon up in a two-handed grip, but the shooter still on the ground fired three quick shots, pinning her down again before she could squeeze off a round. One of the bullets struck the tire just beside her head and it exploded, stinging her with rubber, steel cord, or both. There was a thump on the asphalt next, and she saw a roundish object rolling in her direction. Her heart nearly stopped.
Grenade! She hugged the ground, covering her head with her arms. “Love you, Dawn.” she muttered, expecting the worst.
A heartbeat later there was a loud pop instead of the earthshaking blast and scream of flying metal she’d expected. Recognizing the sound, she looked up to see a billowing cloud of white smoke. It wasn’t her time—not yet—and the realization brought her hope—and anger.
Hearing the sound of closing doors, Ella fired blind at the vanishing outline of the van, screened by the smoke for obvious reasons. Her chances of scoring a head shot now were slim to none.
Realizing the smoke concealed her as well, she ran around the nose of the aircraft, angling for a clear shot. The accelerating van was already a hundred yards down the road. Ella aimed carefully, squeezed off two more shots at a rear tire, but missed. Only a lucky hit could have stopped them now, but if it had, then what? She was outgunned and low on ammo.
Hearing shouts, Ella turned around and saw three men—the landing strip’s personnel—running toward the single-engine aircraft. She jammed her pistol back into the holster and grabbed her cell phone.
“We called the police,” one yelled. “I told them about the white van—and the men. They’re putting out an ATL, whatever that is.”
“Attempt to locate,” Ella mumbled, not caring if he heard.
As she jogged toward the aircraft, the first man that came into full view was the pilot, staggering away from the open cockpit door. Wounds to his upper body had now soaked much of his shirt in blood, but he was mobile. Ella shifted her attention to where she’d last seen Adam and Kevin. The asphalt around the landing gear was thick with blood.
“Call an ambulance,” she shouted to one of the airstrip’s men—the manager, judging from the white shirt and bolo tie.
“Already done,” he answered, waving his cell phone.
As she reached the fallen men, the sickeningly sweet scent of blood filled her nostrils. She swallowed hard, trying to brace herself, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw next.
Adam lay across Kevin’s left arm, the side of his head a mass of blood and hair. Bubbles in the blood around his nose showed he was still breathing, barely. He’d also been struck on the leg, but she didn’t see any wounds along his neck or center line of his back. Ella carefully lifted him enough to free Kevin’s arm.
Kevin had been shot in the side, around the ribs, and had taken another hit in the thigh and one on his arm, just below the elbow. Mercifully, both men were unconscious.
Experience told her that Kevin would live if help arrived promptly, but she wasn’t so sure about Adam. With head wounds there wasn’t much she could do without the risk of killing him right there.
Ella looked at one of the airport workers, a man in overalls who was absentmindedly holding a fire extinguisher. “I need bandages,” she called out, pressing her hand against Kevin’s thigh
and applying direct pressure to the wound that appeared to be losing the most blood. She could hear the sound of an approaching siren now and the tone suggested it was the EMTs, not a squad car.
“Hang on, guys,” she told the wounded, hoping that some part of them would hear.
The wounded pilot came toward her, his bloody left hand pressed against his right shoulder. A large red first-aid kit dangled from the fingers of his injured arm. He held it out and said something, but she couldn’t hear a word as a white and blue emergency vehicle skidded to a stop on the runway, lights flashing and siren wailing.
“Finally,” she said, as two white uniformed men, one Anglo and the other Navajo, rushed up carrying large medical cases.
She stepped back to let them work. So much blood . . . It was different when it was someone you knew.
Seeing movement on the runway out of the corner of her eye, Ella turned her head for a clearer look, and saw her family driving up in Rose’s white Chevy Cavalier. Ella pulled herself together quickly. There was no way she was going to let Dawn see her father in the condition he was in now.
