Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel (7 page)

I dropped the magazine and counted. Eight rounds fired, six remaining.

Noise crackled through the police radio. The sound was close by, closer than I thought. “Officer down! Officer down!” the deputy yelled breathlessly. There was stress in his voice. He was wounded. Badly, I hoped. I pictured him with the mike at his mouth, slumped in the cruiser’s open door, leaking blood from a mortal wound, talking with a last breath over the dead bodies collected around him. “Horizon Airport, near the trucking company,” he gasped. “Suspect is a white Caucasian male, thirties, fair complexion, over six foot, two-thirty pounds, wearing chinos and a navy shirt. Suspect has departed the scene and is armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution. Repeat, approach with extreme caution.”

In other words, if you see this guy, shoot first and maybe get around to asking questions at his funeral.

The dispatcher garbled something unclear.

“You’re fucking dead, motherfucker!” the deputy yelled out, stronger than he’d sounded talking to the dispatcher.

A police siren. It was distant but approaching, the volume of the sound building. Time was running out. I glanced around the side of the tire at my back. Open ground and fresh air lay beyond. I crawled out of the shadow, got up and ran, the desert beneath my feet now a grey monotone in the dim awakening of first light.

Joe Battle Boulevard ran from right to left directly in front of me across a mile or so of flat desert given over to various tire and auto graveyards. Butting up against the other side of that raised boulevard was a desert of the light-industrial variety. If I could just make it across the road and hide out in those concrete canyons, I had a chance of avoiding capture, assuming my ass wasn’t nailed walking around out in the open in what was fast becoming broad daylight. First order of business, I killed my cell before anyone with half a brain got the idea that I could be located by tracking its position.

Streaming along the highway, hurrying to the Horizon Airport turnoff, was a constant parade of black and whites, El Paso Police Department blue and whites, and ambulances, all of which were operating under a Code Three – lights flashing and sirens screaming. Any trust I might have had in the El Paso Sheriff’s Office would soon be carted off to the morgue in the back of those ambulances. I figured that the shootout could be pinned on me without too much trouble, mostly because the deceased had all been holed by an MP-5, and just my luck it would be the weapon I’d handled. If so, my prints would be all over it. And, of course, I’d shot and wounded the deputy with my own service weapon. If it came to a courtroom showdown, it would end up being my word against his – the real killer’s. And while I might make a case about having no motive for those slayings, a convincing fairy tale would no doubt be constructed to give me one. And in the meantime, if I happened to get myself shot dead because I was armed and dangerous and should be approached with extreme caution, the deputy’s word would never be called into question. In short, surrendering to local law enforcement was not on the table.

It took an hour to walk at a slow crouch across the desert and reach the boulevard, but I made it and managed to slip safely into those concrete canyons. In the shadow of a dumpster behind a Pfizer warehouse, I turned on my cell long enough to collect messages. Showing on the screen was a notice that several SMS messages had been received, but the only one I was interested in had come from Arlen Wayne. “Call me. Now!” it said, but I had to wait till a phone I wasn’t connected to in any way happened along. I smashed the cell on the corner of a step and left it.

*

“Hello?” said Arlen.

“Hey, Arlen, it’s Vin,” I said turning away from the window as a PD cruiser motored by in the adjacent lane.

“Oh, it’s you. Didn’t recognize the number.”

“Belongs to a guy by the name of … Roberto Munoz.” I read the name off the driver’s registration card.

“Who’s he?”

“I don’t know, which made him ideal.”

“Whatever. So you wanna tell me what the hell happened down there?”

“Bad news travels fast.”

“Ranger Gomez called. The County Sheriff’s Office questioned him about you.”

“What’s the story?”

“That you allegedly ran amok and killed some suspects and cops.”

“Deputies.”

“There’s a difference? Jesus, it sounds like there was a second massacre down there, and the only information we’re getting is that you caused it. Tell me it wasn’t you.”

I told him what he wanted to hear: it wasn’t me. Then I went on to outline events as they unfolded, starting with my pre-dawn arrival at the crime scene and concluding with the escape beneath the trailers. “I saw the son of a bitch do two of his fellow deputies,” I explained. “And one of the suspects accompanying the drugs was alive when I got outta there, so he killed the guy in cold blood.”

“Jesus, Vin … Wait a sec, the story’s just come up on screen.” He mumbled something like he was reading, then paraphrased, “Says here over a hundred and thirty million dollars’ worth of cocaine was seized after a shootout at El Paso’s Horizon Airport in a dawn raid this morning. They believe the murder suspect – you – took several kilos of the contraband.”

