Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  * * *

  Omo was pissed. Nothing was going right. After the first copter took a hit from an RPG, the second diverted to a spot that had been designated as LZ-2. It was closer to the main house than the building that he and the members of the gang squad were supposed to secure. Plus, Omo knew that Lee had been on chopper one and felt a tight knot in his gut.

  The moment their helicopter touched down near the main house, the deputies were met with heavy gunfire. They jumped to the ground and began to run. Stick took a hit, jerked spastically, and fell. Kirby screamed a series of obscenities as he ran forward, firing the ancient MAC 11 that served as his main weapon. The deputies used palm trees, planters, and ornate fountains for cover as they returned fire. Van had given up on securing the objective until he could suppress the fire that was coming out of the house. Every now and then, a well-dressed man or woman would emerge from a door or window yelling, “Don’t shoot!”

  Potential customers? Trying to get clear? Yes, that was how it appeared—and the plan was to let the chase teams round them up. But the attack had gone wrong, and Van was afraid to let anyone get behind the members of his squad. What was to stop a D-Dawg from pretending to be a customer? So Van ordered his team to detain them. “Facedown on the ground!” Fossy yelled. “With your arms spread!”

  Six of them were lying facedown next to the swimming pool when someone began to shoot at them from the house. Whether that was an error, an effort to silence potential witnesses, or an act of vindictiveness wasn’t clear. Bodies twitched as the bullets smacked into them and two people stood. They had just started to run when Fossy shot them down.

  Omo heard a thump as Van fired his grenade launcher. That was followed by the tinkle of broken glass and a muted explosion. The firing stopped.

  The team made its way past the pool to the point where sliding doors provided access to the interior of the house. One of them had been shattered by stray bullets. Van pushed it aside and led the squad into a beautifully appointed great room. Omo saw a huge fireplace, a seating area furnished with white couches, and a scattering of what might have been real zebra skins on the tile floor.

  He was still taking that in when someone yelled, “Get them!” and a series of menacing growls were heard. Van turned as four gray pit bulls charged into the room and converged on him. He was screaming as the dogs ripped into his flesh and Omo entered the fray. He was carrying The Equalizer, and the dogs disappeared in a spray of blood and bone as the 12-gauge went boom-clack, boom-clack, boom-clack. One dog remained and was worrying at Van’s leg. Omo couldn’t fire without hitting the officer as well. He was reaching for a Colt when Fossy shot the animal in the head.

  Omo was about to kneel next to Van and apply first aid when Manny Hermoza entered the room. His hair was slicked back, diamonds sparkled on his droopy goat ears, and he was wearing a black sport shirt. One of the gang leader’s wiry arms was wrapped around the neck of the woman held in front of him—and a huge pistol was clutched in his free hand. “Back off!” he said loudly. “Back through the door and into the pool.”

  Then Hermoza stopped. A look of surprise appeared on his face. “Coco? Is that you?”

  Coco did the logical thing which was to shoot at him. Anything to shut the bastard up. But she missed—and Hermoza didn’t. There was a loud BOOM, and the left half of Coco’s head disappeared.

  Omo’s Colt was on target by then. It seemed to fire of its own accord, the barrel jerked upward, and the woman screamed as the .45 caliber slug creased her side and entered Hermoza’s body. He uttered a grunt and let go of the woman in order to place a hand on the wound. Then he fell face forward onto a white couch.

  The woman was Hermoza’s common-law wife Carla. She tried to run but didn’t get far. Kirby shot her in the left knee and she crashed into a piece of statuary, which shattered as it hit the floor.

  Hermoza was dead. But what about Lee? Doors slammed as deputies entered the room, and somebody called for a medic. Half the battle was over. But gunfire could be heard in the distance.

  * * *

  Lee was forced to step on the D-Dawg’s body as she lowered herself into the underground passageway. The tunnel was lit by bare bulbs, which dangled from the ceiling at regular intervals. For the first time since exiting the chopper, she had a chance to call in and keyed her mike. “This is Lee . . . Can anyone read me?” There was no reply. Because all of them were too busy to answer? Or because she was underground? Not that it made any difference.

