Deadeye (18 page)

After crushing the opposition, it was time to examine the take. There were three of them, all norms, and all under the age of thirty. The D-Dawgs lined them up so that Hermoza could squeeze their breasts and grade them. “Two B's and a C,” he concluded. But that was fine since each bitch was worth eleven pounds of cocaine, five pounds of gold, or one hundred thousand nu. Cocaine was Hermoza's currency of choice.

“This,” Hermoza said, “has been a very profitable evening. Collect their weapons, check to see which vehicles can be driven, and load the ladies. Oh, and don't touch them. You'll be sorry if you mess with my merchandise.”

“How about the bodies?” a D-Dawg wanted to know.

“Leave 'em for the coyotes,” Hermoza answered phlegmatically. “Everybody has to eat.”

*   *   *

It was early morning. Two precious days had passed since the first meeting with Van and the other members of the gang squad. And if Amanda Screed was still alive, Lee knew that forty-eight hours would feel like an eternity to her. But it took time to plan, get the necessary warrants, and establish a stakeout. Lee was on the top floor of a two-story residence directly across from aptly named Bandido Bar in south Phoenix. A watering hole where, according to Van, the D-Dawgs spent a lot of their spare time.

Thanks to the low windowsill, Lee could sit on the wooden chair and peer down through dusty blinds at the seedy saloon below. She was hoping that Hermoza would roll up and go inside, giving Kirby a chance to tag his ride. Would that happen? Maybe, but Lee wasn't going to hold her breath.

Still, the stakeout was something. And something beat the hell out of nothing. That's why Kirby was stationed in a parked van waiting to fire his air rifle at vehicles parked near the bar. The BB-sized tags were designed to hit, splatter, and stick. And by tracking the signals they sent, the deputies could determine where the target vehicles went.

Lee's thoughts were interrupted by a series of four knocks. Not two, not three, but four. The door was locked and kept that way at all times. Lee got up, drew the Glock, and went to stand beside the entryway. “Who's there?”

“Omo.”

Lee threw the bolt but waited to make sure that Omo was alone before closing the door and locking it. The pistol went back into the holster. “Hey, Cowboy . . . What's up?”

“I brought you some coffee,” Omo said as he offered a cup. “And some news. Somebody ambushed a convoy of Blancos out in the desert—and we have reason to believe that the D-Dawgs were responsible.”

Lee slipped the face mask up onto the top of her head. Then she took a sip. The coffee was good. “Blancos? Who are they?”

“A gang from New Mexico.”

“Okay . . . And we care because?”

“We care because they were bringing girls into the area with plans to sell them.”

Lee took a second sip. “Says who?”

“Says one of the Dawgs. He got hit by a falling rock and was left for dead. Once your relief shows up, we'll go over to the jail and talk to him.”

Stick arrived shortly thereafter, which allowed Omo and Lee to leave the building. A narrow flight of stairs led down to the back door, which opened onto an alley. After a careful 360, Omo pronounced the truck clean, and they got in.

It was a twenty-minute drive to the so-called tent-city jail located on Durango Street. Various iterations of the encampment had been around since 1993 and the mostly-open-air facility still housed more than two thousand prisoners.

After parking in a lot, they got out of the truck and proceeded on foot. “You can see the guard towers,” Omo said. “And the stun fences. But what you aren't likely to notice is the facial-recognition system, the minidrones, and the ringers.”

Lee looked at him. “Ringers?”

“People who
look
like inmates but aren't.”

There were multiple layers of security to pass through. But finally, after checking their weapons, the officers were allowed to enter. The sun was up, and Lee was starting to sweat as a uniformed deputy led them into a tent. Dupree was waiting. A caplike bandage covered the top of his head and his face, neck, and hands were covered with zits. Some were weeping pus, and Dupree dabbed at them while the visitors sat down. “This is Detective Lee,” Omo said. “And my name is Omo. What happened to your head?”

Dupree had beady black eyes. They darted from face to face. “I don't remember.”

“It's too late for that bullshit,” Omo said. “You were quite talkative when they arrested you, and I've seen the video.”

“They'll kill me,” Dupree said pitifully.

“Maybe and maybe not,” Omo replied. “If you're a good boy, we'll swap you for a prisoner in Texas. The Dawgs don't mean jack shit down there.”

Dupree looked hopeful. “Really? You can do that?”

“Yes.
If
you answer our questions.”

“Okay,” Dupree said as he blotted the right side of his face. “I'll tell you what I know.” And that, as it turned out, included the crucifixion and the ambush.

“Was the ambush successful?” Lee demanded.

Dupree shrugged. “I don't know. After the rock hit me, I fell into a ditch and passed out.”

