“Trabuco Canyon. That’s in Orange County, somewhere near Rancho Santa Margarita?” I broke in.
“Correct,” said Gibbs. “Trabuco Canyon is an unincorporated community in the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains. Anyway, after leasing the land, our unsub used the card to purchase a forty-foot metal storage container and bury it on the property—supposedly as a bomb shelter.”
“And you think he might be holding his victims there,” concluded Snead, speaking for the first time.
“We do. Confidence on that is high on that for a number of reasons,” Gibbs explained. “For one, the Wells Fargo card was also used to pay for a number of modifications to the container, including the fabrication of an interior compartment, welding improvements, a ventilation fan, electrical and plumbing facilities, and so on. We contacted several of the contractors involved. All work was done according to faxed plans and paid for with the same debit card. A few of the contractors actually talked with our unsub on the phone, but no one ever met him.”
“Did you get copies of the plans?” I asked.
“In some cases, yes,” Gibbs replied. “They show dimensions for an interior partition, specifications for plumbing and electrical additions, and so on. They’re available on a table in back.”
“So where do we go from here?” asked Strickland.
“We’re bringing the Orange County Sheriff’s Department in on this,” Gibbs replied. “They have agreed to assist LAPD and the Bureau in any way possible. At the moment they have an unmarked car in Trabuco Canyon, with eyes watching the site. Here’s a shot of the property.”
Gibbs nodded to someone in the back. Moments later the overhead lights dimmed and a screen behind Gibbs sprang to life, showing a rural hillside with a weed-choked meadow at its base. At one end of the field was what looked like a ten-by-ten storage shed. A tubular, plastic water tank and a rack of solar panels sat nearby. Otherwise, the lot looked deserted.
“We’re assuming the storage container is buried beneath the shed, but we haven’t confirmed that as yet,” Gibbs noted.
“Any surveillance devices?” asked Mason Vaughn, another agent whom I recognized from an earlier case. “The unsub’s, I mean.”
“Good point,” said Gibbs. “The OC sheriffs haven’t noticed any surveillance webcams, but given past experience with the unsub, that doesn’t mean they’re not there. There is no indication that our unsub is there at this time, either. If we go in with a warrant and he’s not present, we may wind up back at square one.”
“You’re not suggesting we just sit around and wait for him to show up?” Snead interjected. “There’s more at stake here than an arrest.”
Like everyone in the room, I knew that Snead was concerned with the survival of his daughter, and I didn’t blame him. There were some who thought that because of the family situation, Snead shouldn’t be involved in the case at all. Early on, however, Snead had made it clear that he would take part in any action we launched in Trabuco Canyon, and his participation wasn’t up for discussion. And I didn’t blame him for that, either.
On the other hand, I could also understand Gibbs’s hesitation to go in before we knew the full situation. With no links to the killer other than what we had so far, there was a good chance that if we tipped our hand without catching him, he would disappear like a puff of smoke—only to resurface somewhere else.
A heated discussion ensued, with all sides weighing in. In the hope the killer showed up soon, the Bureau was unanimous in recommending a twenty-four hour stakeout before moving in. Strickland remained neutral, although I could tell he sided with the Bureau. Snead, on the other hand, was adamant in demanding that we go in immediately and free his daughter.
In the end, I suggested a compromise. “We go in now, disable any surveillance devices we find, and rescue Ella—assuming she’s there,” I began. “After that we—”
“What do you mean, assuming she’s there?” Snead demanded. “This whole line of investigation was your idea. Now you’re saying you don’t even think she’s there?”
“I’m not sure what I’m saying,” I replied. “But things seem a little too . . . easy. For one, Ella’s online photo showed a concrete wall in her cell. This is a metal storage container. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Once again, Kane,” Strickland broke in, “we are not running the investigation based on your feelings.”
At this rebuke, a number of special agents glanced away, including Gibbs. “Maybe we should,” someone mumbled in the back.