  Moving quickly, Lee made her way south. Or what she thought was south toward the slave house. She was forced to bend over because the ceiling was low. She could hear the sound of gunfire, and it was getting louder. Then Lee saw someone drop into the tunnel ahead of her. She wished she had a silencer but didn’t. As the D-Dawg turned, the only thing she could do was drop to one knee and fire.

  The noise was extremely loud in the enclosed space. Lee rushed forward as the body fell, put another bullet into the gunman, and peered up through the vertical shaft above him. No one looked down at her, so she began to climb the wooden ladder one-handed.

  As Lee stuck her head up through a hole in the floor she saw three men, all of whom had their backs turned to her. They were firing out through shattered windows. “Get back!” one of them yelled. “Get back, or the bitches die!”

  Lee took a quick look around. The women the man was referring to were huddled in a corner. All of them were wearing masks, which suggested that they were norms. She knew they could see her and raised a finger to her lips.

  Then Lee ducked out of sight and lowered herself into the tunnel below. She kept the pistol pointed upward as she whispered into the mike. “Riley? Anybody? This is Lee. Do you read me? Over.”

  There was a burst of static. “This is Riley. I read you. What’s your twenty?”

  “I’m in a tunnel under the room where the girls are being held. I poked my head up while the Dawgs were shooting at you. There are three, repeat three perps, and about eight girls.” There was a pause, as if Riley was consulting with someone, followed by another burp of static. “Are you carrying a flashbang? Over.”

  Lee couldn’t remember. She checked. “Yes, I am.”

  “Okay, climb up there, and get ready. When I say ‘now,’ toss it into the room. Avoid the hostages if you can—and don’t fire your weapon. You might hit one of us.”

  “Got it,” Lee replied. “Give me thirty to get in position. Let’s move soon . . . They could decide to drop through the hole any moment now. Over.”

  “Copy that. Make your move.”

  Lee freed the grenade from her vest, climbed up the rungs, and put the Glock in its holster. “Now,” Riley said, and the suddenness of it caught Lee by surprise. She pulled the pin, lobbed the grenade into the room, and closed her eyes. Her hands covered her ears as the device detonated.

  That was Lee’s signal to draw her pistol. She heard a second bang as a battering ram struck the door, and Riley entered the room, weapon at the ready. “Down! Down! Down!” he shouted, and to her relief the D-Dawgs obeyed. They were still seeing afterimages from the flash and were well aware of the fact that they were outnumbered. Lee knew the SWAT team was amped on adrenaline, so rather than pop up out of the hole, she announced herself first. “Good work,” Riley said. “You can come up.”

  Lee put the Glock away and pushed herself up into the room. Riley and the rest of his people were securing the D-Dawgs, which left her free to speak with the prisoners. All of them wore white dresses, and their wrists were secured with plastic ties. “Hello,” Lee said. “My name is Cassandra Lee. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. You’re safe now . . . Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  One of the girls said, “Thank God,” while another began to sob, and a third started to shake. Lee produced a knife and flicked the blade open. But, before cutting anyone loose, she had a question to ask. “I can’t see your faces
and probably wouldn’t recognize them if I did. Are all of you prisoners? Is somebody hiding among you?”

  “No,” one of them replied. “All of us are prisoners.”

  Having watched for any signs to the contrary, and having seen none, Lee began to cut the ties. “Which one of you is Amanda Screed?”

  “She isn’t here,” a voice answered. “I was with her in LA . . . A man named Wheels kept us in his garage. But then, after he took us into the red zone, people came to take Amanda away. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Lee felt her spirits plummet. Eight women had been rescued. That was good. But Amanda, the girl she’d been sent to find, was missing.

  * * *

  Momma was dead. Omo’s cousin Juan was dead, too, having been shot to death trying to defend the family compound and the casita Lee was sleeping in.

  Stick was dead. And so was Van, who had been ravaged by El Cabra’s dogs and succumbed to his wounds a few hours later.