“Understood,” Lee said. “But let's assume the ambush was successful. Where would the gang take the girls?”

“Only El Cabra and the so-called Big Dawgs know that,” Dupree responded.

“But I'll bet that you've heard things,” Omo put in.

“They say Hermoza has a ranch,” Dupree said. “Maybe he took them there . . . Or maybe he went somewhere else. Pretty soon now, he'll send out invitations, hold an auction, and collect his money. Simple as that.” The interview was over.

*   *   *

Manny Hermoza parted his lips, and Deputy Coco Moss sent her snakelike tongue into his mouth. That was followed by a good deal of heavy breathing, mutual groping, and a violent coupling. Once the climax was over, Hermoza allowed himself to roll off his lover's body and lay wheezing beside her. The ceiling fan had only one speed, and that was slow. However slight, the breeze helped to cool his sweaty skin. The motel room was dark except for the light that leaked in around the heavy curtains and the illumination provided by a flickering TV screen. “Damn, woman . . . You know how to fuck.”

“Watch your mouth,” Moss said as she elbowed her way up against a couple of lumpy pillows. “There's a lady in the room. Pass my cigarettes.”

Hermoza didn't approve of smoking. It was bad for your health, and he hated the stink. But Moss had privileges that other people didn't. One of which was to smoke in his presence. So he gave her the pack and a fancy lighter. There was a momentary flare of light and some tinny music. Way down in Dixie? Yes, Hermoza thought so. “So,” he said. “You wanted to see me.”

“Yeah,” Moss replied. “I have some information for you.”

“That's what I pay you for,” Hermoza said, as a stream of smoke hit the fan.

“We have a visitor,” Coco said. “A detective from LA. She's working on a slave-trading case. One of our deputies was assigned to help her.”

“So?”

“So they had a chat with Marcus Ford.”

“Ford's dead,” Hermoza replied mildly. “They hung him.”

“They spoke to him the day
before
he died,” Moss countered. “And he had plenty to say.”

Hermoza swore. “I should have popped the weasel myself.”

“And they spoke to Jimmy Dupree. He survived the ambush, and he's sitting in tent city, waiting to be arraigned.”

“What did he tell them?”

Coco shrugged. “Not much because he doesn't know much. But the heat is on. I think you should sell those girls and do it soon.”

Hermoza considered that. “I have to notify potential customers, give them enough time to respond, and set things up. So I need four or five days minimum. Where is this detective staying?”

“She's staying with Deputy Omo's family. In their compound.”

Her hand found him, and Hermoza was pleased to discover that he was ready again. “Brush your teeth.”

“Why?”

“Because you smell like an ashtray.”

Coco left for the bathroom, and Hermoza smiled.

*   *   *

Another day had passed and, in spite of all their efforts, very little progress had been made. The tag strategy was a success, in that the police officers knew where many of the D-Dawgs had been, but that didn't help much. Hermoza knew better than to maintain a headquarters location that could be bugged and used against him. He stayed on the move and used disposable cell phones to communicate with the gang.

As Lee's shift came to an end, and Omo arrived to relieve her, she was depressed. Some progress had been made but not enough. The sun was a red smear on the horizon as she drove Omo's truck to the family compound. Cousin Teo pushed the gate open. Lee waved, drove inside, and parked. A short walk took her to the casita. The old door had been removed and a new one had been hung. She opened it and went inside.

After a quick shower, Lee made a dinner that consisted of boiled pasta, a half can of tuna, and some shredded cheese. After washing the dishes, she placed a call to Travis Air Force Base in California. It had taken more than a day for McGinty to capture the right general's attention, convince her of the necessity, and set things up. Unfortunately, the major in charge of the project didn't have any news for her.

So Lee was left to paint her toenails and listen to some R&B. After that, it was time to go to bed. Sleep came slowly, but once it came, Lee went deep. And that's where she was when the attack started. She heard a burst of automatic fire, sat up straight, and was reaching for the Glock when something went BOOM.

Was that the sound of a missile hitting the compound? Or something else? There was no way to be certain as Lee rolled out of bed and started toward the door. The Glock was in her hand, but the Smith & Wesson was sitting on the dresser, so she took that too. She was still in motion when a
second
explosion destroyed most of the casita's east wall. One minute it was there, and the next it wasn't, as a mixture of dust and smoke filled the air.

Then the headlamps appeared. They made excellent targets, and Lee immediately went to work on them. She started on the left and worked her way to the right, being careful to aim at a spot just under each light. Three targets fell in quick succession.

