by Peter Nealen
His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by flashing red and blue lights in his rear-view mirror.
He started, half-reaching for the Glock 19 in its holster strapped to the front of his seat, but snatched his hand back. Where the hell did he come from? The fact that he’d missed the vehicle altogether while ostensibly on surveillance wasn’t lost on him, and he flushed, momentarily glad that none of the others were there to see.
He kept his hands on the wheel as the deputy walked up on the driver’s side, a growing silhouette in his mirror. The dark-green-clad officer tapped on his window and he lowered it. “What’s the problem, officer?” he asked, and almost cringed at how cliched the line sounded coming out of his mouth.
“License and registration,” the young, blond woman said shortly. Jenkins had to rummage in the center console to get the rental agreement, and then dig his license out of his wallet. The deputy stared at him coldly from behind her flashlight as he clumsily gathered the documentation.
Taking them from his hand, she studied them, though she didn’t seem to be looking that closely. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’m just…” he faltered. He really didn’t have a good reason to be sitting on the side of the street, across from the sheriff’s office, as the sun was going down. “I’m waiting for somebody,” he managed weakly, even though he already knew that he was burned. There was no way she was going to believe he was waiting to pick somebody up across from the sheriff’s office, when the only thing beyond his SUV was a fenced parking lot and the railroad tracks.
She eyed him. “Is that so?” she asked. “Somebody in jail, maybe? Your timing’s off. It’s after hours. Nobody’s being released right now.”
Jenkins was reaching for something, anything, to cover for the fact that he’d picked a terrible surveillance location. “Have you been drinking, sir?” the deputy asked.
“No,” he protested. “No, I haven’t. I’m…I guess I misread the directions…”
She stared at him. “You really thought that your pickup would be on the road in front of the County Jail? You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m from out of town,” he said. “I didn’t know where he was thinking.” Meanwhile, he was mentally kicking himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I can never let any of the others know this happened.
“You’d best move along, sir,” she said finally, after a long pause during which he hoped he wasn’t sweating. Fortunately, the New Mexico night was cool at that time of year, and there was a distinct chill coming through the window. “Don’t want anyone to think you’re up to something, would you?”
He frowned. That didn’t seem normal to him. “I’m in front of a sheriff’s office,” he pointed out. “Why would anyone be stupid enough to do a drug deal in front of the sheriff’s office?”
“Who said anything about drugs, sir?” she asked sharply. She took a step back from the car, her hand dropping to her sidearm.
“Whoa, whoa!” Jenkins said, keeping his hands carefully on the steering wheel. “I was just asking a question!”
“And I didn’t say you could ask any questions,” she snapped. She stood that way for a moment, then reached into her back pocket and pulled out her citation book. “I’m letting you go with a warning, sir, but if I see you loitering out here again, I’m going to arrest you for obstructing law enforcement.”
Jenkins didn’t think that was actually a thing, but he realized that he was on thin ice at the moment. He wasn’t in a good position, and Brannigan wouldn’t look kindly on him getting into a fight with the local law, never mind getting arrested. That had already been Gomez’ mistake, and Jenkins wasn’t going to make the same error. “Okay, fine,” he said.
She ripped the warning citation off the pad and handed it to him. “Move along, sir,” she said. “I don’t want to see you out here again.”
Jenkins accepted the note and said nothing as the deputy stalked back to her car. Only once she was no longer within six feet of his Xterra did he put it in gear and start rolling away.
What the hell was that all about?
***
There was one eternal verity of late nights even in small towns. And that was that the local Denny’s was going to be open, if only to cater to all the drunks—and the drug addicts—filtering in with the munchies at two in the morning.
Joe Flanagan was sitting at the counter next to Curtis, where they could see and hear more. The waitress who was coming by every now and then to refill their coffee was cute enough, and, true to form, Curtis had been flirting with her. He was getting some dirty looks from a few of the regulars, but Curtis had arms the size of some of their legs, so there hadn’t been any trouble so far.
“So, what brings you to town?” the waitress, a curvy Hispanic girl with “Maria” on her nametag, asked, as she poured fresh coffee into Curtis’ cup. “I don’t know of anybody who would call Lordsburg a tourist destination.”
“We’re friends of the Gomez family,” Flanagan said, keeping his expression faintly bored and disinterested even as he keenly watched her reaction. “We heard about what happened and came into town to be here for the funeral.”
It was faint, but she started just a little, and her eyes flicked to one side. Flanagan didn’t follow her gaze immediately, but he’d already mapped out the room and its occupants before he’d sat down. She’d looked toward the group of hard-looking young Hispanic men sitting in the corner.
“I wouldn’t say that name too loudly if I were you,” she said quietly. “Not around here, not right now.”
“Why?” Curtis asked. “Some terrible scandal?”
“You’ll have to forgive my friend,” Flanagan said. “He’s a bit of a gossip hound; constantly reading the tabloids at the supermarket checkout lines. It’s embarrassing, really.” Curtis kicked him under the counter.
“It’s just…nobody really wants to talk about them right now,” she said.
