Cold River Resurrection (27 page)

C
hapter
65

Aboard Gulfstream 550

“Hermosillo Tower, this is Gulfstream W9873N.” Weasel looked over at Charley, and waited for the reply.

“Hermosillo Tower, go ahead Gulfstream.

“Uh, we are declaring an in-flight emergency, are fifty miles out, and request an alternate landing site.”

“Gulfstream what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Smoke in the cabin,” Weasel said, putting some urgency in his voice.

“Hermosillo Tower, I show a private landing field below.”

“Gulfstream that airfield is very private, don’t know if they will let you land there.”

“I don’t think we have any choice, tower, we’re going to try to get to that field. Please contact them and let them know that we have an extreme emergency
. We have a lot of smoke now, we are carrying an international film crew and equipment. When we land we’ll be exiting the aircraft fast, will stay away from buildings, but we need to set down there.”

“Roger, Gulfstream.”

Weasel looked over at Charley and blew air out of his cheeks. “This is all we have, at least they will know we’re on the way.”

“Think they will buy it?”

“If they’re smart, they won’t. Depends on their level of command and control. The people at the airport, if it is staffed at all, may not contact those in charge.”

“Well, one thing
’s for sure, we’ll know in a few minutes,” Charley said, then added, “runway lights activated, in sight.”

“Gear down,” Weasel said, and slowed the big aircraft to landing speed. They flashed over the outer marker, saw a group of buildings and a large hanger off to the right, a fuel truck, two vehicles parked at the hanger, and then they touched down.

Smokey stood and felt blood seep down his stomach. He
tried to get into his ballistic vest as Sarah held it for him. He doubled over in pain, and waved the vest away. The vest was loaded with UMP magazines, incendiary grenades, pistol magazines, and a radio. With his good arm he picked up his automatic rifle. Behind him Nathan checked his radio and weapons.

Burwell and Kincaid were assigned to
meet any initial resistance they faced when they opened the door.

“Okay,” Nathan said, “as we talked about, Burwell and
Kincaid first out with smoke, make it look like we’re on fire, throw a lot of smoke, then I will go next, with Weasel. We’ll wait a minute, see if they send a vehicle out to check on us. If they do, we’ll take it over and follow Amy’s lead.”

“I’m going to turn the plane,” Weasel said over the cabin intercom. “I’ll put the door on the side away from the hangers and office.”

Smokey looked over the cabin. As the plane slowed they all stood, Burwell and Kincaid by the door holding canisters of smoke, Nathan and Sgt. Lamebull pulling on backpacks filled with explosives, adjusting assault rifle slings. Lights from the buildings flashed by, and then the plane was turning. The plane stopped and Smokey pointed to Burwell. The big man pulled the latch on the door and swung it down, the outside humidity quickly filling the plane, a sharp smell of hot turbines and jet fuel coming with it. Burwell threw two canisters of smoke, and then was out, followed by Kincaid. They crouched under the plane, their rifles out toward the distant hangers, when Smokey followed Nathan and Sarah down the steps. Amy was right behind him.

“Got the signal,” she said, and pointed at the laptop screen, then toward a road that ran past the buildings, a red line on the map.

Smokey looked at the laptop screen, then up at the distant hangers. He heard Kincaid pop more smoke.

“Car coming,” Nathan said, pointing at the hanger.

“Okay,” Smokey said. He turned back to Kincaid.

“You and Burwell, use all of your smoke as the car approaches, the rest of us will stay on this side of the plane as the car approaches. Nathan and I will take the car. Sarah, stay with Amy, Lamebull, cover us.”

As the car approached the runway, the runway lights suddenly went out, putting them in darkness, the light from the buildings the only light Smokey could see. From the headlights it looked to be some kind of van. Smoke from the canisters swirled around them and Smokey thought maybe they had used too much. The van approached on the taxiway adjacent to the runway and slowed a hundred yards out, the occupants being careful of a plane on fire.

The van approached slowly, the headlights flashing on the plane.

“Okay,” Smokey said. “Game time, let’s make this quick, not let them radio, Burwell and Kincaid out front, Nathan and I will be in your shadow.”

“Yeah, but no one will believe those two buttholes can fly a plane,” Sarah muttered, but she said it with a smile.

