Authors: John Turney
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“I positioned our men,” Jilt said. “They’re in strategic points around the property and throughout the house.”
“When the cop comes,” Junior added, “we’ll be ready.”
“When which cop comes?” asked Dee.
List laughed and said, “Your fool husband.” List pushed out of his
plush chair and lumbered over to Dee. Leaning over, he tapped her forehead with a thick forefinger. “He meddles with my business.” Tap. “He interferes with my associates.” Tap. “The insufferable little man can’t be bought, so he’s in my way.” He slapped her cheek. “But not after tonight. You’re here to assure his arrival. I plan to terminate his employment. Permanently.”
Lights danced before her eyes, and her face ached from the slap. She shook her head to clear it.
“MOM!”
She jerked a glance at Manny. In that moment, seeing his eyes wide in fear and mouth gaped open, her heart sank. From the corner of her eye, Dee saw the motion. List’s raised arm moved like a striking snake. His fist crashed into the side of her face, and her mind went black.
Rye and Whitewolf waited in the patrol car outside the lone gate of the Whiskey Storage Lot. Through the rain-splattered windows, Rye studied the lot and its security. Titanium chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. Double-walled units. Secured roll-up doors. Cameras set in inconspicuous places. It had been a good choice.
Whitewolf cleared his throat. “I’ve done some investigating.”
“Yeah? About …?”
“About the shooting of the Yuma Sheriff deputy.”
“Really?”
“We’ve assumed that there was only one truck. The one that crashed. But I’ve replayed the tape from the event, and Deputy Cruze clearly indicated trucks. Plural. That got me thinking. So I checked out the crash site.”
Rye turned away from the window to study Whitewolf’s profile. “And?”
“There was more than one truck. I figure there were at least a dozen. And I found out where they went to.”
Darryl Worley’s song on Rye’s cell phone blended with the rain’s rhythm on the car’s roof.
“Dawlsen, here.”
“Chief,” said Gabby, “Reese, Heilo, and DePute are about two minutes away.”
“Gabby?” He frowned. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be at home.”
“Not tonight,” she said, “you need me here. Besides, I.C.E and the FBI are here looking for you and found me just as I was leaving. Something big’s coming down. And looky here, Yuma’s sheriff’s walking in right now. This is getting real cozy.” Her voice backed away from the mouthpiece. “Should I order out pizza?”
“Hey, Dawlsen,” a distant Sheriff Anne’s voice came through.
“And guess what,” Gabby continued, returning to the phone. “The fibbies brought intel. Though I would have preferred German chocolate ice cream. Even Neapolitan would have been okay. But it is what it is. First, that photo you found on Juan at Batts’ property. Their fingerprint analysis reveals prints from you. A set of unreadable prints. And another person of interest.”
“Go on,” Rye said with growing interest.
“Our very own Mayor Richard Humphries List.”
“That’s enough for a warrant,” Rye said, smiling.
“It gets better. From notes on his phone, it appears our Juan was about to turn an important source.”
After a couple of seconds of silence, Rye said, “So the cartel discovered this and killed him.”
“Correct-amundo.” Gabby popped a bubble with the gum she chewed.
“And he left that message before he died.” Rye spoke more to himself than to Gabby. He narrowed his eyes recalling the letters. “It was so important; he used his dying breath to leave us that clue. What’s he trying to tell us?”
“Yeahhh.” Gabby’s voice trailed off like she pulled the phone away. “The Feds want to talk to you. I’m putting us on speaker phone.”
“Chief Dawlsen,” said an unfamiliar female voice. The phone speaker did not improve the impersonal sound in her voice.
“Yes,” he said with uncertain caution.
“My name is Emmie Clark, and I am with the FBI. I have a search warrant for the residence of one Richard H. List.”
“I don’t understand.” Rye shook his head. “What’s going on?”
Gabby said, “The FBI, ICE, Yuma Sheriff’s Department and Border Patrol had planned to raid the List complex tonight. Something about gun smuggling and drugs … just to name a couple. And jay walking, I believe. However, the storm’s grounded them.”
