Let the Devil Out (24 page)

He eased up on the accelerator.

“Why are we slowing down?” Actually, she thought, Detillier hadn't picked up the radio since they'd gotten into the car. He kept claiming not to know anything. Well then, why wasn't he calling someone and asking questions?

“This Walmart does terribly,” Detillier said. “It's barely hanging on, and they stopped selling guns after they got looted in the storm.” He threw Maureen a nervous glance. “But I'm guessing the people we're after didn't know that. Doesn't mean they're not armed to the teeth already. We should count on it.”

“Point made,” Maureen said. Her throat was so dry she could barely get the words out.

Detillier pulled the sedan into the very back of the parking lot, and threw the car into park. He stared straight ahead through the dirty windshield at the Walmart a hundred yards ahead.

“We gonna let anyone know where we are?” Maureen asked.

Detillier didn't answer. He watched the Walmart, listening to the radio.

Maureen's eyes dropped to the radio, as if she could read there whatever mysterious signal Detillier was hoping to discern from the chaotic chatter of orders, police codes, and panicked questions filling the car. She ground her teeth. What the fuck were they just sitting there for, doing
nothing
? Her breath got short, tears of rage again welling in her eyes. She palmed tears from her cheeks. She inhaled her snot and swallowed. She took a deep, deep breath, then exhaled long and slow.

She turned to Detillier.

“Can you just call someone? Anyone? There's got to be news about Preacher. I need to know. I can't make anything out of that mess on the radio.”

Detillier raised his hand, gesturing, Maureen realized, for her to be quiet.

“And there it is,” he said. “That's what I've been waiting for.”

“There
what
is? For fuck's sake.”

“The response to the first nine-one-one call”—he raised his chin in the direction of the Walmart—“from inside the Walmart. I was right. Those fuckers are in there. Someone fleeing the store called it in.” He shifted the car into drive, rolled them toward the store. “Showtime.”

 

20

They cruised slowly across the parking lot, giving the Walmart entrance a wide berth.

Maureen watched as the automatic doors opened and one person then another jogged out of the store, glancing over their shoulders as they ran. She could tell they were scared, but nobody was sprinting. Whatever had frightened them wasn't chasing them, and the danger was away from the front of the store. Maureen knew the Watchmen weren't coming out. Law enforcement would have to go in after them.

“We've got a description coming in over the radio,” Detillier said.

Maureen listened as the NOPD dispatcher described the shooters. One male, one female. Possibly a couple. That could matter, be useful, Maureen thought; if they could be separated, maybe they could be used against each other. The dispatcher said the man was white, with a medium to solid build, about six feet, short black hair. The woman was also white, thin, long brown hair, about five-six. The shooters were dressed alike. Camouflage cargo pants, black boots, body armor, fingerless gloves. An invented, secondhand uniform. This was good, Maureen thought. They'd be easier to distinguish from any remaining customers in the store.

Both were heavily armed, carrying automatic rifles, AK-47s or something similar. It should be anticipated, the dispatcher said, that they carried sidearms as well. And while there had not been visual confirmation on these two shooters, the Mid-City shooter, the one who'd shot Preacher, and who had been killed on-site, had been carrying grenades.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Maureen said. “This is unreal.” She looked at Detillier, who watched the front of the store and nodded his head at every detail the dispatcher related. “You ever seen something like this before?”

He went on nodding. “This is how it happened in Vegas. This is how it happened in Memphis. Right down to the fucking Walmart.”

“And how did it end those other times?” Maureen asked.

“Ugly,” Detillier said. They moved closer to the store as Detillier drove in smaller circles. “These things, with people like this, they can't end any other way. You try to limit the damage.”

Maureen pointed a finger at him, sitting up on one knee in the passenger seat. “You know. You know if Preacher's dead or if he's alive and you're not telling me. Why are you not telling me?”

