Earthway (34 page)

Diving out the passenger’s side,
she crouched behind her tribal unit and called for backup on her hand-held radio. The shooter continued firing, bullets passing just over the hood of the car and slamming into Haske’s home. One struck the top of the car, then the wall. That gave her a general fix on his position. Rolling to the right, she fired two quick rounds into the bosque.

A shot came in reply, striking the front bumper
with a thud, not a foot from her head. Instinctively, she hugged the ground behind the front tire. He wasn’t backing off—and now she was a target, too.

Knowing the shooter had fired at least five rounds and might need to reload, she rolled in the opposite direction and squeezed off three rounds at the best hiding place she could pick.

“Crawl closer to the car,” she called out to Haske as she
reached into her left pocket, feeling for the reassurance only a spare magazine could give her.

Haske didn’t respond.

Turning her head, she risked a look at the victim, who was face down, half on and half off the concrete pad that comprised the porch. There were two holes in his back: one in the spine, and the other on the left, where his heart was located. The third round had struck the left
side of his neck.

Any of those hits were potentially fatal, but having sustained all three of them, Haske was either dead or beyond help, Ella knew. Faced with another senseless death, anger filled her.

She took a deep breath, trying to focus solely on the shooter now. Firing back twice, she rolled to her right again. The sniper’s bullet struck where she’d been just two seconds earlier, its
impact stinging the side of her face with sand. But now she had a better lock on his location.

Ella fired three more times, then rolled back, ejecting her spent magazine and inserting the fresh clip in a well-practiced motion. She waited, her sights on the spot beside the thick clump of willows, looking for movement or shadow.

The silence was disturbed only by the metallic tick of the car engine
above and to her left as it cooled. Knowing the sniper’s advantage of patience, she watched, not moving, her gun hand steady. After five minutes, she slowly snaked down her left hand, flipped her cell phone open, and
punched Blalock’s number on speed dial, looking away from the target area for only a second.

“I’m still here,” she whispered.

“We’re on our way, Ella. Our ETA is less than ten minutes.
We were halfway to Hogback when your call for backup came through. Hang in there,” Blalock said.

Several more minutes passed, but the sniper hadn’t fired again and there was no movement. Ella wondered if she’d scored a hit or if she was being set up. She waited behind cover, noting that no birds had settled on the branches above what she’d determined to be the shooter’s mostly likely location.

After two minutes, she rolled to her right, sneaking a quick look out from behind the front tire, then rolling back. The front bumper clanked loudly, and a bullet struck Haske’s door, just six inches above porch level.

She looked at the bumper, less than a foot to her right. A shiny two-inch-long groove had just been scratched into the chromed steel. If she hadn’t rolled back immediately, the
bullet would have blown away the right side of her head.

Shaken, she took a deep breath. The badger fetish around her neck felt scalding hot against her skin. Death surrounded her now, she could feel it calling. Shutting out her fear, she focused on survival.

Hugging the ground, Ella rolled below the open passenger door, planning to reach up behind the seat and grab her rifle. Two more shots
rang out in rapid succession. As she looked back, she saw new holes in the side of the house, low and close to the foundation. Had the bullets actually passed beneath the car this time? If so, there were only two places to hide.

Ella rolled to the right, using the front tire to physically conceal herself. Though it was a relatively cool day, her body was bathed in sweat. She swallowed, trying
unsuccessfully to moisten her throat.

She called Blalock on the cell phone again. “He’s southwest of the house, at the edge of the bosque. He’s got me pinned,” she said.

“We’re on foot now, a few hundred yards from the house. We’re going to come in behind him from the south, along the river, and send a car down the road as a diversion. Be ready when he’s forced to break cover.”

Seconds ticked
away, each its own version of Hell. The car’s cooling metal had stopped ticking but the stillness didn’t reassure her. She was alive, but two men had died in her presence today. She felt poisoned by evil. Her brother and mother would insist on her having an Enemy Way sing done, but the nightmares would still follow her for a long time—that is, if she lived through the next half hour.

As she waited,
Ella held tightly to her pistol, sighting toward the willows and wondering if she had five rounds left in the clip or four. Others would be arriving soon, but did the sniper know? She moved again, rolling to the left then rising to a crouch as she reached the rear tire.

This time, there was no answering fire. Deciding to push it, Ella moved forward again, reached into the SUV, and brought out
her rifle. Nothing.

The busted scope had been removed, but she had the iron sights and five rounds in the weapon. Rifle in hand and safety off, she moved to the front again and waited.

She heard the vehicle before she saw it. A police cruiser pulled up, sliding to a stop beside hers and placing another layer of protection between her and the river.

Ella touched the badger, felt the coolness
of the stone, then stood, placing her rifle across the hood. Instinct told her the sniper was gone. And Haske . . . The poor man had only wanted his freedom, and they’d played on that. His blood was also on her hands now.

Blalock came into view among the willows, then waved his shotgun in the air. “It’s clear. I think he waded across the
river to a vehicle. We heard an engine starting up a few
minutes ago.”

Ella stepped out into the open, watching the river beyond as she lowered her weapon. “I had a feeling he’d left,” she answered in a low and heavy tone.

“You’re not blaming yourself for this, are you?” Blalock asked, as he glanced over at Haske’s body.

“That sniper . . . he wasn’t content with just taking Haske out,” she said, not answering his question. “He wanted me, too.”

“But you won, Clah. You’re alive.”

He was right. She’d lived to walk in beauty again . . . someday.

A
fter filing all the necessary reports, Ella sat alone in her office, lost in thought. The attempts on Ford’s life, the probable existence of a terrorist cell, four shootings with two dead and an unknown shooter on the loose—these were just the job highlights of a very long week.