  Throw in the dozen or so deputies killed by the Aztec terrorists, and that added up to a lot of funerals. So many that Lee had to buy a black dress. It wasn’t her fault. She knew that. But it seemed as if death followed wherever she went. And that feeling continued to dog her as she went to the memorial services, fought to maintain her composure, and battled to cope with all of the reports that she was supposed to fill out.

  Though appalled by the cost, Sheriff Arpo had been pleased with the raid, and for good reason. Not only had El Cabra and his gang been eradicated, eight young women had been rescued, and the resulting publicity was extremely good for his department. Which was to say good for him and his chances of reelection. And that was reflected in his attitude toward Omo, who had been recommended for a medal.

  But while the failure to find Amanda Screed wasn’t that important to Arpo, it was a big deal back in LA, where the bishop continued to pressure the mayor. And according to all accounts, the politician was riding the chief like a horse. So when Lee asked McGinty for more time, he’d been quick to grant it. Especially in light of the successful raid.

  Now, Lee and Omo were about to interview Shelly Reston, the girl who had been imprisoned with Amanda in Los Angeles. Shelly and the rest of the hostages had been admitted to a Phoenix hospital, where they were undergoing tests prior to being sent to their various homes. Having been cleared through security, Lee and Omo rode an elevator up to the fifth floor. From there it was a short walk to the wing where the girls were housed. Two deputies were on duty, and one of them knew Omo. She sent them to room 501. The door was slightly ajar, but Lee knocked anyway. A female voice said, “Come in.”

  As Lee entered, she saw that Shelly was dressed in what looked like brand-new street clothes and sitting in the room’s only chair. “Hi,” Lee said. “I’m Detective Lee—and this is Deputy Omo. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

  Shelly stood. She wasn’t very tall and didn’t have much meat on her. A mask prevented Lee from seeing her face. “You’re the one who came up out of the tunnel,” Shelly said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Lee replied. “Deputy Omo was there, too . . . He’s the one who shot Hermoza.”

  Shelly extended a small hand. “Thank you, Deputy Omo, he deserved to die.”

  Omo took her hand and shook it gently. “Yeah, he did. Unfortunately, there are more just like him.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Lee interjected. “You were with Amanda Screed . . . And we’re trying to find her.”

  “I hope you do,” Shelly said fervently. “She deserves it. When I was down, she would find a way to cheer me up. I owe her a lot.”

  “Let’s go to the lounge,” Omo suggested. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

  The lounge was a small room two doors down. It was equipped with a round table, four chairs, and a TV that was tuned to a Spanish-language station. As they took their seats, Lee noticed the scars on Shelly’s wrists and knew that she had attempted suicide at some point. Knowing that the young woman had been through a lot, Lee hoped to keep the conversation low-key. “So you were snatched off a street in LA and imprisoned in Willy Conroy’s garage. What happened next?”

  “Amanda was already there,” Shelly said earnestly. “And two days later, she managed to escape. She would have made it, too, except that she spent too much time trying to free me. Conroy came and beat her up.

  “Two days later, he loaded us into his van and took off. There weren’t any windows, so we couldn’t see out. But he said we were headed for the red zone, and that made sense.

  “After what might have been a couple of hours, he stopped so we could pee. I don’t know where we were except to say it was someplace out in the boonies.”

  “Could you see any mountains?” Omo inquired.

  “No, it was dark. But Conroy said we were going to use a secret crossing. A dry riverbed that ran east to west. And once we got under way, the ride was extremely rough.

  “Finally, we came to a stop. Conroy let us out, gave us some candy bars, and built a fire next to the van. We were in Arizona, or that’s what he told us. We waited for a while, lights appeared, and a pickup arrived. The man who got out seemed to know Conroy.”

  “Did you hear a name?” Lee inquired.

  “Yes. It was Lictor or something like that.”

  “How about Rictor?” Omo asked.

  “Yes! That’s it . . . Rictor. He paid Conroy and made us get into the back of his truck. There was a camper on it, and he locked the door.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “What happened next?”