“I wouldn't tell you a thing I'd heard,” Detillier said, “even if I had heard something. Because there's better than a fifty-fifty chance that whatever I'd tell you was wrong. Information in these crazy situations is unreliable. Think about that. I need you to focus, Maureen. I need your full attention on the matter at hand. We're walking into an active-shooter situation, a potential hostage situation. You gotta be here now. There's no fucking telling what you're going to be asked to do. You have to be ready for anything.”

Detillier parked the car.

*   *   *

He'd put them off to the far right side of the entrance, away from the front doors, the sedan parked at an angle behind a huge black pickup truck they could use for cover. A trio of scraggly parking-lot trees helped to shield them as well. Maureen understood Detillier's strategy. From where he'd positioned them, they couldn't be shot at out the front door. They'd see anyone exiting the store before that person saw them. They'd see anyone who'd slipped out the back of the building and came around the right side of the store. Anyone who slipped out the left side would be more than a hundred yards away from them when they appeared. Detillier had left the Watchmen no direct shots or angles of sneak attack.

“We're not waiting for backup,” Maureen said. “Are we?”

“We're not charging in guns blazing, if that's what you mean,” Detillier said. “But we do need to gather as much intel as we can. If they've got prisoners in there, we need to know as soon as possible. We need to be able to tell everyone who shows up the lay of the land inside that store. I have gear we'll need in the trunk.”

Maureen lit a cigarette. Probably her last one for a while, she figured. No sense in nic-fitting while stalking cop killers in the frozen foods section. Smoke drifted into one half-closed eye as she double-checked her Glock, confirming that first bullet remained chambered. She thought of the places she'd like to send it, like right in between some country motherfucker's eyes. By dressing up and playing soldier, the Watchmen had removed the risk she'd faced outside Dizzy's. She would know, immediately, if the person she aimed at presented a threat. She slipped her weapon back into the holster on her hip. She wouldn't hesitate. Not this time.

They got out of the car. They met at the trunk. Detillier popped it open.

“You're going to have to wear federal colors, I'm afraid. At least they'll protect you from friendly fire once the others arrive.”

“I got no problem with that.”

Detillier walked away from her, talking into a handheld radio, describing the scene and their plans for the folks on their way. Things were about to get crazy, Maureen thought. In minutes the parking lot would be a forest fire of emergency lights. She took off her leather jacket and tossed it in the backseat. Detillier reached into the trunk, handed Maureen a Kevlar vest. Shaking her head, she tapped her heart. “Already armored.”

She grabbed a blue windbreaker that said FBI in big white letters across the back and pulled it on. She tightened her ponytail.

“The female shooter inside,” Detillier said, returning to the car and pulling on his own armor and jacket. “That description mean anything to you? Any chance that's your girl, Leary?”

“That's not her in there.”

“You sound pretty sure,” Detillier said. “Nobody's been able to find her for a month and a half. Could be she found her way back to the Watchmen and that's where she's been hiding.”

“We found her last night,” Maureen said. “In Lafayette Cemetery with her throat cut open.”

“Dead?”

“Indeed,” Maureen said. “I was going to tell you after lunch. Other matters took precedence.” She could hear the sirens approaching from every direction. The boys were coming, with their big guns and their armor that fit. She'd get cut out of the action. “Let's get going. I feel like I'm standing here waiting for someone else to come and do my job for me. I don't like it.”

“If we can do it,” Detillier said, “these people are worth taking alive. No matter what they've done. What these guys did today? Trust me, it isn't the endgame; it's the beginning. If we can get from these two what's coming next, we can save lives.”

“You don't have to tell me my duty,” Maureen said.

“These aren't the two who shot Preacher.”

“I'm no vigilante.”

“Here's how it's going to go,” Detillier said. His radio squawked with multiple voices. He turned down the volume. “You are going to approach from the right side of the entrance so that you don't cross in front of it. When you get there, stay flat against the building. I'm going to loop around to the other side, come at the entrance along the left side of the building. I will clear the entrance. You got that? Me first around that corner. Me. Once I've cleared the entrance, I will signal for you to come in behind me. As we enter, you will cover my back, and I will cover yours. Depending on what we find, or what finds us, we'll use the registers for cover, reconvene, report in, and strategize from there. Got it?”