Burwell, smiling as well, raised his middle finger toward her. She blew him a kiss.

“Careful guys,” Sarah said.

Burwell stepped away from the plane, flanked by Kincaid. Smokey and Nathan were right behind, their rifles slung. Smokey held his Glock down by his right leg. He resisted the urge to run up to the van, kill the driver and whomever else was there, and drive as fast as he could to where Laurel was being held. He knew that such an action would put all of his people in jeopardy, so he gritted his teeth. His upper body felt as if he were on fire, and he would find a way to use it to keep him sharp.

“Alto!”

The command came from the driver’s side of the van, now less than a hundred feet in front of them.

“We gotta get closer, guys,” Nathan said from Smokey’s right.

“Roger,” Kincaid said, holding his right hand up and smiling, nodding, continuing to walk slowly toward the van, and then he added, “I can see at least one gun, Boss.”

Smokey looked around Kincaid’s shoulder at the
figure beside the driver’s side door. The driver appeared to be holding an assault rifle.

They were within forty feet now, the driver yelling something to the shadow by the passenger door.

“Hey, guys,” Kincaid said, smiling, “we have a little problem with our plane, got some smoke in the cabin,” as he continued to walk, Burwell smiling and walking beside him, “and we maybe need a ride.”

The driver of the van moved away from the door, holding his rifle up, bringing the muzzle around to point at Burwell. They were now just twenty feet away, and Nathan stepped to the side of Burwell and shot
the driver with a burst from his silenced UMP .40 caliber machine gun, the sound not much louder than an air gun, the bolt clicking rapidly back and forth, and the man dropped, his rifle clattering on the runway.

As Nathan moved to the right, Smokey jumped to his left to clear the front fender, moving around Kincaid and past the headlights and fired at the shadow at the passenger door, a spray of bullets that shat
tered the passenger door window. The man yelled once and fired a shot on the way down.

“Check the van,” Smokey yelled as he ran up to the figure on the ground. Kincaid and Burwell were already moving, drawing pistols from under their shirts,
running to the side and around to the back.

“Clear!”

“Get them in the back,” Smokey said, hoping they were far enough away from the buildings that the shots wouldn’t be heard. The engines on the G-550 had produced some noise. He watched as Kincaid pulled the man to the back of the van and the driver and passenger were loaded. Smokey got into the passenger seat, his chest wet from seeping blood. Nathan jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove slowly toward the plane, turning off the headlights as he got close. Sarah and Amy stood off to the side of the wing, Amy holding her laptop. The others were by the open door to the plane.

“Brief here,” Smokey said, calling to Sarah. He didn’t want to move more than he had to, but to find Laurel, he knew he could move like an Olympic athlete. They crowded around the door.

“They’ve stopped,” Amy said. She handed the laptop to Smokey, and he put it on the center console, the screen up so they all could see. On the screen was a surprisingly good map of the immediate area, showing the runway, taxiways, airport buildings, roads, and further off to the east, a group of buildings. A red trail went from the airport to the group of buildings.

“There’s a hill between us and the buildings,” Amy said, “and the red dot that we think is Jennifer is in the corner of that cluster of buildings there,” and she pointed to the screen.

“According to the feds, that’s a meth lab drying building there,” Nathan said, leaning in.

“Weasel,” Smokey said, looking out at the dark figures by the van.

“Here.”

“We’ll need your shirt for a while longer, gonna use Kincaid and Burwell to drive to the terminal buildings, see if we can fake out anyone there. Oh, and you’ll need to be the guards for the plane.”

“Done,” Weasel said, “and when you come back, you may be hot, so I’ll be at the end of the runway, ready to take off. Call me if you can.”

No one spoke on the drive to the airport buildings, the lights from the van shining on darkened fuel trucks, an aging Cessna 182, a Lexus in front of the office.

There were lights on in the small office.

Kincaid and Burwell were out in their borrowed pilot’s uniforms, Kincaid holding a Glock down by his right leg as they entered the office. Burwell came in behind him, and within ten seconds Burwell backed out and signaled
“all clear.”

Smokey motioned to the hanger, and watched as the team entered the side door. Smokey couldn’t wait, pulled himself and groaned as he stepped on the pavement. Within seconds, Burwell came out and walked toward the van.

