Deserted

by E. H. Reinhard

  “What’s our time we’re rolling out of here?” I took a sip from the coffee I’d just gotten inside the main building.

  “If we want to be in position and go in at six o’clock sharp, we should be on scene between five thirty and five forty-five, meaning we should leave here at four thirty to take into account the few minutes we’ll need to coordinate with the local law enforcement.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at my watch. The time inched up on twenty after four.

  “Any word back from the agents you sent out?” Beth asked.

  “To the property?” Philben asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “They haven’t reported anything. They’re only supposed to call if they see anyone.”

  “So where are they exactly?” Scott asked.

  Philben waved him to the car he stood by, with the map lying flat on the hood. I walked over and stood alongside Scott and Beth to see where Philben had stationed the agents.

  “Civilian truck parked right here”—Philben put his finger down on the map—“This is the only road in and out of the area. We’re about a mile back from the house, but you’d have to pass my guys to get there or leave. They’re in street clothes but obviously armed.”

  “What are we going to do if someone gets in that rig and tries to flee?” Bill cracked the top on an energy drink he must have gotten from inside when he disappeared a couple minutes prior—by my count he was on his fourth or fifth. He walked up to us huddled around the hood of the car.

  “We’re going to roll out a set of spike strips at the base of the driveway. The truck is parked nose in. Here.” Philben moved a few papers around and pulled out a photo taken earlier during the flyover. “Nose in.” He pointed at the semi in the photo. “I don’t think the big rig is going to get too far with eighteen blown tires surrounded by agents.”

  I couldn’t argue with his logic. Gallo and Chris walked up to our group.

  “Are we almost ready to roll here?” Gallo asked.

  Philben looked at his watch. “A couple minutes.”

  “All of our paperwork set?” Chris asked.

  Philben nodded. “Arrest warrants on the women and search warrants on the property. We’re good there.”

  Gallo leaned in next to me and took a look at the photo lying atop the map on the hood.

  “That still bothers me,” Gallo said.

  “What’s that?” Philben asked.

  “The people out and about. The fire. I just imagine drinking and partying. Mix alcohol with violent criminals, and pretty much any thoughts of I’m not fighting my way out of here kind of disappear.”

  “We’ll be ready for whatever we get,” Philben said. “Okay, I assume you guys all are wearing?” He tapped on his chest.

  I nodded, as did the rest of our group.

  “Okay, we have radios and labeled tactical vests for you guys as well.” Philben looked around as though searching for someone in particular. “Reeves, where are all of the boots?” he called.

  A voice called back, “In the bags by the gear,” though I didn’t see the agent.

  “All right. Why don’t we get you guys suited up.” Philben walked us to a large table near the parked vans in the garage.

  The table’s surface was covered with radios and various FBI vests and gear. Below the table were a number of plain brown bags with boxes inside. I assumed they contained the boots—where the Bureau had acquired them at that late hour, I didn’t question.

  I pulled off my suit jacket, grabbed a mic and earbud and pulled the wire through my dress shirt. The others in our group did as I did. With the mic clipped to the top of my tie and the earbud fished up through my shirt collar and put into place, I ran the rest of the wire through the inside of my shirt, grabbed a radio, and plugged it in. I clipped the radio to my hip, and our group went through a quick radio check. We confirmed their operation, and I put my suit jacket back on, followed by a blue FBI vest over the top. Each vest had numerous pockets for extra gun magazines and equipment. A flashlight stuck up from a high chest pocket. The front bottom left side of the vest had a holster for a firearm. I transferred my weapon and extra magazines from my shoulder holster to the front of the vest. I glanced over at Beth and the rest of the group doing the same.

  “We should have all the boot sizes that you guys had given us,” Philben said. “We have a boot store that we get a lot of gear from. The owner is a close friend, so I made the call and he got us set up.”

  “Should we be worried about snakes out here?” Beth pulled her FBI vest over her tan blazer. “Is that the reason for the boots?”