Then she saw something fly through the air, bounce off a wall, and fall to the floor. Even though Lee was alone, she yelled, “Grenade!” as she took a running dive. She couldn't break the fall without releasing the pistols. So she hit hard and was skidding into the kitchen when the bomb went off. There was a flash of light, a loud bang, and the sound of broken glass as the kitchen window shattered.

None of the flying metal struck her, and Lee was giving thanks for that, when a battering ram hit the front door. It struck once, twice, and three times before breaking the lock and causing what remained of the door to hit a wall. Lee was sitting with her back to a cabinet by then. Both pistols were raised and she fired them in alternation. There was a yell, a burst of automatic fire that missed her by inches, and the boom of a shotgun. Not inside but
outside
. That raised the possibility that the Omo clan was fighting back.

Lee struggled to her feet and winced as she put her right foot on a piece of broken glass. She was barefoot and still clad in a tee shirt and panties as she approached the door. Two bodies were blocking the way. She shot both of them in the head before stepping on one. It gave slightly as Lee felt the cool night air embrace her. Uncle Gary nearly took a bullet as he materialized out of the shadows. “Come with me!” he said. “I think they entered the main house.”

They were halfway across the yard when the mortar rounds began to fall. Both of them hit the ground as the bombs marched across the compound. One of them hit the house and blew a hole in the roof. Lee jumped to her feet and began to run. “Momma!” she shouted. “We need to get her out of there.”

As they neared the front door, a man was backing out, firing short bursts from a machine pistol as he did so. Lee shot him in the back, jumped the body, and approached the door with both pistols extended. “It's Cassandra!” she shouted. “Don't shoot!”

They entered the house to find a very scared twelve-year-old clutching a .410 shotgun. One side of her head was damp with blood. “Cindy!” Lee said. “Are you okay?”

Cindy nodded.

“Momma,” Lee said. “Where is she?”

“In the kitchen,” Aunt Rosa said as she emerged from a hallway.

Lee followed the woman back into what was left of the kitchen, and that was where Momma's body lay. A splinter of wood was protruding from her chest, and she was holding on to it with both hands. Lee dropped down next to her and felt for a pulse. There was none. Lee started to cry.

“A mask,” Aunt Rosa said gently. “You need a mask.”

But Lee didn't hear. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry! This is my fault.”

Somewhere off in the distance, a siren began to wail.

OMO RECEIVED WORD
of the attack by radio, asked for a patrol car to pick him up a block from the stakeout, and was forced to sit with fists clenched during the ensuing ride. Based on preliminary reports, he knew there would be casualties, and all of them would be people that he loved. People who had accepted a norm into their communal home because
he
asked them to.

And what about Lee? Was she alive? The possibility that she'd been killed during the attack ate at him. If she was dead, that, too, would be his fault because he was the one who suggested she stay with his family.

Then came the question of who was responsible. The D-Dawgs? They were the most likely possibility. But
how
? Unless they had some knowledge. No a
lot
of knowledge. Including the fact that he was working the case. And maybe they knew about Lee, too . . . Where she was staying and why. That implied a leak. There had to be a leak.

They left the freeway, entered the hood, and it wasn't long before the full extent of the damage became visible. As the driver pulled in behind another patrol car, Omo saw that a hole had been blown in the outer wall. And beyond, he could see the remains of the casita.

Omo left the car and approached the hole. There were lots of bodies, and he half expected to see Lee's among them. But all of the casualties were male—and most had been shot in the head. And that was a sure sign that Lee was alive! Or had been immediately after the invasion began.

Omo stepped over the bodies and made his way through the bedroom and into the kitchen.
More
dead men blocked the doorway. No, one of them was a girl, but not Lee.

As Omo stepped over the bodies, Dan Brody appeared. They'd been partners once, and Brody knew his family. There was a look of concern on the deputy's bulldog face. “Hey, Ras . . . They told me you were here.”

At that point Omo knew his worst fears had been realized. He'd seen the same expression on Brody's face before. “Give it to me straight, Dan . . . Who did they kill?”

Brody looked away and back again. “Momma's dead, Ras . . . She died during the mortar attack.”

“My God . . . A mortar attack?”

“Yes. From about three blocks away. It didn't make much sense, given that they had people inside the compound, but it looks like someone screwed up.”

“Where is she?”

“In the kitchen. Don't go in there, Ras.”

“It's that bad?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

Omo turned and made his way toward the front door. Momma. The woman who called him “pretty boy” because he wasn't. She'd been larger-than-life, a force of nature, and he couldn't imagine the world without her.

The front yard was swarming with cops, but they stepped out of the way as the deputy wearing the grim mask entered the house. Broken glass crunched underfoot, and light strobed the walls as a tech took pictures.