“What was that?” Strickland demanded, glaring at a several SAs near the rear.
No one responded.
After a moment I continued, ignoring a renewed scowl from Strickland. “Anyway, whether we find Ella or not, if our guy isn’t present, we establish airtight surveillance on the site. And when he does show up, he’s ours.”
There was an unspoken sense in the room that Snead was liable to attempt a rescue ASAP, regardless of whatever we decided. And like me, no one blamed him. As a result, my suggestion was eventually accepted on all sides. A team composed of Bureau agents, Snead’s HSS detectives, West L.A. investigators including Deluca and me, and a team of LAPD special weapons and tactics operators would go in. LAPD and SWAT would take the lead; FBI agents and Orange County Sheriff’s Department officers would provide support.
We would free Ella. And if the killer weren’t present, we would button down the site and wait for him to arrive.
Simple.
It was a good plan.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was wrong.
22
Swat
Following the Bureau briefing, our combined forces caravanned to Orange County, arriving at Trabuco Canyon just before dark.
By then Snead’s detectives had obtained a search warrant and Metro’s D Platoon SWAT van was en route, just a few minutes out. Once everyone had arrived, including Metro’s SWAT operators, we convened at the mouth of the canyon, establishing an incident command post in a parking lot behind a rustic general store. As we gathered behind the market, I noticed that in addition to SWAT, Metro had sent their on-staff doctor and another team member whom I recognized as a hostage negotiator.
I hoped neither would be necessary.
Assembling near SWAT’s black, Lenco BEAR armored vehicle, I joined Captain Snead, SWAT commander Lieutenant James York, Special Agent in Charge Gibbs, and Sergeant George Lyons—the officer who managed York’s ten-man squad—to confer with OC Sheriff’s personnel already onsite. As the ranking LAPD officer present, Snead assumed field command. It was agreed, however, that once the green light was given for SWAT to breach, Lieutenant York would be calling the shots.
By then the moon had risen, illuminating the landscape in an eerie, ghostly glow. Everyone was nervous. Things were proceeding according to plan, but we all knew from experience that once the operation got underway, anything could happen.
As Snead, York, and Lyons were reviewing the entry plan, a Sheriff’s cruiser pulled to stop beside the SWAT van. After killing the engine, Lieutenant Huff, an officer I knew from a previous task force, eased his wiry frame from behind the wheel. “Hey, Kane,” he said, noticing me as he exited. “Should have known you’d be in on this.”
“How’s it going, Ken?” I said. “Glad to see you finally lost the wimpy moustache.”
“Screw you,” Huff chuckled, passing a hand across his clean-shaven face. “Who’s this?” he asked, regarding Taylor, who had ridden to Orange County with Deluca and me.
“Agent Taylor, Lieutenant Huff,” I said, making the introduction.
“Pleasure,” said Huff, taking Taylor’s hand.
“Lieutenant Huff,” Snead called from the SWAT van, breaking off a discussion with York. “An update, please.”
Reluctantly releasing Taylor’s hand, Huff glanced in Snead’s direction and nodded. As we all walked over to join Snead, Taylor asked me quietly, “Jeez, Kane, do you know everyone in this town?”
“Only the ones worth knowing,” I replied.
“What do we have so far, Lieutenant Huff?” Snead asked upon our arrival.
“Well, for starters, the property in question is located a couple miles up the canyon,” Huff replied. “The main road in, Trabuco Oaks Drive, eventually loops around and returns as Hickley Canyon Road. Your lot is close to where the road doubles back. Part of the site is wooded; the rest is grass and weeds. We have two teams covering the area. There’s a storage shed at the east end, with a padlocked door and what looks like a water tank and a rack of solar panels nearby. We still haven’t spotted any external surveillance devices. We don’t think any are present, at least not outside.”
“Any movement in the shed?” I asked.
Huff shook his head. “Nothing. We have a blockade down the road, ready to question anyone going in or out of the area. So far everything has been quiet.”