On top of everything else, she was going to have to make a major career
decision soon. An e-mail from Blakely at PPS had been in her in-box when she sat down to the paperwork. Though she’d put it off for over two hours, she’d finally broken down and read the message.

Kevin had been very accurate in his earlier description of the offer. Though John Blakely hadn’t mentioned an exact dollar figure in his e-mail, he’d promised more than quadruple what she was making
now. The job description and benefits were tempting enough even without a raise. John had suggested she visit their D.C. operation at her earliest convenience, at company expense, of course. He left her his office, cell, and even his home phone number, requesting Ella call him to discuss the job offer in detail.

Ella had e-mailed back, agreeing to a phone call but asking for a few more days because
of work responsibilities.

Life was definitely brimming over at the moment. On top of her current case, she had serious home problems as well. Herman appeared to be ill, her mom was upset for a variety of reasons, and Dawn was away from home and sorely missed. Too much was coming at Ella at once.

Experience told her to deal with one thing at a time or she’d get nowhere. Ella forced herself
to take a very deep breath, then let it out slowly. Before she’d finished exhaling, her cell phone rang. It was Ford.

“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.

“You heard?” she asked, surprised. As far as she knew the shooting hadn’t been on the news—at least not yet.

“Yeah. Bruce has a receiver that picks up all emergency radio communications.”

Ella suddenly had one of the answers that had eluded
her till now. The shooter had accessed the Navajo Tactical frequency. That’s how he’d known where she and Haske would be.

“Are you there?” Ford asked.

“Yes, I’m sorry. You were saying . . .?”

“We’ve intercepted some of Dr. Lee’s e-mails and a very interesting picture is starting to emerge. Can you stop by?”

“I’ll be there shortly,” she said, then hung up.

Justine came in just then. “We’re
processing the scene at Haske’s, but the shooter was careful. The rounds he used weren’t particularly distinctive, but we found some brass. From the caliber and brand, it looks to be the same weapon that was used both times before. It’s the same guy, Ella, I’d bet anything on that.”

“I agree. And it’s now clear to me that he was listening to our radio communications, too. That’s how he got to
Haske’s ahead of me. Make sure the others know about that.”

“Since he failed to take you out, he’s likely to try again. He did with Ford,” Justine warned.

Ella stood up. “Speaking of Ford, he’s intercepted more
of Dr. Lee’s e-mails, so I’m on my way over there now. Let me know if you turn up anything new.”

When Ella arrived at Teeny’s, Abednego came up to her holding his favorite stuffed monkey.
His tail was wagging and he looked a lot happier than either Ford or Teeny.

“Well guys, what’s up?” she asked.

Ford waved her to his chair. “Going through her previous e-mails and blogs, we’ve been able to narrow down certain elements of their code. I’ve already told you about the words ‘red rock’ being a trigger for events, but what we’ve also been able to determine is that it only holds true
if they’re preceded by the word
aqalani
.”

“ ‘Greetings’ in Navajo,” Ella said. “Interesting.”

“The words they use when referring to the attempt to kill me are
aqalani
, red rock, and Wednesday. I believe ‘Wednesday’ is their code name for me,” Ford added.

“They’re going to an awful lot of trouble to neutralize you,” she said slowly. “Any idea why yet?”

“No, I just can’t figure it out. I wouldn’t
have given myself away. I’m too well trained for that.”

“Yet Dr. Lee found the tracking device you planted,” she said. “They must have made you, Ford, and know that you’re trying to compromise their operation. That’s the only answer.”

He nodded slowly. “But they also want
you
out of the way. I’ve been studying this carefully and an e-mail sent less than twenty-four hours ago mentions problems
with
ha’asídí
, ‘watchman’ in Navajo. That correlates to the attempt on you today.” He showed her the e-mail and the time it had been sent. The name of the sender had been blocked out, but the addresses of the three recipients showed clearly. “The addresses you see were originally blind copies, but we got past that. What we haven’t been able to do is identify the sender.”

“Do you think the sender
is their leader?” Ella asked Teeny, who now stood behind her.

“There’s a real good chance of that. We never figured Jane Lee as the brains behind this operation.”

“Whoever it is, that person sure knows how to run a tight ship,” Ella said quietly.

“I’d like to run a program that’ll check out the other recipients of the e-mail, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with that first,” Ford said.
“I can’t guarantee it won’t tip them off.”

Ella considered it briefly, then nodded. It was time to start taking more chances.

“Then I’ll get started on that right now,” Ford said. “All I have to do is designate the key words and phrases we know about. The fact that some of the words are in Navajo should get us more reliable hits.”

The vast, data-mining program originated in a major computer
network that Ford wouldn’t identify, but Ella got the idea it was either the NSA or the CIA. The program searched millions of recent messages on the Internet, looking for anything that contained the search words. After several minutes, it produced an e-mail address. The recipient was an ex-Marine named John Baker, according to his profile on one of the Internet sites.

Ella sat up quickly. “Get
a photo on screen.”

As Ford pulled one up and moved aside, Ella studied the picture. “There’s a strong resemblance between this man and the composite sketch we got from Haske. Chances are this is the guy he knew as Nafus.”

Ford smiled. “That’s an anagram for SNAFU: Situation Normal—All Fouled Up,” he said.

“I’ve heard that phrased a bit differently,” Teeny said, chuckling.

Not commenting,
Ford switched to a DOD database, checking service records. “Baker served in the Marines fifteen years ago, in artillery. Now he’s a truck driver. According to this, he receives regular benefits.”