  “We drove cross-country,” Shelly said. “That’s what it felt like. For an hour or so. Then the truck came to a stop, and Rictor told us to get out. He put hoods over our heads. We heard voices. One of them wanted to know which one of us was Amanda.”

  Lee interrupted at that point. “That’s what he said? He mentioned her by name?”

  “Yes,” Shelly replied. “I couldn’t see much through the cloth, but I think one of the men took Amanda’s hood off and aimed a flashlight at her face.”

  “Now that’s interesting,” Omo said thoughtfully. “Slavers want girls. I get that. But why would someone want a specific girl?”

  “Why indeed?” Lee wondered out loud. “All right, what happened next?”

  Shelly shrugged. “I heard the men talk about money as they took Amanda away. She was crying. Rictor forced me into the truck. Then we drove some more. Finally, as the sun came up, we arrived at a bunch of old trailers. Three D-Dawgs were waiting there. They gave Rictor some money, and he left.” Shelly shuddered and looked down. “That’s when they did things to me. And told me not to tell.”

  Lee reached over to touch her arm. “I’m sorry, honey . . . You were brave. Very brave. And you survived. That’s the main thing.”

  Shelly looked up. There was a fierce look in her brown eyes. “Two of them are dead,” she said. “And one of them is in jail.”

  “He’ll hang,” Omo predicted. “Justice is quite swift around here.”

  Maybe a little too swift, Lee thought, but kept the opinion to herself.

  The questioning continued for another five minutes or so—but it quickly became apparent that Shelly had nothing more of consequence to share. So the officers thanked her and left.

  Later, once they were on the road, Omo spoke. “So, what do you think?”

  “Rictor got paid,” Lee replied. “Yet, according to the reports filed by Deputy Haster, there was no money to speak of on his body or in his home. So where did it go?”

  “He pissed it away,” Omo suggested.

  “Maybe,” Lee allowed. “And maybe not. Let’s ask his mommy.”

  ELEVEN

  BEFORE VISITING MRS. Rictor, it was necessary to perform some preliminary research. So it was midafternoon by the time Omo parked the truck in front of the nearly empty pizza parlor. From there it was only a few ste
ps to the Quik Cuts beauty salon located next door. The interior was still very cold. A beautician came out to greet them. There were two holes where her nose should have been, and she was clearly surprised to see two people wearing masks enter the shop. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “We would like to speak with Mrs. Rictor,” Lee replied. “Is she in?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, Mrs. Rictor owns the salon, but she’s retired. I’m the manager now. Would you like an appointment?”

  “No,” Lee said. “Not today. But thank you.” And with that, the police officers left.

  “Retired?” Lee said, as they returned to the truck. “How nice.”

  “It’s consistent with your theory,” Omo said. “I have her address. Let’s drop in.”

  The sun had started to sink into the west by then. So the saguaros threw long shadows as the truck passed small horse farms. Most were barely large enough for a single animal, a shed, and a corral. But some ran to a couple of acres. And that was enough for two or three horses.

  As they pulled into the driveway, Lee saw that Mrs. Rictor’s ranchita fell into the latter category. Her one-story frame house was painted pink with white trim. Farther back, a nicely fenced corral could be seen, along with an exercise area and a brown horse.

  Omo followed the circular drive around a cement fountain that was painted pink to match the house and pulled up about ten feet from the front door. As Lee got out, she noticed that a shiny especiale was parked in the carport. It was a nice ride for a lady who ran a beauty parlor.

  Omo led the way to the front door and the sign that read, MI CASA ES TU CASA. He rang the bell.

  Lee heard a yapping noise followed by a partially muffled voice. “Stop it, Sugar . . . Behave yourself.”

  There was a pause, as if Mrs. Rictor was looking at them through the peephole. Omo was hard to forget, so Lee figured Mrs. Rictor would remember him, and was soon proved to be correct. The door opened, and there she was. The hairdo was the same, as were the fake eyelashes and the splash of pink lipstick. This time a white dog was tucked under one arm. It bared its teeth and growled. “Deputy Omo!” Mrs. Rictor said. “And Detective Lee. What a pleasant surprise. Come in.”