“I got it,” Maureen said.

“See you inside,” Detillier said. And for the first time, he smiled at her. He's done this before, Maureen thought as the agent scampered away, and he enjoys it.

*   *   *

Maureen watched as Detillier made his way across the parking lot. He covered the distance in crouching sprints, using cars and trash cans for cover. No sign of life came from the Walmart. No one else came out. She couldn't hear anything happening inside the store, but the approaching sirens grew louder. Two helicopters now hovered low overhead, no doubt relaying the scene back to the approaching forces.

Part of Maureen wanted to wait for backup. That was certainly the safer play. She knew a few people in the Tactical Unit. She'd actually worked with Tactical once, serving a warrant in Central City. They had the armor, the gear, and firepower equal to what the two Watchmen shooters had. They were a paramilitary unit unto themselves. But I'm here now, she thought. And a bigger part of her couldn't wait to get inside the store. She wanted to be the one to make the arrests, and if that didn't happen, to be the one who took down the people who'd killed her fellow officers. There could be hostages. They couldn't be abandoned. She had so much to prove. To the brass, to the other officers in her platoon, to her entire department. To Atkinson. To Preacher.

Detillier had reached the end of his cover. Maureen made her move.

She sprinted across the wide lane in front of the store, jumped up on the sidewalk, and threw herself against the brick façade of the building. She held her gun at port arms.

She watched the glass doors as Detillier ran to take his position on the opposite side of the entrance. In unison, they took slow, careful steps to the end of their respective walls. Detillier made a “stop” sign. Maureen waited. Detillier crouched, then, his gun drawn, staying low, duckwalked toward the doors. They opened when he got close, and he moved into the doorway, making himself small against the wall. Maureen held her breath, waiting for gunshots.

Detillier stayed crouched in the doorway, gun out in front of him, his head turning left then right as he surveyed the inside of the store. He waved for Maureen to follow him. She glanced back at the parking lot as multiple NOPD units rolled in, sirens blaring. A dozen more cops had arrived. And there, on their heels, in their big, boxy truck, was the Tactical Unit. Detillier hissed her name. Maureen took a deep breath and duplicated Detillier's approach. He'd started moving again when she had, and she followed him to the nearest register station. They ducked behind it for cover. She'd been right that the Watchmen had moved to the back of the store. There was no sign of them up front.

Maureen and Detillier sat hip to hip on the tile floor, catching their breath.

“So far so good,” Detillier said, his voice low. “They don't want a shoot-out. If they did, they would've been waiting for us right here. Maybe suicide by cop isn't how this ends after all.” He looked up at the ceiling. He peeked around the corner of the register station. “Man, this is a big fucking store. It's a lot for two people to cover.”

Of course it's big, Maureen thought, it's a fucking Walmart. But she said nothing. She understood Detillier's frustration. The people they hunted could be ten yards away, or they could be a hundred yards away. She certainly understood his urge to act. She more than understood it; she shared it.

As Detillier reported their progress and observations into his radio, Maureen tried to tune him out. Instead, she listened as hard as she could for sounds from the belly of the store. She wanted clues to what might be waiting for them. Unfortunately, she couldn't hear anything but the god-awful piped-in New Country station playing over the speakers. Bon Jovi rejects with banjo thrown in. She was sweating. She wiped her forehead with the backs of her hands. The things you thought about, she mused, when trying not to get shot. What she wanted to hear was voices. When they hadn't been met with gunfire at the door, she'd become more convinced that she and Detillier now faced a hostage situation. She thought she'd hear commands from the shooters, or even weeping and whimpering from the hostages. Nothing came to her, though. Nothing but that terrible fucking music.

“I can't see anything from here,” Detillier said. “If we could find the security office, we could use the CCTV cameras to see the whole store.”