There it was: the fairy story. “Does it mention whether I go on to live happily ever after?”

“What?”

“The motive’s fiction, Arlen.”

“It says here four suspects connected with the seizure were killed by you, along with three Sheriff’s deputies.”

“It’s in print so it must be true.”

“According to this, you shot the surviving deputy in the shoulder and left him for dead.”

“Him I
would
have killed if I’d had the chance. He was trying to kill me like he murdered his chums from the office. Does the report give his name?”

“Says here Deputy Kirk Matheson.”

“Richard Simmons’ brother?”

“Who … ? Vin, hey, I’m late for a briefing about all this with the DEA and the FBI. Stay low. I’ll call you back at ten-thirty. Can you move around?”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Then get to Gomez’s room at the hotel.”

“That’s where I’m going.”

“Good.”

The line went dead. I told Roberto Munoz thanks and passed his Nokia back to him through the slot in the Plexiglas. We were coming up on the motel, only there was a small problem: an unmarked white police Dodge Charger parked at reception – two heads silhouetted in front with a steel mesh grill caging off the rear seats. “Hey, changed my mind about the motel,” I told Roberto. “You can drop me off at the Taco Bell.”

The cab driver acknowledged the change in plan by driving past the old Best Western and nosing into the fast-food joint’s parking lot. I paid for the ride and the use of his phone and went in to buy some cover.

*

The unmarked was parked so that the motel’s reception could be kept under surveillance, along with my room situated conveniently beside it. Gomez’s room however, was in the opposite wing behind the Dodge, on the ground floor and almost in the vehicle’s blind spot. Had he been allocated the adjacent room closer to the end of the wing, movement to and from it would’ve been completely obscured by the motel’s end wall. So basically, getting to his door was going to be risky and I’d be in an exposed position for maybe half a dozen seconds. But then a couple of motel guests returning from a late breakfast happened by while I was working up the courage to make a break for it. So I buried my face in the burrito, caught up and strolled along beside them, around the wall dividing the motel from the Taco Bell’s drive-thru.

A newly washed black Jeep Patriot rental was parked between the lines outside Gomez’s room. I went up and knocked on the door. It opened the inch or two allowed by the safety chain, Gomez’s face appearing briefly in the dark slit. The door closed, the chain rattled and the crack reappeared, this time wide enough for me to slip through.

“There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” the Ranger said.

“What are you gonna do about it?” I asked.

“Make some coffee. How do you take it?”

I relaxed. “Black, no sugar.”

The jug had already boiled the water. Gomez took another cup from a cupboard while I went to the window and took a peek out at the surveillance.

“Fill me in,” he said.

“Well, a funny thing happened on the way to work,” I began. But before I could elaborate, I felt the Sig ripped from the holster in the small of my back.
Jesus, not again …

“Hands behind your neck, Vin, fingers interlocked. Do not turn around.”

I took a deep breath. There was a chance – a good one – that I was about to get a pillow placed against the back of my head, followed by a bullet fired into it. I was almost relieved when Gomez shoved me against the door, cuffed one of my wrists before dragging it down behind my back, then told me to lower my other hand. I complied, mostly because he showed me a Government Model 1911 .45 Auto – a nice weapon, unless you happen to get shot by one. He patted me down, took my cell, wallet and ID.

“Okay,” he told me, “turn around.”

I turned and found myself staring into the .45’s unblinking black eye, my Sig stuffed in his waistband. “Is this you or your hangover speaking?”

“Funny.” He wasn’t smiling. “Take a seat.” He pushed a chair my way with his foot and then transferred the Sig to the back of his pants.

“I’m still alive so I’m thinking this is unnecessary.”

“Interesting statement. You wanna explain what it means?”

“Because if you were bent, like I suspect half the cops around here are, you’d have taken the opportunity to park a bullet in my back teeth.”

“The walls are thin. Gunshots would draw attention.”

No argument there. “So what now?”

“Like I said, there’s a warrant issued for your arrest. I’m a Ranger, arresting people is what pays my rent.”

“So arrest me.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You gonna read me my rights?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Do I have to wait for longer than that coffee you were gonna get me?”

“No coffee, Vin.”

My cell didn’t ring at ten-thirty when Arlen Wayne said he’d call back. But I wasn’t surprised. The DEA liked to talk as much as the CIA so his meeting with the both of them would probably go well into lunch. So, to pass the time, I filled Gomez in on the events of the morning.

“That ain’t the version I heard,” the Ranger said when I’d finished.