“Clear, Boss. Want to hide these bodies in the hanger?”

“Yeah, is their Lear in the hanger?”

“Yes.”

“Put the bodies in the Lear, and then disable it.”

Burwell grinned, and spoke into his microphone. Nathan and Kincaid assisted in dragging the bodies into the hanger, and within a minute the team was back in the van.

“Smokey,” Amy said, her voice higher, “Smokey, the red dot is moving. They’re moving them. We better get over there.”

In a couple of minutes, I’m gonna see my baby girl, and there better not be anyone between her and me.

Jennifer leaned against the wall and looked around the room. Her hands were numb from the ropes. She had been pushed through a large, well-lighted building. The people packaging a white powder didn’t even look up when she was rushed past. Alvarez had thrown her into a storeroom. A light shined through a gap under the door, and she saw barrels and boxes piled to the ceiling on pallets.

She had thought she was done crying, but the tears came again as she suddenly thought of Laurel.

I sure didn’t do much to protect her, I got her killed. Should have kept my mouth shut, kept her with me, tried to keep her safe. But I know they will kill me.

Kill me.

She worked against the rope on her wrists and was able to slip one hand out. She pushed herself up and stood, swaying, and then leaned against the metal wall. She shivered and hugged herself, wanting to be away, for all of the last day to go away, to be back to yesterday. She thought of Smokey, thinking that maybe his daughter had joined him, and that brought a new round of crying.

I should be with them, playing with Laurel, getting to know Smokey. She hadn’t let herself think about a future with Smokey, and now there wouldn’t be one, so there it was. Didn’t matter now.

Never gonna happen. Laurel dead, Smokey dead if there was any mercy in the world. He loved his daughter beyond life.

Jennifer looked around for something to use as a weapon. She found a metal pole, about four feet long, like a broom handle. She took a test swing in the dark, and grimaced.

The first person through the door, that person was going to die.

And the next.

And then the next.

She heard something then, far off, a popping noise, like, sounds like, and then it stopped.

Sounds like shooting. Automatic weapons.

Sounded like someone shooting.

Maybe they’re just practicing.

What, at night?

Maybe someone is coming for you.

Yeah, right.

She took another swing with the pole, this time putting some heft into it, right about head height.

Gonna beat someone’s brains down on the floor.

Oh Yeah.

C
hapter
66

Alvarez didn’t believe that the plane landing on his private airstrip was an accident. He hadn’t existed as long as he had to not take it seriously. If it truly was an accident, it would be a good drill for his men.

The call from the airport described the plane landing with some kind of emergency. He moved the airport guards back to the main buildings. They would meet the plane’s occupants with force, overwhelming force, and kill them all.

They wouldn’t be from the reservation though. The people there, except for the police lieutenant, didn’t do things like rescue people. Even their own. And the police lieutenant was dead.

Alvarez speed
-dialed a number on his cell phone. He listened. His men at the airport were down. Someone was coming for him, but they didn’t have nearly enough men. He sat in his office and changed from casual clothes to dark fatigues. He pulled an assault rifle, a CAR 15, his favorite, from a closet, and a Beretta in a pistol belt.

“Si,” the voice on the phone.

“Get the men ready, surround the buildings, the house, and after they leave the airport, seal the road off.”

He listened, then shouted into the phone.

“All of them you fool, all of the men,
pronto
!”

He had a hundred men at his disposal.

I’m gonna put their fucking heads on YouTube.

Tonight.

But first find out what the woman knows, who she told.

Then give her to the men.

Smokey sat in the front passenger seat as Kincaid drove up a small grade and around a hill. The road circled to their left. There was a guard shack up ahead, Smokey knew, and he bent over to look at Amy’s screen.

“How far,” he whispered to Amy.

“Uh, about two hundred yards to the gate.
”

Scrub brush lined the roadside, broken up by scattered trees and rock formations. It reminded Smokey of the
high desert in Oregon.

“One hundred yards,” Amy said. They came around a corner in the road and the guardhouse was up
ahead. It looked deserted, the overhead lights adding to the feeling of isolation. A wire fence stretched in the distance on either side. Inside the fence, a series of large metal buildings sat in a row, like a group of large aircraft hangers, one as large as a stadium, Smokey thought, only they don’t park planes in there. Just white powder.