Jogging over to her mother’s old sedan, Ella motioned palm up for them to remain where they were, then realized her hand was covered with blood and put it down quickly. She stopped in front of Dawn’s backseat door and stood against it so her daughter couldn’t open it and get out. As she looked at Rose, Ella saw a mixture of relief and fear on her face—the latter from seeing she was all right, and the former from not knowing what had happened.
“There’s been a shooting, and Dawn’s father is one of the three who have been injured,” she said gently. “Stay well back and let the emergency people work. I’ll answer your questions as soon as I can, but right now I need to get back over there. This is a crime scene now.”
Ella looked at her daughter and forced a smile. “Hang in there, Pumpkin. And don’t worry.”
Dawn nodded, but fear still shone in her eyes.
“One last thing,” she said, giving Herman a worried glance. “We’ll need statements from all of you, so you can’t leave just yet.”
Herman nodded, silently reassuring her that he’d take care of things here.
As her family climbed out of the car, Ella used her cell phone to call her partner and second cousin, Justine Goodluck. Getting her on the first ring, Ella gave her a quick description of the events, made sure officers in the county would be looking for the van, and requested the crime scene team be dispatched to the location.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Justine asked immediately.
“I was nicked by bullet fragments and flying debris, but that’s all,” Ella answered. “Right now the EMTs are concentrating on Kevin and Sergeant Lonewolf, who’s in the worst condition. The pilot took a hit, too.”
As Ella put the phone back into her pocket, she saw her daughter standing between Herman and Rose, watching the activity around the wounded. Blood was everywhere, and Dawn’s eyes were huge. She’d seen enough TV shows to know that violence was part of police work, but in her brief life Dawn had never seen anything like this.
Ella realized then that she’d been wrong to ask them to stay. She’d get their statements later.
Ella hurried back to where her family was and hugged her daughter tightly, careful not to touch her with her bloody hand.
“Mom,” Dawn managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”
“I scratched up the side of my head and my cheek. That’s all it is, honey. I’m fine,” she said, easing her hold enough to look down and give Dawn a gentle smile. “But this is no place for you right now. You’re going to have to go home with your grandparents, okay? And please don’t call your friends—not until your grandmother says it’s okay.” Ella saw Dawn holding her new cell phone in one hand.
“Okay,” Dawn answered, placing the phone into her hip pocket.
Rose touched Ella on the arm gently. “We were nearly run off the road by a white van when we turned up the airport road,” she said, her voice two octaves higher than usual. “I didn’t notice the driver, but the van ended up going north. Did he do this . . . massacre?”
“Mom,” Ella snapped, forcing Rose to focus. “I need you two to take my daughter home,” she said, respecting her mother’s traditionalist views by not using Dawn’s name. Names were said to have power and were not to be used lightly.
“I was a medic in the Army, and I conducted a first-aid class at the senior center a few months ago. Is there anything I can do here?” Herman, her mother’s husband, asked.
Ella glanced back and saw the EMTs fighting to save the most badly wounded, but Pete Sanchez was sitting alone, a compress on his arm. “The pilot . . .”
Herman nodded once, then strode off.
“What . . .” Rose began, but seeing Ella shake her head, allowed her voice to trail off.
“Mom . . . is Dad? . . .” Dawn’s voice broke.
“I think he’s going to be okay,” Ella heard herself saying with a conviction she didn’t feel. But honesty would wait. Dawn had seen and heard enough. “You two need to go home now. I’ll be there as soon as I can with news.”
“My husband will need a way home,” Rose said, glancing at Herman, who was already tending the pilot.
“I’ll arrange something, or he can ride back with me,” Ella replied. “It might be a while, though.”
The airstrip wasn’t far from the station and as they spoke, the crime scene van appeared at the far end of the road.
“I’ve got to get to work, Mom, but I need you to write down everything you remember about the van and the men inside as soon as possible. Both of you,” she added, looking at Dawn. “Even small details might help.”