  “I wouldn’t get too worried about it, but it’s always a possibility. More so that dress shoes, which I figured you guys to be wearing, just probably aren’t the best desert-terrain footwear. These will be a little better.”

  “Sure,” Beth said.

  We went through the bags of boots and found our sizes. I glanced to my right to see Bill pulling a pair out and turning a boot in his hand while he looked at it. The boot appeared to be some kind of hybrid between a work boot and a cowboy boot, complete with the standard curly cowboy-boot embroidery. Bill flashed me a confused look, to which I shrugged and kicked off my black dress shoes. I slipped on one of the boots and then the other, pulling my dress pant legs down over the boots—the footwear was surprisingly comfortable and made me an inch or so taller with the thick rubber sole.

  “Let’s get everyone set here, and we’ll roll out.” Philben let out a quick whistle, alerting the men sitting around, talking, and waiting. He waved everyone into a group. “We’re going to take these two cars and those two SUVs. We’ll have the locals get the roads shut down as soon as we arrive on scene. We have a stack of aerial photos here as well as the pics from the flyover. Everyone grab some copies and make sure you’re as familiar as you can be on the ride over. We’ve already kind of designated the dangerous areas to avoid, mainly the row of trailers. We’re not looking for any surprises here, so keep your heads on straight.”

  Philben received confirmations from everyone.

  “What are our orders here?” one of the agents asked.

  “Don’t fire unless fired upon or you’re in imminent danger,” Scott said. “And remember that we still don’t know if we’re dealing with friendlies inside. So if you take a shot, make damn sure you know who you’re shooting at.”

  “Understood,” the agent said.

  Our group got in our vehicles and pulled out single file from the Bureau garage. Beth, Scott, Bill, and I rode in one of the big black SUVs, driven by Philben. Gallo and Chris rode in the SUV on our tail with a couple other agents. We exited the FBI facility and drove toward the interstate.

  I glanced in the side mirror at the three vehicles following us and rubbed my fingertips against my palms. My hands were growing clammy from a mix of nerves, adrenaline, and the unknown. Even with years of experience executing warrants and apprehending suspects, the drive to complete the task always seemed the most stressful.

  I glanced back over my shoulder at the rest of the team. They all sat facing forward, hands in laps, saying nothing. We drove the interstate silently for ten miles before we hopped onto one state highway then another. Twenty minutes into our trip, we were out of the El Paso area headed east. The road ahead of us had two lanes in each direction, separated by a wide single-lane gravel median. Small mountains sprouted up off to each side and ahead of us. The side of the highway was nothing but small desert trees and shrubs leading to the mountains as far as I could see. Every half mile or so was some kind of side-of-the-road small business or ranch—then nothing until the next one.

  Philben slowed and pulled to the side of the highway. “Our turn is right up here. Let me make a call and see where our local help is.”

  I glanced in the side mirror of the truck, watching our string of vehicles pull off the roadway and park single file behind us. We waited almost ten minutes before a group of five sheriff’s cruisers came into view, approaching from the other d
irection. We watched them pass, slow, and pull through the gravel median, making a U-turn and pulling up alongside us. The first car pulled directly to Philben’s window, which he lowered.

  “Agent Philben,” he said.

  The deputy inside the other car clicked on his interior light and dipped his head to get a view. “Deputy Rick Mitchell.”

  “Is this everyone?”

  “Five cars, ten deputies. What are you going to need from us here?”

  “Basically making sure no one comes or goes from the location that we’re headed to.”

  “Which is?” the deputy asked.

  “Our turn is about a quarter mile up the highway here. The property that we’re headed to is a couple miles back in there. We have a pair of agents that have been positioned at a crossroads about a half mile from the home. Ideally, I’d like to get two of your cruisers there and another two on the far side of the road past the property. You guys see anyone coming, detain them until we can clear them.”

  “That it?” he asked.

  “Should be all we need,” Philben said.

  “Got it. You just point me to where you want us.”

  “Appreciate the help.”