“Neighbors notice unusual traffic in the area?” asked Deluca.
Again, Huff shook his head. “Mostly vacant land up there. Only a couple of residents. No one remembers seeing any strangers.”
“Maybe he drives in at night,” suggested Snead.
“Maybe,” said Huff, looking doubtful.
Turning to York, Snead glanced at his watch. “Ready to roll, Lieutenant?”
York straightened. “Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Driving separate cars, our forces followed Huff’s cruiser and the SWAT van up Trabuco Canyon, passing expansive, tree-lined estates, horse corrals, and a checkpoint manned by two Sheriff’s Department’s black-and-whites. As the area became more wooded, the paved road narrowed and turned to dirt. Another half-mile up, we pulled to a stop several hundred yards from the site.
Although I tried, I couldn’t spot either of the Sheriff’s surveillance units. I could, however, make out a prefabricated storage shed on the eastern edge of the meadow. In the moonlight, the one-story structure appeared to be abandoned. Gazing at it, I wondered whether Ella Snead was inside. If she were, I couldn’t imagine how lost and forsaken she must feel.
After watching the shed for several minutes, Snead turned to York. “It’s all yours, Lieutenant,” he said. “Please bring her back safely.”
The plan was for York’s ten-man SWAT squad to split into two five-man elements. It was also decided to use a stealthy initial approach, followed by a dynamic breach to effect the rescue.
Listening in on SWAT’s tactical frequency, Taylor, Deluca, and I watched as the black-clad operators composing the first five-man SWAT element approached the shed, moving down from the trees in single file. Upon reaching the shed, the operators spread out and encircled the perimeter walls. Next, a team member deployed an Opti-wand—a small, infrared camera mounted atop a telescoping rod, with a fiber-optic video output linked to the operator’s heads-up helmet display. Without exposing himself, the officer raised the camera to a side window, mirroring the interior of the shed. On the other side of the structure, I saw another operator do the same.
Upon receiving a go-ahead from the first group, the second SWAT element emerged from the trees and rushed the shed, Heckler & Koch MP5s in hand.
The padlock on the shed door quickly gave way to a bolt cutter. Moving as one, the breach team then assembled in a tight, five-man stack. The first man in the stack cracked the door. The second man tossed in a flashbang stun grenade.
Following a deafening explosion, the breaching unit went in hot and heavy, clearing the interior of the shed.
The shed was empty. No surveillance devices inside.
A search discovered a trapdoor in the floor, concealed beneath a rug. A dark, cavernous space lay below.
The buried storage container.
After additional Opti-wand mirroring and a second flashbang grenade, the second unit breached the space below, again meeting no resistance. Two members of the initial SWAT element guarded the trapdoor from above; the remaining three operators of the first element secured the shed’s perimeter.
At that point Snead, York, and Gibbs entered the shed, followed by Taylor, Deluca, and me.
“Is she down there?” Snead called through the hole in the floor.
“We haven’t located her yet,” a voice floated up. “There’s a walled-off partition and another padlocked door. We’re checking it now.”
Suddenly lights came on down below, illuminating the buried container in a sickly reddish glow.
“What the hell?” mumbled one of the operators.
“Motion detector,” said someone else.
Kneeling, I peered into the hatchway. A steel ladder led down, accessing a rectangular space with ribbed metal walls and enough headroom for a man to stand. A sink and toilet were fastened to the rear wall. I also noted sprinkler heads mounted on the ceiling.
Snead started to push past, intending to join the team below. I stopped him. “There are already enough guys down there, Captain,” I said. “Let them do their job.”
Snead started to argue. He stopped when one of the SWAT operators appeared at the base of the ladder. “We cut the lock on the walled-off section,” he said. “Nobody’s there.”
“He moved her?” said Snead. “We’re too late?”
“No, sir,” said the operator. “It looks like nobody’s ever been there.”
“Then what—”
“Lyons, get your men out, ” I yelled down. “Don’t touch anything else. Just get your guys out now.”