Once Omo saw the blood-soaked body on the floor, and Lee kneeling next to it, he felt a flood of sadness, relief, and guilt. All at the same time.

Lee was about to say something when Aunt Rosa arrived carrying a mask. She pulled it down over Lee's face and helped her to stand. That was when Omo realized that Lee was clad in nothing more than a tee shirt and panties. He removed his duster and went to drape it over her shoulders. She looked up at him. Her face was filthy. And Omo could see the tracks left by her tears. “We'll find them, Ras . . . I swear we will.”

Omo nodded, and, when he spoke, his voice cracked. “And we'll kill them when we do.” A light flashed, and the moment was frozen in time.

*   *   *

More than twenty-four hours had passed since the attack on the Omo family compound, and the shooting reviews were still under way, as a new secretary gave Lee and Omo permission to enter Sheriff Arpo's office. All of the bullet holes had been plugged by that time, including those in the sheriff. And once the interior wall was painted, everything would look as good as new.

Arpo was staring at his computer screen with lips pursed as they entered the room. Then, having finished whatever the document was, he removed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and placed them on the surface of his desk. “Have a seat.” Arpo's eyes went to Omo. “I was sorry to hear about your mother's death. Please accept my condolences on behalf of the entire department.”

Omo nodded. “Thank you, Sheriff. I'll pass that along.”

“Please do. Tell your family that most of the dead attackers were wearing D-Dawg tattoos. So we know who did it. And we'll catch them.”

Arpo's gaze shifted to Lee. “The Internal Affairs people tell me that your testimony lines up with the information they have gathered up to this point. But I have to place you on administrative leave.”

“I know where Amanda Screed and the other women are being held,” Lee said.

When Arpo frowned, his eyes nearly disappeared. “That's bullshit.”

“No, it isn't.”

“How long have you known?”

“A few hours.”

“Okay,” Arpo said. “Pass the information to Omo, and we'll look into it.”

“No way,” Lee said. “I want in on the bust.”

“So this is about your rep.”

Lee remembered Momma lying on the kitchen floor. “Believe whatever you want.”

Arpo looked at Omo. “Is she telling the truth?”

Omo shrugged. “This is news to me. But yes, it's my guess that she's telling the truth.”

Arpo sighed. “Okay, Detective . . . What have you got?”

“These,”
Lee replied as she lifted a briefcase up onto her lap. “The files arrived on my phone a few hours ago. The folks in your lab were kind enough to print them out.”

Lee placed a dozen sheets of hardcopy on Arpo's desk. “I told the people in Pacifica to look for a place in the desert . . . A house or a collection of houses where multiple vehicles came and went on a frequent basis—and where there was a lot of security. But only places that were no more than an hour away from Phoenix. All of them look good—but I'd put my money on number three. Notice the fancy house, the palm trees, and the huge swimming pool. There's a fence, too.”

Arpo put the glasses back on so as to examine the photos. “There are smaller buildings as well,” Lee added. “I think structure ‘A' is a dormitory for the live-in staff. But ‘B'? Judging from the secondary fence, I'd say that's the holding tank. The place where they keep the women before bringing them to market.” There was a long moment of silence while Arpo scanned each print in turn. Eventually, he put the last one down. “Were those images captured by a drone?”

Lee shook her head. “No. That would be a violation of the cease-fire agreement between Pacifica and the Republic of Texas. They were taken from orbit.”

Both men stared at her, but it was Arpo who spoke. “So your government has one or more spy satellites?”

Lee nodded. “Yes.”

“I'm surprised your people were willing to signal that.”

Lee smiled sweetly. “I think they want you to know.”

Arpo swore under his breath. “Okay, so let's say I'm willing to indulge you. What then?”

“I suggest that you recheck all three locations using your drones,” Lee replied. “Then, if everything looks good, we go in. An air assault would be best.”

Arpo looked thoughtful. “I will probably live to regret this decision, but okay, let's go for it. I'll notify Sergeant Van.”

“No,”
Omo said as he spoke for the first time. “You know what happened to my family. There's a leak somewhere. Possibly in the gang squad. I say we hold off, notify Van two hours prior to liftoff, and collect the team's cell phones before they board the choppers.”

“Van will be furious,” Arpo predicted.

“I can live with that,” Omo said calmly.

Arpo looked from Omo to Lee. “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why are you here?”

*   *   *

The sun was about to break company with the eastern horizon and the air still felt cool as Lee left the building and made her way out to the rental car. The casita was uninhabitable at that point—and Lee didn't want to run the risk of bringing more sorrow to Omo's family. So after a tearful parting the evening before, she checked into the Desert Springs Motel. It would be more difficult to guard her health, but there was no other choice.