“Why not?” Curtis asked. “A tragedy like that should usually be the talk of the town. Three people dead, one missing…”
Her eyes widened a little at that, and Flanagan noted it. Maybe the locals didn’t know that the Gomez daughter was missing.
“Look,” she hissed, leaning forward, her eyes flicking toward the group in the corner again, “it’s not a good idea to talk about missing people around here right now, okay? People just want to move on, get on with life.” She looked at Curtis. “Look, you’re cute, so…just let it be, okay?”
Curtis shrugged. “Okay, sure. We’re just here for the funeral anyway. Lend some moral support to Mario.”
She looked actually scared at that. There was definitely something very off in Lordsburg. Without another word, she scurried away.
“Well, that was interesting,” Curtis muttered.
“Enlightening, I’d call it,” Flanagan said.
“Somebody’s got this town running scared, that’s for sure,” Curtis agreed. “You think the sheriff’s dirty?”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt left,” Flanagan replied, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “How would anybody be able to terrorize a county seat, with the county jail only a few blocks away, without having the sheriff in their pocket?”
“Unless it’s the sheriff himself behind it all,” Curtis mused.
“Maybe,” Flanagan said, digging his wallet out and tossing a tip on the counter as he picked up the check. It wasn’t much; Denny’s was still one of the cheaper places to eat. “Let’s go. It’s not much, but it’s another piece of the puzzle.”
He paid, and the two of them walked out, heading for Flanagan’s truck. It was late, the sky clear, moonlight silvering the parking lot in addition to the orange sodium streetlights.
The four young men who had followed them out weren’t talking, but they weren’t being stealthy, either. Flanagan had spotted them in the reflection of the glass doors as they’d walked out, and was keeping track of them in the back window of his truck as he pulled out his keys.
“Four,” he murmured. “No weapons yet.”
“I see ‘em,” Curtis whispered. The sound carried; Curtis was about as subtle as the machineguns he favored in the field.
“Just keep your mouth shut and don’t look over your damned shoulder,” Flanagan hissed. “Get in the truck. We didn’t notice anything.”
They climbed in, Flanagan drawing his STI and sliding it into the holster he had installed in the door pocket. Curtis reached under the seat and drew out the Mossberg Shockwave he’d secreted down there before they’d left. Just in case.
As Flanagan pulled out of the parking lot, the four young men in a black F-150 followed.
Chapter 7
The headlights were still behind them, glaring in the rearview mirror as Flanagan turned down Animas Street and headed out of town. Curtis was leaning forward just far enough to see them in the right-hand mirror, the Shockwave across his lap. The short “firearm” was a wicked little weapon at close range, and fit neatly in small spaces in the truck’s cab.
“They’re still following us,” Curtis said.
“Thank you for that stunning observation,” Flanagan said, as he suddenly turned off onto a dirt road leading into the desert on the right. “I never would have noticed.”
“That’s what you’ve got me here for,” Curtis answered, grinning.
Flanagan just shook his head.
As he’d rather expected, the headlights followed them through the turn. That truck following them was every bit as capable as his own, and wasn’t going to have any trouble with the terrain. If anything, the greater risk was that they were going to come across something they couldn’t get through quickly, and their followers could close the distance. He’d studied some of the imagery on the way in; there weren’t a lot of bridges across the arroyos down that way, and it was still winter. There was a good chance that they might have to ford a stream that night.
The headlights stayed behind them, diffused by the cloud of dust they were kicking up, as they bounced and rattled along the dirt road. Soon enough, they were heading down into an arroyo, and Flanagan gritted his teeth. If there was much water down there, this could get really interesting, really quickly.
“You think they’ve got rifles?” Curtis asked, peering at the glow in the mirror.
“Probably,” Flanagan replied. “Somehow I doubt that they’re following us just because they think one of us dropped something back in the Denny’s.”
There was water in the arroyo, but it was shallow. His truck splashed through it easily enough, even though the back started to bog down a little in the sand when they were about halfway across. He gunned the engine, turning the wheel to break the tires free.
Curtis reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’m calling ahead.” He punched a number and put the phone to his ear.
“We’re on our way, but we’ve picked up a tail,” he said a moment later. “We’re out in the desert, and I doubt that we’re going to be able to shake them.”
He listened for a moment, while Flanagan turned south on the paved road that suddenly appeared out of the dark. “Roger that,” he said, then hung up. “Wade and Hancock are heading for the high ground just south of the Banner Mine,” he explained. They want us to head that way; I think they’re setting up an ambush or something.”
“Hopefully that means that Santelli’s back, with a little more firepower than pistols and shorty shotguns,” Flanagan said, as he accelerated down the road. Behind them, the following truck had turned south with them. If there had been any doubt that the young men in that truck were following them, it was long gone by then. There wasn’t anyone else out on that road, not at that time of night.
The other truck was accelerating, too, the headlights blazing as the dust settled behind them. “Bastards have their high beams on,” Curtis muttered, squinting against the glare reflected in the rearview mirror.
“Of course they do,” Flanagan said. “Can’t do a convincing imitation of a horror movie on the road in the desert without ‘em, can they?”
“I thought this was an action movie,” Curtis replied, without missing a beat.