As soon as Rose and Dawn were on their way, Ella breathed a sigh of relief. Though it seemed like a lifetime ago, she still remembered seeing her father’s body lying in the morgue. He’d been ritually murdered and, to this day, those gruesome images remained in her mind, imprinted there, ready to be replayed in her many nightmares.
That was why she’d been so determined to protect her child from the bloody scene out on the runway. Even in a fast-paced world—or maybe because of it—children deserved their brief time of innocence.
Now, with her child safely on the way home, Ella walked back to the crime scene, ready to resume her duties as a tribal police investigator.
TWO
Ella heard the ambulance driver slam the rear door shut. Moments later, she watched the emergency vehicle racing across the strip and down the airport drive, sirens on and emergency lights flashing.
The tribal crime scene team, currently Justine Goodluck, Sergeant Joe Neskahi, and newcomer Benny Pete, were already unloading their gear from the van. Airport workers were busy examining the single-engine aircraft, obviously concerned about damage and safety issues.
“Partner, you’re bleeding,” Justine said as Ella approached.
“They had their hands full and needed to transport right away to save the soldier,” Herman answered for Ella, then stepped toward her, first-aid kit in hand. “Let me take a look at you.”
“It’s nothing,” Ella insisted. “When I took cover I was sprayed with flying debris, probably gravel and asphalt. And a landing gear tire popped right next to me. I got scratched up a bit, that’s all, but it’s already clotting,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with a fingertip.
“Are you aware that you also have two bullet holes in the side of your shirt?” Justine asked, pointing to the entrance and exit holes.
“The suspects were blasting away with assault rifles. With that kind of firepower, I got off extremely lucky.” Finding a third hole in her jacket, Ella gave her a rueful smile. “At least it isn’t the suit I bought for D.C.”
Herman had reached Social Security age in the last century, and these days his hands shook some, but equipped with antiseptic-soaked swabs he cleansed the scrapes above her ear and on her cheek. Despite his light touch, Ella flinched from the sting.
> “Yow!” she grumbled.
“I’ve seen all the shell casings lying around and the bullet holes in your clothes, daughter-in-law. You dodge bullets without even batting an eyelash. No man could ever be tougher than you in a fight. But when I touch you with a little bit of disinfectant, you melt like butter in a hot skillet. What’s wrong with this picture?” Herman asked.
Justine started to laugh, but seeing Ella’s scowl, thought better of it.
“You won’t need stitches,” Herman said, moving away at last, “but your scalp was creased with something, probably a bullet. You should be checked by a doctor as soon as possible.”
“I’m going to take a look around here first. After that, I’m off to the hospital. Once I check into the condition of the wounded, I’ll get my scratches tended.”
“I’d like to ride there with you,” Herman said. “I have a feeling your mother and your daughter will be going there instead of home.”
“Mom at a hospital?” Ella knew that would be the last place her mother would want to be. The hospital was a place for the chindi. According to Navajo beliefs, when a person died, the good in them joined universal harmony, but the evil side stayed earthbound, ready to create problems for the living. Since patients died in hospitals every day, Traditionalists saw it as a dangerous place to visit. Though her mother understood the need for hospitals, she did her best to avoid them.
“My wife will probably try her best to convince your daughter that home is the best place for them right now, but the girl is stubborn, like you. They might go back to the house initially, but it won’t take long before she’ll insist on going to the hospital so she can be near her father.”
Dawn, like many young Navajos raised around Traditionalists, walked an easy line between the old and modern ways. Fear of the dead wouldn’t keep her from going to Kevin’s side. Dawn adored him. In her eyes, Kevin could do no wrong. As far as Ella was concerned, Dawn’s view of her dad bordered on hero worship.
“You’re bleeding again,” Justine said gently. “Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital. The rest of the team will carry on here. The suspects didn’t leave much for us except for a bucket full of .223 shell casings, skid marks, and tire tread images.” She pointed to where the van had been parked.
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