Agent Clark spoke up. “The weather forecast calls for the rain to continue for a while. That grounds our operation. By the time the weather clears enough, the transaction of guns, drugs, and money we believe taking place tonight at List’s place—”
“Wait a minute,” Rye interrupted her. “What did you just say about guns, drugs, and List?” Rye watched the headlights of an approaching car. He freed his handgun from its holster and nodded at Noah, who caught the chief’s meaning and readied his own weapon.
“Sir, really, we don’t have—”
“Hold on a second.” He pulled his notebook out of his shirt pocket and thumbed to the correct page. “Juan’s message: ‘GS. DS. DHL. DA.’ It’s guns and drugs. DHL. It’s not an airline, it’s someone’s initials …”
“Dick Humphries List!” Gabby interrupted.
“Right,” said Rye. “That means DA is probably a person. But who? I don’t—”
“Demonio Amo,” Clark said. “Head of a military group turned drug cartel. He’s a real SOB.”
Rye peered through the watery traces on the back window as the other car came to a stop behind Whitewolf’s Crown Vic. Heilo stepped out of the driver’s seat and waved.
Rye said with a throaty sound, “And he’s got my family.”
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Rain streamed off the brim of Rye’s Stetson while he unlocked the garage door to his storage unit. Rainwater spilled inside his collar sending shivers down his spine. Rolling up the door, he stepped into the square room, glad to get out of the weather. The smell of gun oil permeated the space. Rain drumming the roof made hearing difficult. His fingers probed the wall until he found the light switch. When the lights flickered on, one of his officers whistled.
In the glaring illumination of a single fluorescent bulb, wooden crates sat on metallic tables or wooden pallets, along the walls and down a middle aisle. Stenciling on each box explained its contents.
“Nice,” Heilo yelled over the noise.
DePute nodded his head in appreciation.
Rye said, “You can thank Iona. She provided the funds to purchase these weapons.”
Rye took several steps into the storage area, his boots scuffling on the cement floor. Behind him, someone shut the garage door.
“And I think our circumstances require it.” He strolled over to a table against the back wall and powered up the laptop sitting on it. “Gather around.” He typed in a password, lighting the screen with the WPD logo and two rows of folders on the left side. Rye clicked on one labeled “Photos.” A window popped up to show icons. He clicked on the first one.
“This is the front entrance to List’s house.” He looked at his officers. “This is where we’re going in. List has been a project of mine ever since I became Whiskey’s chief of police.”
The picture revealed a beautifully southwestern-styled home, with a large vehicle turnaround and a wall that opened to a garden in front of the house.
DePute whistled. “Sweet.”
“As you know, that’s only a fraction of the house. This part sits on top of the cliff.” He opened another photo. “This is the rest.”
The picture showed three stories of glass building tucked against a canyon wall. Rye clicked through several more photos showing the large concrete pad for a patio, the back acreage that led down to a dry gully, stables with a curving ramp leading to the middle story, and blueprints of the building’s floor plans. The next screen shot showed an aerial view.
“This is List’s compound,” Rye explained, drawing an imaginary and irregular circle with his finger on the screen. “The back of his house faces this canyon which opens and drops into this creek. His property continues up this hill to this ridge.” He pointed at each spot. “Any questions so far?”
Everyone signified a no.
“This is the road to List’s place.” He indicated a gray line that split
the compound into two unequal sections. “That’s the road on which Deputy Cruze was shot and killed.” He paused, giving his officers the chance to make the connection between the murder and List’s location.
“We’ll come down this road,” Rye continued. “Park at this little turnaround and make our insertion somewhere along this fence line. Notice the thick vegetation.”
“Where does a mayor of a Podunk town in the middle of the desert get the money to afford all that?” asked Heilo.
“Good question,” Rye answered. “I believe Whitewolf has the answer to that. Tell ’em what you told me.”