“Nah, vehicle chase, outnumbered, in a desert out of ‘The Hills Have Eyes?’” Flanagan countered. “Got to be a horror movie. At least, up until things go sideways on ‘em.”
Curtis sobered suddenly. “You think they’re cartel? They didn’t look like undercover cops to me.”
“I think it’s just about the only option in this neck of the woods,” Flanagan replied.
“Is the sheriff in bed with the cartels?” Curtis wondered. “Damn, that is dirty.”
“Question for another time,” Flanagan answered, “when they’re not trying to kill us.”
Behind them, the black pickup had accelerated still more, apparently trying to close the gap. Flanagan had to slow slightly going around a curve, and then they were dipping into another arroyo, with more muddy water running across the roadway. The difference this time was that the road was still paved, so he didn’t have to slow as much to get through the stream. They splashed through, throwing up rooster tails of brown water to either side of the truck, and then he was gunning it up the slope. The lights of the Banner Mine were ahead and to the right, throwing an actinic white glow into the sky, and illuminating some of the surrounding hills starkly.
He was bracing himself, one hand on the wheel, the other hovering near the butt of the STI in its mounted holster. That F-150 behind them had some serious horses under the hood; as fast as he was driving, it was still gaining on them. “I hope those guys are already set,” he muttered.
Then they were suddenly coming around a curve and into the bright glare of the lights from the entrance to the mine. From the imagery he’d studied beforehand, Flanagan remembered that it was a relatively small, open-pit mine. He’d patrolled through a bigger one before, during a training op long ago.
The paved road led straight into the mine, and probably dead-ended there. He didn’t want to go in there; even if there wasn’t really any security—and while there hadn’t been in the mine he’d seen before, he had to expect some this close to the border—he didn’t want to get his back up against the wall, with what might well be sicarios on their tail. Besides, he was pretty sure that would put them out of position for Wade’s and Hancock’s ambush.
He was turning down the rutted dirt road that led off to the side of the mine when the glare in his rearview mirror suddenly died away. Glancing up, he saw the black truck turning around in the road behind them.
“What the hell?” Curtis asked, craning his neck to watch. “Why’d they give up?”
“The lights, maybe?” Flanagan suggested. “Or maybe they’re smart, and saw that if we weren’t panicking and driving willy-nilly into the desert, that we might be leading them into an ambush. If they’re cartel, they haven’t survived by being stupid.”
“I guess,” Curtis said, still watching the red taillights recede into the desert night. “I guess I’d prefer stupid.”
“Either way, we’re clear,” Flanagan said, slowing their headlong rush as the bouncing passage along the unpaved road got worse. “Call Roger and John and tell them to meet us back at the staging area.” Leaving his pistol where it was, he put both hands on the wheel; the road really was getting bad. “This situation’s getting complicated.”
***
The staging point was an old, abandoned adobe back in the sagebrush, a couple miles south of the mine. There was a well, but it hadn’t been used in a long time. Some rusting appliances were overgrown with brush behind the house, and were undoubtedly crawling with snakes and scorpions.
Several vehicles were parked around the outside, all 4x4s. Fortunately, all the Blackhearts had taken care to rent SUVs when they’d come to the southwest; a sedan would never have made it that far through the desert. And the Lazy GR ranch was still a good sixty miles south, as the crow flew.
There were no lights on around the place when they pulled up, but there was a shad
ow on the roof. Flanagan squinted at it as he killed the headlights. “Whoever’s up there, I’m gonna be almighty pissed if you shoot me,” he called.
“Not for long you wouldn’t be,” Gomez replied.
“Come on in, Joe,” Brannigan called from the doorway. “We’re just waiting on Hancock and Wade now.”
Flanagan reached in the back and pulled out a blued Marlin 1895. Curtis looked across the hood at him. It was too dark to see, but somehow he managed to look accusing. “You let me go through all of that clutching a shorty shotgun when you had a rifle in the back?”
“One,” Flanagan said as he walked around the front of the hood, “I always have a rifle in my truck, and if you’d been paying attention these last few years, you’d know that. Two, this was my go-to when and if we had to bail out. You think I’d go up against four bad guys with a pistol if I could avoid it?”
Curtis grumbled as he turned toward the doorway. Flanagan couldn’t resist one last barb. “Besides, it’s technically not a ‘shotgun,’” he said. “It’s a ‘firearm.’”
“I don’t like you right now, Joseph,” Kevin declared as he stepped inside the adobe.
It was just about pitch black inside, except for a faint red glow coming from a back room. The three of them followed the glow, coming into what might have once been the dining room. There was cardboard over the broken windows, and Santelli, Bianco, and Jenkins were crouched over several equipment cases, lit by the glow of their red-lens headlamps.
Santelli looked up. “I hope you boys have some cash on you,” he said, “because I’m not eating the cost of all of these.”
Several of the equipment cases were already open, revealing full kits for LaRue OBRs. Flanagan let out a low whistle. The 7.62 rifles were becoming legendary in shooter circles. While they were basically an AR-10 platform, they had been overengineered to deliver precision accuracy while taking a severe beating.