“Which one do you believe?”

“To be honest, Vin, you seem straight up and we worked well together, but I’d trust you more than I do if you were a Ranger. A lot of drugs are moving through this part of the world, and the money that comes with it has rotted out enough of the law enforcement in these parts to matter. None of us knows who to trust. You’re not from around here, and that’s to your advantage.”

I tried to move my cuffed hands. “Some advantage.”

He shrugged. “You say the deputy killed all those people this morning. The warrant says different. It’s your word against the deputy’s.”

I should be a courtroom strategist. “Wouldn’t you like to know who was in charge of clearing and securing the trailer park?” I asked him. “The drug shipment was just sitting there, guarded by folks who probably took part in yesterday’s raid. The whole area should have been thoroughly searched.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” Gomez agreed. “From memory, there were no DOAs found in that truck yard. Maybe that’s the reason it wasn’t cleared.”

“Shouldn’t have made any difference.”

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“Maybe whoever conducted the raid had any bodies moved,” I speculated. “Or maybe the people who leased that part of the facility were tipped off.”

“I like the way your mind works, Cooper, but you’re still not going anywhere.”

A soft tapping on the door distracted me.

“Is that who we’ve been waiting for?” I asked him, my back clammy with sweat.

“Maybe.” Gomez stood and went to answer it, keeping the .45’s watchful eye on me. There was nothing I could do about who was gonna come through that door. My hands were secured behind my back and Gomez knew what he was doing. I’d waited for some kind of an opening, hoping one would come along, but nothing had presented itself. Ranger training.

“Be cool, Vin,” he warned, meaning that he was about to take his focus away from me for a few seconds and that he knew I might try something dumb. Maybe because he already knew from first-hand experience that dumb often seemed my first option. The door opened. My heart rate rose into triple figures, bracing for the next surprise of the day.

“You must be Ranger Gomez,” said Arlen Wayne as he breezed in, showing his ID. He shook Gomez’s hand, giving it a hearty pump. Moving on, he said, “Hey Vin, how you doin’, bud?” He said it like he was excusing himself for being a little late for racquetball.

“You got here fast,” I said.

“They briefed me on the plane.”

Spotting the S&Ws on my wrists seemed to confuse him. He glanced at Gomez, looking for an explanation.

“You told me to detain him.” Gomez shrugged.

“Yeah, but cuffs?”

“You didn’t say make him a nice brunch and put on sports.”

“Jesus, Arlen. This is
your
suggestion … ?” I complained.

“Nice work, Ranger,” said another familiar face coming in behind Arlen. “Best not to take any chances.” A preppy Tommy Hilfiger face beneath perfect JFK-style hair … If I remembered correctly, the last time we saw each other the mouth in that familiar face promised “to fucking get me”. I noted he walked with a limp from an injury, I was pleased to say, that he blamed me for.

“Berkley Chambers,” I said. “How unpleasant to see you again.”

“See? Already it starts,” the man complained in mocking fashion to no one in particular.

“Got something in your shoe, pal?” I asked him. “Looks to me like you’re walking kinda funny.”

The upturned corners of his lips headed south.

“Vin, I see you remember CIA Crime and Narcotics Deputy Chief
Bradley
Chalmers
,” said Arlen, stressing the asshole’s correct name and title.

“What’s
he
doing here?”

“We’ll get to that,” he said, and then introduced Chalmers – whom I knew as the philandering former deputy Assistant Chief of the CIA’s Tokyo station – to Gomez.

When I’d crossed paths with Chalmers a couple years back he was the CIA’s point man in an attempt to stymie the investigation into the bombing of the Transamerica Pyramid building in San Francisco. The ploy to throw the inquiry was part of an elaborate CIA scheme to recover stolen biotechnology, which it intended to resell to generate cash for a secret black ops slush fund. Chalmers’ boss was currently doing a long stretch in a federal penitentiary for masterminding it all, but somehow his number two here had dodged the bullet. Basically, I trusted Chalmers as far as I could throw him with my hands S&W-ed behind my back. Speaking of S&Ws, the introductions wrapped up, the three of them just stood looking down on me. “Do you mind?” I asked Gomez, presenting my wrists to him.

“I don’t know about anyone else here,” said Chalmers, “but this is
sooo
making my day.”

Gomez glanced at Arlen, who gave him a nod. The Ranger crouched to unlock them and said, “Don’t try to escape, Vin.”

To which Arlen added cryptically, “At least not until we tell you to.”

“I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones once you return my weapon,” I said to Gomez, standing and massaging my wrists.