Blood Lines

by Mel Odom

  “Where are we headed so early?” Remy asked. “The PD is back the other way.”

  As he drove, Will explained.

  >> Alice’s Café

  >> Kings Drive

  >> Charlotte, North Carolina

  >> 0656 Hours

  “Well,” Remy said a few minutes later, “nobody’s going to miss them. It looks like a law enforcement convention.”

  Will had to agree. Police cars and sheriff’s deputies’ vehicles filled the small parking area around Alice’s Café and spilled over into the surrounding neighborhood. There was a mix of sedans and off-road vehicles, and Will could see a mix of police uniforms and sheriff’s uniforms on the men standing by the cars.

  “Do you think there are enough of them?” Remy asked with a grin.

  “Victor Gant’s biker club is pretty deep in manpower too.” Will pulled in behind Tarlton’s car as the police chief flagged him down.

  “Morning, Agent Coburn,” Tarlton greeted. “This is Sheriff Nolan Greene.” He indicated the tall, heavyset man in a sheriff’s uniform.

  Greene stood nearly six and a half feet tall and was built like a bear. He looked as though he was in his late forties. Gray brushed at his temples and robbed the color from his sandy-red hair. Freckles covered his round face. He wore a Sam Browne belt that supported a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum.

  “Nolan’s big enough to go hunting bears with a switch,” Tarlton said, “but he still packs that hand cannon.” He handed Will a white paper bag. “I figured you guys didn’t take time for breakfast.”

  “No.” Will dug into the bag and found it held biscuit sandwiches with sausage, breakfast steak, bacon, ham, and eggs. “Thanks.” He took one of the biscuits and passed the bag on to Remy.

  Tarlton handed him a tall cup of coffee.

  “Benny’s always had this thing for tea parties,” Greene growled with mock sarcasm.

  “Don’t want to miss breakfast,” Tarlton said. “Most important meal of the day.”

  Remy took a biscuit out and flipped it to Max. The Labrador caught the biscuit but didn’t make it disappear until Remy gave him the command that it was all right.

  “Army dog?” Greene asked.

  “No, sir,” Remy replied. “This is a Marine.”

  “Better-looking than some I’ve met,” Greene acknowledged, with a quick glance at Tarlton.

  >> 0701 Hours

  “Victor Gant is holed up in a closed warehouse,” Tarlton said. He pointed at the location on the street map spread across the hood of his car. “This neighborhood we’re in, Cherry, is an older one. I won’t bore you with the history, but it’s had its ups and down.”

  Will was vaguely familiar with the neighborhood’s history. Cherry was one of Charlotte’s older neighborhoods and had shuffled back and forth between affluence and poverty and between black and white and was currently being torn between private residences and strip malls.

  “Factories and houses have come and gone around this neighborhood,” Tarlton said. “Back in the 1960s, the building in question was a machine shop. Supplied the war effort over in Vietnam. Back in the day, it offered a lot of jobs and helped stabilize the economy. In the 1990s, it went bust. A few other businesses tried locating there. Mom-and-pop shops. Storage facilities. Nothing worked. Then the Purple Royals bought it.”

  “The motorcycle gang bought the building?” Remy asked.

  Tarlton nodded. “Some of the biker gangs have put down legitimate roots. Set businesses up as fronts and even tax shelters. Hard to get popped on a vagrancy charge when you can prove you’re employed somewhere.”

  “What do they do there?” Will asked.

  “It’s a machine shop, mostly. That’s what the lower floors are. Victor Gant hired a company to broker jobs for these guys.” Tarlton grinned. “They’re so law-abiding there that they pay taxes.”

  “Anybody ever gone in there for a look around?”

  “Yeah. Place is run well. It’s legit. Never found any drugs or contraband there.”

  “They could use it as a chop shop,” Remy suggested.

  Tarlton nodded. “They could. But I’ve never found any evidence that they do. They’ve even got a speed shop in the northeast corner of the building. Custom headers. Rims. Tires. The works. All legit.”

  “The cover is tight,” Will said.

  “That’s what I’m saying. We’ll have to be careful inside.”

  “You’re sure Victor Gant is there?”

  “I know he is. After I talked to the kid at the medical examiner’s office, I put one of my undercover guys on the site. He let me know Gant showed up there a couple hours ago.”

  Will took that in. “You’ve got a warrant for Gant?”

  “I do. Judge Carson signed off on a warrant for Gant’s arrest for assault and for breaking and entering. The lock on the ME’s office was juked.”

  “Any evidence there?”

  “Not yet. I’ve got a crime team looking for a matchup.”