The guardhouse appeared deserted.

Bad sign, Smokey old son.

Nathan voiced his thoughts.

“Doesn’t look good,” Nathan said, “don’t see anyone around.”

“Amy?” Smokey asked.

“First building on the right, they’re in the far corner.”
       Nathan slid the side door open and locked it back, and Sarah opened the rear doors. Sgt. Lamebull sat on the end of the van, his assault rifle at the ready. Kincaid picked up speed as they neared the guardhouse and it flashed by on their left. The buildings came up fast, the galvanized metal shining in the headlights.

“Let’s hit the door,” Smokey said, “Burwell blow it if it’s locked, everyone inside, dynamic entry, they’ll probably be waiting for us.”

Kincaid slid the van to a stop in front of a pedestrian door. Nathan jumped out the side of the van and covered the approach by Burwell and Kincaid.

Smokey stepped out and almost dropped to his knees, the pain in his shoulder making him cry out. Lamebull came up behind him and lifted him up. He went past Smokey, his rifle pointed down the road between the buildings as Burwell tried the door handle. He nodded at Smokey and the others.

It was unlocked.

“Smokey, they’re at the other end, left corner,” Amy said.

“Go,” he shouted, and ran for the door, ignoring the shoulder and blood running down inside his shirt.

The first spattering of gunfire caught Kincaid as he reached for the door handle again, a burst from the corner of the adjacent building made red blotches on his borrowed captains uniform, the ruse to use the white shirts working against him. He didn’t have a tactical ballistic vest on to protect him against gunfire. He slumped down and Burwell grabbed the door handle and jerked it open and disappeared inside.

Nathan and Lamebull let loose with long bursts of automatic weapons fire. Lamebull’s squad automatic weapon hosed down the corner of the building.

“Get inside
!” Nathan yelled. He fired another burst as a group of khaki-clad men ran down the road toward them, falling and firing, bullets pinging off the metal building like an angry hailstorm.

Smokey
moved inside with Sarah and Amy close behind. He stopped inside the door. The room was immense, half the size of a football field, brightly lit, with rows of tables with packaged white powder stacked four feet high on each. There were a dozen workers huddled in the far corner, and Smokey pointed to  the back of the room.

“There
!” he yelled, and ran down the center aisle for a door where his daughter waited. The sounds of the fight outside intensified, and he was aware of Nathan and Lamebull behind him. Nathan shut the door to the street, and the firing stopped.

“In the corner
,” Amy said, running behind Smokey, holding her laptop open as she ran.

Jennifer jerked back beside the door as the firing started, holding her pole up like a baseball bat, standing with her back against the wall, a foot from the door. They would pay for killing that baby girl.

They would pay. She heard shouting from the main room. Someone yelled Laurel’s name.

Smokey shouted as he ran, his voice hoarse, his rifle up and ready, trying to run through the aisle. As he got to the end of the tables he juked left, almost falling, and then he was around the tables and running for the storeroom door.

“Laurel! Jennifer!”

Sarah got to the door first, and jerked on the knob, yelling Laurel’s name as she pulled, and that was what saved her from the swing.

As the door opened, Jennifer started her swing, the pole starting in an arc toward the opening doorway, and it registered all at once what was happening. Sarah’s face filled the door, a blackened, streaked face, but Sarah’s all the same, holding her Glock out in front of her. Jennifer dropped the pole and it fell to the cement floor with a clang, and she threw herself at Sarah. Smokey lurched in the room and looked at Jennifer. She felt herself go then, and the tears came again, shaking, holding onto Sarah.

Smokey moved past Sarah and looked around the small room.

Laurel?

He walked to the corner and looked at the boxes, panic coming up in his throat, and he turned to Jennifer. He knew that his stomach was wet with blood, drenching his belt.

“Jen, where’s my daughter?” His voice came out hoarse, a whisper at the end.

Jennifer shook her head.

“Laurel!” He shouted and kicked a box, and turned back to Jennifer.

“Where’s my baby girl?”

“They shot her.” Jennifer said it louder than she thought. Sarah stiffened, and Jennifer said it again through her tears.

“Shot her. Alvarez.”

“Noooo!” Smokey dropped to his knees and put his head to the floor.

My baby can’t be dead. I need her. I need to see her grow up. She needs me.