Angrily, Snead again tried to push past. “Kane, what the hell are you—”
And then everything went terribly, horribly wrong.
I heard a metallic click, like an electrical relay snapping shut.
To a sudden blare of dissonant music, the space below abruptly came alive.
The red light brightened. A ventilation fan began gusting air into the lower chamber, venting out the trap door. Inexplicably, the ceiling sprinklers in the storage container activated, showering everything in the chamber with a rain of liquid. The toilet and sink began overflowing as well.
But it wasn’t water raining down from the sprinkler heads, soaking the SWAT officers caught below.
It was gasoline.
Propelled by some concealed mechanism, a horizontal metal plate began ratcheting across the opening in the floor.
“Get out!” I yelled again, grabbing the plate and attempting to stop its advance.
Deluca and Taylor joined me, struggling to hold back the metal barrier. Gasoline vapors were wafting up, filling the shed with fumes. One of the SWAT operators jammed his MP5 across the hatch.
The other SWAT officer present in the shed leaned into the hole. “Team evacuate!” he shouted. “Evacuate!”
Suddenly the gasoline ignited.
One SWAT member made it out.
Assisted by his teammate from above, he squirmed through the opening, engulfed in flame. Snead, Taylor, and Deluca dragged him outside. The operator’s fire-retardant Nomex gloves and his protective balaclava would help, but I knew he would never again be the same.
With a surge of horror, I saw the stock of the MP5 beginning to buckle.
I fought to hold back the hatch.
The second SWAT officer up the ladder wasn’t as fortunate as the first. As he thrust his shoulders through the fiery opening, the MP5’s polymer gunstock shattered.
The plate snapped shut, crushing the man’s chest.
With the trapped officer now blocking the opening, any chance of escape for his teammates was gone. Choking on billows of smoke, I pulled off my coat and wrapped my hands in my jacket, trying for some protection from the flames. Straining for all I was worth, I placed a foot on either side of the opening and pulled, wincing at the heartrending cries echoing from below.
The SWAT officers in the shed joined me, struggling to open the hatch.
Mixing with the squeal of music and the roar of the inferno, a cacophony of screams sounded from the container below.
Frantic fingers scrabbled at
the opening, fighting to escape.
And I could do nothing.
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
Deluca.
“We have to go,” he said.
By then, flames had engulfed several sections of the shed.
I glanced at the SWAT officers. “One more try.”
They nodded.
Eyes burning, muscles straining, we fought to retract the hatch.
And failed.
“Dan, it’s time,” said Deluca, pulling me to my feet.
Deluca and I stumbled out, followed by the two SWAT officers, emerging from the smoke seconds before the shed burst into flame.
Although I tried not to, as we left I glanced back at the officer trapped in the hatchway. My heart broke as I saw his eyes following us out. Mercifully, I think he died of suffocation before the blaze consumed him.
At least I wanted to believe so.
Stunned, we gathered in the moonlit field, all of us who remained.
Silent in our shock, we watched as fire engulfed the shed, knowing the obscenity that lay beneath. And as the pyre lurched and settled, sending a storm of sparks spinning into the night sky, Taylor moved to stand beside me. Wordlessly, she took my hand. Turning toward her, I saw in her eyes a glitter of tears, and in her face, illuminated by the blaze, her horror at the immense, hideous cruelty of the mind that had devised such a trap.
Deluca joined us.
For once my partner had nothing to say.
Nor did I.
I was angry.
I had made a fatal error, and men had paid for it with their lives.
The killer had meant for us to discover his voice-changing software. He had wanted us to match that discovery to his bogus checking account. He had left a trail for us to follow . . . all the way to a deadly trap set long, long ago.
And I had bought it all, all of it—hook, line, and sinker.
The killer had been planning this moment for years.
With a surge of shame, I realized he had been one step ahead of us the entire time.
I had underestimated him.
Staring into the fire, I made a silent vow.
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