  “But you have Gant solid on the assault charge?”

  Tarlton nodded. “That’s dead-solid perfect. The kid from the ME’s office picked Gant out of a six-pack. Kid knew it was Gant by name before we gave him the pics.”

  “How did he know that?”

  “He’s been following the story.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  Tarlton shrugged. “He’s still in the ER. He’s got some bruises and a few stitches. The doc was talking about keeping him for a few more hours in case there’s a concussion. But he’s going to be all right.”

  “If it comes to it, will he testify?”

  “Yeah. He’s a stand-up kid.” Tarlton smiled a little. “He has visions of being a hero.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Will said. “That’s why a lot of men get into this business.”

  Will had come to the NCIS to get off shipboard duty and try to save his failing marriage. But he’d since learned a lot about the other law enforcement personnel and the passions that drove them.

  “I always thought it was the cool uniforms,” Remy said with a straight face.

  “They don’t come any cooler than the Marine Corps,” Tarlton said.

  “Marines can’t touch Navy dress whites, Chief.”

  “When are we going to do this?” Will interrupted before the friendly banter could continue.

  “Well,” Tarlton said, “there’s no time like the present.” He folded the map. “Let’s roll.”

  29

  >> Hawthorne Machine Shop

  >> Hawthorne Lane

  >> Charlotte, North Carolina

  >> 0729 Hours

  Hawthorne Machine Shop sat back in a stand of old oak trees whose branches scraped the metal top of the two-story building. It was a rectangular cinder block building with a simple sign over the front of the north side that advertised Hawthorne Speed Shop. A black-and-white checkered flag hung above the doorway to the speed shop. A large window showed a selection of tires, rims, and other accessories in bright, gleaming chrome.

  The west end of the building held another sign, announcing the presence of the Hawthorne Machine Shop. Both signs looked similar, standing on rectangular surfaces that were attached to the building by supports.

  Both businesses were open.

  “We got civilians on the premises,” Tarlton announced over the radio headsets.

  At the back of the Taurus, Will and Remy suited up in the riot gear. In addition to helmets and Kevlar vests with NCIS Agent stenciled on the back, they also wore shoulder and knee protective gear and gloves to protect against abrasions and impacts.

  Will and Remy used the buddy system, each checking the other off on the prep list as they readied themselves. Will carried one XD-40 on his right hip and another under his left arm.

  Remy carried two Beretta M9s in the same positions.

  Both of them left their M4 assault rifles in the equipment duffels, but they picked up chopped-down Mossberg pump-action shotguns that held five rounds and sported
skeletal folding wire stocks.

  “You ready?” Tarlton asked.

  Will nodded. Adrenaline flooded his body, but he was used to the feeling and concentrated on his breathing. Remy was as relaxed as if he were out for a Sunday walk.

  Lord, Will prayed quietly, keep us safe and let us do no harm.

  After a brief radio check, they followed Tarlton’s SWAT team onto the premises.

  Will’s stomach clenched in anticipation of what was about to take place.

  Trying to fight the police and sheriff’s department would be foolish, and Victor Gant was no fool, but Will knew the man was ruthless.

  He kept moving, the shotgun in both hands and canted forward and down so he could snap it up into readiness at a moment’s notice.

  >> Allington Hotel

  >> Charlotte, North Carolina

  >> 0733 Hours

  When the ringing phone woke him, FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Scott Urlacher cursed. He wanted to ignore it, but he knew he couldn’t. He hadn’t gotten promoted to his present position by ducking trouble when it came his way.

  He grabbed the phone and barked, “Hello.”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  It took Urlacher a moment to recognize the voice as one of the men he had watching over Victor Gant.

  “I don’t want to have a problem,” Urlacher replied.

  “The local police, sheriff’s deputies, and the NCIS are closing in on Gant’s place over on Hawthorne.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But they’ve come loaded for bear. Riot gear and a lot of men.”

  “Find out,” Urlacher ordered. “And get the team there.” He pushed himself out of bed and grabbed for his pants. He wasn’t about to let his plans for Victor Gant be thwarted by the likes of Will Coburn. Gant had managed to stay out of trouble for a long time. His son’s death had put him up against the wall.

  Urlacher intended to keep him there.

  >> Hawthorne Machine Shop

  >> 0736 Hours

  Victor came up with a pistol in his fist. His dreams had been twisted and dark, taking him back to the jungle. He’d been turning over bodies after a rocket attack had taken out his unit. Every body he turned over had worn Bobby Lee’s face.

  The pistol sights settled on Fat Mike’s round face, only inches out of reach.