It was a relatively short trip to the Maricopa County Sheriff's heliport in Mesa. Security was extremely tight, and Lee wasn't on the department's roster, so she had to phone Omo and have him sign her in. Once the formalities were complete, he slid into the passenger seat for the short ride to the visitor's parking area. “This car is a piece of shit.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Lee said. “And don't dis my ride. At least I can get into it without a ladder. How does the drone stuff look?”

“Good,” Omo said. “
Real
good. You were right about target three. A large pavilion went up overnight. And it looks like they're placing markers for what could be a temporary parking lot.”

Lee pulled into a slot and killed the engine. It clattered before shutting down. “A pavilion
and
a parking lot. What does that suggest?”

“An auction.”

“So we need to get in there fast . . . Before the girls are sold.”

“Exactly,” Omo agreed. “I would have preferred a night assault, but what is, is. The choppers are ready, chase teams are on the way, and we're gearing up.”

They were out of the car by that time and walking toward a hangar. “The gang squad is here?”

“Yup, plus the SWAT team. That's a dozen people counting you and me. Two chopper loads. The rest of the task force will arrive on the ground. The sheriff wants us to arrest all of the customers, too. Some of them might be running baby farms.”

Lee thought about Amanda and shuddered.
Don't give up,
she thought to herself.
We're on the way.

As they entered the hangar, Lee saw that the deputies were completing their load outs. All were dressed in desert camos and heavily armed. Lee had just started to think about the need for tactical equipment when Coco Moss showed up with a double armful of gear. “Here you go, hon . . . I think we're about the same size, so I took stuff that would fit me. What's up anyway?”

That was when Lee remembered that none of the people on the assault team knew where they were going or why. And for good reason after the attack on the Omo family compound. It would be necessary to brief them however—or run the risk of a major shit show once they were on the ground. “There will be a briefing soon,” Lee told her. “Thank you for the gear . . . I'll take good care of it.” Coco smiled and turned away.

Lee took the gear over to a workbench, where she went about the process of putting things on and making all of the necessary adjustments. She was still working on it when a male voice came over the intercom. “This is Lieutenant Riley. Please assemble in front of the office. The mission briefing is about to begin.”

Riley was in command of the SWAT team, and by the time Lee and the rest of them came together, he had some easels set up. Lee saw the photos provided by Pacifica, plus the stuff from the sheriff's drones, and some other useful information. That included the plans for the main house as filed with the county.

Riley began by explaining the nature of the mission, including the opportunity to, “Put El Cabra out of business for good.” Then he assigned individual missions and concluded with a stern admonition. “Remember, people . . . The chances are good that most, if not all of the perps, will run. Let them go. The choppers will track the bastards, and the chase teams will round them up. Our job is to find and secure the prisoners. Do you read me?”

One deputy said, “Got it, boss.” Another said, “Yes, your worship.” And a third said, “Duh.”

Riley grinned good-naturedly. “Good. Now, security is of the utmost importance, so you're going to surrender your cell phones to Perez here. And that means
all
of them. I know that some of you carry two.”

That was enough to elicit some anger. “What are you saying?” a deputy demanded. “That one of us is on the take?”

Riley nodded grimly. “Sorry, but we have reason to believe that such a thing is possible. Look at it this way . . . If the goat knows we're coming,
you
could get killed. And that would be real hard on the wife and kids.”

That was sufficient to shut the man up, but there was still quite a bit of grumbling as Perez made the rounds. Lee surrendered her phone and was ordered to pair off with Coco for mutual pat downs. Both of them found extra magazines, cuffs, and other pieces of equipment, but no phones. Everybody laughed as some of the phones in the cardboard box began to ring, chirp, and play music. But that came to an end when word arrived that vehicles were streaming into the ranch. And if the potential buyers were starting to arrive, then it was obvious that the auction would begin soon.

Everything seemed to shift into high gear as they split into two groups of six and hurried to board the helicopters. What were they? Sixty years old? All Lee could do was hope that they, like so many cars, had been continually rebuilt over the years.

After a momentary pause, they were in the air. The lead chopper took off to the southwest and stayed relatively low. Both side doors were open, which allowed the slipstream to enter the cabin and pummel the passengers. Lee couldn't see much from where she was seated. Just gated communities, clusters of homes in what had been the suburbs once, and the fields of rubble that separated them. Once the helicopter cleared the city, fortified homes began to appear. Most were collections of shacks, old trailers, and aluminum sheds.

The rest were surrounded by greenery, security fences, and, in one case, a glittering moat. They belonged to the wealthy. People who chose to live out in the desert and away from the dangers associated with city life.