Whitewolf bounced a glance between the other three. “Deputy Cruze was not killed by a lone truck that crashed. It was a convoy of trucks taking arms and drugs to List’s place. He’s been trading with one of the cartels.”
Silence.
“Son of a—” Heilo stomped over to a wooden crate stenciled with a black “HK.” She kicked it then smashed a fist on its top. She tilted her head and read the black markings. Caressing the top of the box with loving fingers, she turned to Rye. “Heckler and Koch?”
“Find out.” He snatched a tire iron lying on top of the table and tossed it to her. She caught it one-handed.
She pried under the lid of the box, the nails giving way with reluctant squeals. The lid crashed to the floor.
She closed her eyes and lifted her head skyward. “Thank you, Jesus!” She lifted one of the olive green assault rifles out of the box and cradled it like a newborn. “The HK 21E Shorty Beltfed with a 9” barrel,” she said. “Dig the scope. This is sweet. This baby can fire 800
rounds per minute, and it’s mine. I trained on it in the Rangers.”
Another crate lid fell to the floor, and Whitewolf held up a SIG P226 handgun, the dull black finish looking wicked. “Heilo, check this out.”
Heilo joined Whitewolf. “Coo-ool,” she said making the word into two syllables. “The 9mm, baby. It holds 15 rounds. Now, we can deliver some payback.”
Reese stood next to Rye. “You said Iona paid for these. Where’d you get them?”
“Let’s just say, I’ve got my sources.” Addressing the group, Rye said, “You got a few minutes to get familiar with these weapons. I got several assault rifles, Hydra-Shok bullets, various knives with scabbards, tactical armor vests, helmets with tactical headsets, night vision goggles, and special boots.” He paused for a breath. “I want everyone armed with an assault rifle, several of the P226s, extra mags, and at least one knife. Plus your service handgun. There’s a screened-off area to change clothes. Now all I have to do is figure out how to connect these headsets to the FBI. Let’s get ready, boys and girls.”
“Hey, Chief,” DePute said. “What about that Polaris MV8000 ATV in the back corner. That baby rocks.”
“I want this to be a stealth operation.”
“I can dig that, but how about a little misdirection. While the rest of the team deploys quietly.” DePute nodded to the olive ATV. “With that, I can create all the diversion you’ll need.”
Rye smiled. “This is supposed to be where I argue with you ’cause I don’t want to change my plans. But … you’ve given me an idea.”
He brought the group over to the ATV. He reached down in the
back area and opened a door to reveal a hidden compartment. In there, he had stored some nonperishable food, camping supplies, a couple extra P226s, extra ammo, and half a dozen flash-bangs.
Then he looked at DePute. “Okay … dude … you have your ride.” And Rye explained to him what he wanted.
Afterwards, Rye clapped his hands and shouted, “I want to roll in five.”
Dressed with vest, helmet, goggles, knives strapped to each leg, handguns at each hip and locking in the ammo box to her HK 21E, Heilo stepped from behind a screen and said, “I’m ready to rock and roll.”
Rye studied his officers. “This situation is no longer an investigation. It’s a rescue mission.”
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“Boss?” crackled the voice over the radio on List’s belt. Demonio jerked his gaze toward the fat Americano. “There’s some moron playing on an ATV a couple hundred yards out from the house. How should I proceed? Over.”
Sitting in a chair in the shadows of the room, Demonio steepled his fingers and tapped them together.
I will see how this vaca handles situations. I’ll see if our relationship continues after tonight.
List’s face reddened. He struggled to get the radio from his belt while mashing the remains of a cigar into an ashtray.
The hombre struggles to keep his emotions in check.
List put the device up to his mouth and pressed the call button. “Well, idiot, go check it out. If there’s any doubt, kill the SOB.”
Too reactionary.
List returned Demonio’s stare. “If he’s on my land, he’s one dead punk.”
It would have been better to try and extract intel from the trespasser. Perhaps, he is more than a kid playing in the rain.