  The deputy gave him a nod and raised his window. He was calling something on his radio as we pulled back onto the highway. Before we even got up to speed, Philben slowed in the middle of the highway, put on his directional for a right-hand turn, and pulled down a gravel road not much wider than a single lane. I stared out through the windshield. The rising sun, while not yet over the horizon, lit the sky enough to see. To the left and right out ahead of us was nothing but desert.

  “Is this an actual road or a driveway?” Beth asked.

  “Road with a name,” Philben said. “This is how it is around here.”

  We continued up the single-lane gravel road for a few miles before Philben slowed and made a left down another crossing gravel road that twisted back toward a small group of mountains in the distance. “Our agents that we posted should be on the next crossing road up here about a half mile.” He pointed out the windshield. “We’ll make a quick stop with them, kind of round everyone up for a quick little powwow, and then roll to the property.”

  “How far from here is the Levy home?” I asked.

  “A mile.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Our stop with the two agents, Salters and Ramsay, was brief. They’d hadn’t seen another soul since being stationed at the crossroads. The pair geared up, put on radios, and hopped in one of the cars at the back of our convoy. Philben sent two of the sheriff’s cruisers ahead of us. Their orders were to pass the property and block the road coming from the other direction a quarter mile up.

  Through the dust clinging in the air from the sheriff’s cruisers, I spotted an old rusted-out car from the nineteen fifties sunk into the ground ahead on our left.

  “That’s going to be our spot,” Philben said.

  I stared at the car as it neared and then off to the left, looking for any kind of house. I saw nothing.

  Philben slowed to not much more than a roll and veered to the left of the road about fifty yards from the driveway entrance. At twenty-five yards, he stopped and clicked the truck into park. He let out a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  We exited the truck and waited for everyone to step from their cars, grab their weapons, and get on the rest of their gear. I glanced at my wrist to catch the time—five forty, right on schedule. Philben opened the rear gate of the truck and waved us back from around the quarter panel. Beth, Scott, Bill, and I met him at the back. We looked in at a number of large military-grade gun cases. Philben popped open the first case, which held a pair of Colt M4 carbine rifles and extra magazines.

  “I assume you’re all familiar?” he asked.

  “M4 carbine. We’re familiar,” Scott said.

  Philben nodded and passed off the two rifles in the case to Bill and Scott. He opened the case sitting beside the first and handed one of the rifles inside to Beth and one to me. I inserted a magazine, pulled the charging handle, and flicked the select-fire switch to safe. I dipped my head under the rifle’s sling and let it hang from my shoulder.

  Philben rounded up all of the agents. Gallo and Chris jogged over from the back of the truck parked behind us, carrying rifles matching ours.

  “We’re all here?” Philben looked around, taking count of his men and continued, “First, Stanley, get to that car at the base of the driveway and try to get some eyes on this place. Report back what you see. Take the spike strips with you.” Philben jerked his chin at a six-foot dark-haired agent standing among the group, with a set of tan binoculars hanging from a cord around his neck.

  “Got it.” The agent removed a set of spike strips from the back of one of the cars and jogged past us toward the vehicle half sunk into the hard-packed sand just off the gravel road.

  “All right. Everyone knows their positions and the layout of the property?”

  His questioned received yeses, yeahs, and nods.

  “All right. As soon as you’re in your position, call it over the radio. Once everyone is set, we’re taking these two trucks into the driveway.” Philben pointed at the truck we’d driven in and the one immediately behind us, which Gallo and Chris had ridden in. “As soon as we get wheels into the driveway, we’ll have Stanley get that spike strip down behind us. We’ll then continue up the driveway to the property, park, and try to make contact. Everyone clear?”

  All agents confirmed.

  “Use your radios. Let’s make sure everyone knows what everyone else is seeing when we get up there. I’ll give the call when we’re going to make con—”

  The agent sent to the car reported back over the radio. I heard what he said, heard the word bodies, but Philben asked the agent to repeat himself.

  The agent’s voice came through my earbud again, “There’s bodies lying everywhere. A count of three at the rear of the tractor trailer. The rear doors of the truck are standing open. It looks empty, but I can’t see all the way inside. The bodies at the back appear to be an older man, an older woman, and a younger woman. Lots of blood, no movement—deceased. I see another two bodies near what looks like a large fire pit further back on the property to the east—no movement. Both appear deceased. There’s a bit of smoke still rolling off of the fire area. Good God, there’s a burned corpse on a pole in the center of that fire pit.”

  “Did he just say burned corpse?” Chris asked.

  No one replied.

  “Do you see anyone moving?” Philben asked over the radio. “Any hostiles? Anyone who looks like they may be a hostage or friendly?”

  “There’s no one moving in sight,” the agent said through my earbud.

  Philben shook his head and addressed our group. “Bodies on scene means we have killers on scene. Keep your heads on swivels. Get in position and call back when you are.”

  The men split up and trekked through the desert landscape toward the property. They fanned out to their appointed positions.

  Philben pulled out his phone, hit a few buttons on the screen, and looked at our group. “I’m calling in everyone.” He stepped a few feet from the back of his truck and away from the team.

  Gallo ran his hand along the back of his neck and up over his bald head, which he shook in disbelief. “Do we even know what the hell we’re dealing with, here?”

  “It looks like we’re about to find out,” Bill said.

  “These girls—this can’t be all their doing,” Beth said. “We’re going to be dealing with more people.”

  The thought ran through my head that the old man and woman the agent had reported seeing were more than likely our missing couple. I wondered who the other bodies were. The woman who’d escaped, Sarah Goff, had only claimed that there were another two women inside.

  “We might be too late for anyone who was in that truck,” I said.

  Philben hit the screen of his phone and dumped it into his pocket. “We’ll have more men here with
in the hour.”

  “You’re not planning on waiting, are you?” Chris asked.

  “Not in the least.”

  I received one ‘in position’ call over my earbud then another. They came in every ten to fifteen seconds.

  “Let’s get in the trucks and get in there.” Philben looked at his agents that were in the vehicle with Gallo and Chris. “You guys follow us in. We’ll have Stanley lay the strips and hop in the truck with you guys to follow us to the house.”

  “Understood,” one of the agents said.

  We loaded into the trucks and made the short distance up the gravel road to where the agent, Stanley, serving as our eyes onto the property, stood. He laid the strips as we pulled into the driveway and then got into the truck behind us. I stared forward, watching the back of a tractor trailer and a home off to its left come into view. A large shed stood farther ahead and off to the east of the semi. As we continued to near, the bodies lying behind the semitrailer came into view.

  Philben pointed straight ahead, out the windshield. “Make note of those boulders on the east of the tractor trailer there in case we need them for cover.”

  “I see them,” I said.

  Philben called over the radio, “We’re going to pull sideways at the back left of that tractor trailer. We’ll take our position there.”

  Confirmations came over the radio, followed by two more agents reporting seeing additional bodies lying on the property.

  “Do we have a total count?” Philben asked.

  Multiple agents’ voices came through my earbud—they reported seven total deceased.

  No one in the car responded. I stared out of the windshield as we neared the bodies at the back of the semi. Philben veered left at the back of the semitrailer and pulled into the scattered two-foot-tall desert brush along the side of the driveway. I looked out the passenger window as we turned to see the body of the older man lying on top of the older woman. The pair was clearly deceased, based on the amount of blood soaked into and staining the gravel beneath them. I glanced farther right of the pair to see another woman, also deceased, curled into a ball on the ground. Stab marks littered the visible area of her torso. My eyes shot to the house, directly out my window. The home’s front door faced us. The single-story weather-beaten ranch had a bay window to the right of the front doorway. Two more windows sat left of the front door. The far right side of the home had what looked like a covered porch area with a railing and another door. As my eyes spanned left to right across the house, I saw no movement. We exited the vehicle and took cover on the driver’s side as the following truck, containing Gallo, Chris, the agent that drove, and Agent Stanley, pulled up to the back of our truck and parked. We gathered at the point the two trucks met—between the rear gate of our vehicle and hood of the other.