  “Friendly!” Fat Mike yelped and held his hands up over his head. “Victor! Friendly!”

  Fat Mike’s words and voice soaked through the old terror and frustration that gripped Victor. He eased the pistol’s hammer back down and dropped his hand and the weapon to the bed again.

  He gazed around the simple room. It took a moment for it to click in; then he realized he was on the second floor of the machine shop. Those rooms had been turned into crash pads for the chapter.

  “What’s going on?” Victor grated.

  Fat Mike stood to the side of one of the windows. He peered out at the rising sun.

  “Cops,” Fat Mike said. “They’re all over the place, bro.”

  That woke Victor. He sat up in bed and started coughing. Cursing his smoking habit, he reached for the pack of cigarettes beside the bed, shook one out, and lit up. He joined Fat Mike at the window.

  Looking out, he saw that the police had congregated on the premises en masse. He cursed again.

  “I told you not to break into the ME’s office,” Fat Mike said.

  “It had to be done,” Victor said. “They weren’t going to let me tell Bobby Lee good-bye otherwise.”

  “Didn’t say it wasn’t the right thing to do,” Fat Mike agreed. “I just don’t think it was the brightest thing.”

  “Done is done. Can’t go crying over spilt beer.” Victor reached into his pants pocket and dragged his cell phone out. He’d put Agent Urlacher’s number on speed dial.

  >> 0737 Hours

  Will followed Tarlton’s people. For a locally trained police unit, they moved well. They also kept quiet and didn’t talk much, which was another plus. A lot of guys got the idea they should dialogue during an op like the men featured on Cops and other television shows.

  The bikers in the machine shop saw them coming. They were hard-eyed men in jeans and sleeveless shirts, with tattoos all over their arms and bandannas tied around their heads.

  Tarlton’s people and Greene’s deputies put bikers and customers up against the wall as a matter of course. The same question kept cropping up.

  “Where is Victor Gant?”

  Only a few of those asked knew. They told them the outlaw biker leader was upstairs.

  >> 0739 Hours

  “Look, Victor, don’t panic,” Special Agent Urlacher said.

  “I’m not panicked,” Victor replied as he watched the police invade the premises. That was the truth. He wasn’t panicked. He was angry.

  “Good.”

  “You said these men couldn’t touch me. You said you were gonna handle that. We had an agreement.”

  “Based on what I knew of you when I cut the deal with you, they couldn’t touch you.”

  “And now they can?”

  “I don’t know,” Urlacher told him. “I’m working that out now. Why are they coming after you?”

  “I don’t know,” Victor lied. He couldn’t help himself. Lying was a reflex action when dealing with cops. He’d done it all his life.

  “I don’t think they have a leg to stand on,” Urlacher said. “But I’m headed there. Don’t say anything to these people until I do.”

  “I won’t,” Victor agreed.

  “And tell your men to keep their weapons holstered. Any shooting starts, this thing gets complicated really fast.”

  “Sure.” Victor cursed. “Just you get here. Fast.” He hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  >> 0741 Hours

  Tarlton almost died at the third door of the individual rooms along the second floor. The law enforcement group stood out in the oval hallway only a short distance from the steps they’d come up. Three other sets of steps mirrored the points of a compass.

  Will stood behind Tarlton and saw the woman with the man in the room. Both of them were getting dressed hurriedly. The man held a Baggie of drugs that he was frantically trying to pour down the sink at the back of the room at the same time.

  “Police!” Tarlton yelled. “Put the Baggie down and step back with—”

  At that time, the young woman brought up the Colt .357 Magnum she’d been holding. She had a good hold on the pistol and appeared to know what she was doing with it. She had Chinese tattoos inked along her forearms.

  Will hooked a hand into the collar of Tarlton’s Kevlar vest and yanked the police chief back as he started to backpedal. Tarlton hadn’t seen the threat the woman offered until it was almost too late. Muscling the man out of the doorway smoothly and efficiently, Will pressed Tarlton into the wall just as the woman started firing.

  The Magnum hollow points fragmented against the doorframe and blew splinters out into the hallway. The reports in the enclosed space were deafening. They punctuated the long scream the young woman loosed.

  Will knew she was on drugs and stoned out of her mind. He’d noticed the wildness in her eyes. She wasn’t even totally aware of what she was doing.

  Pressed up against the wall, Will gave silent thanks to God for allowing him to see the young woman’s movements. He’d been just as focused on the man at the back of the room as Tarlton was.

  One of the deputies spun around the doorframe and lowered his semiautomatic into position. “Sheriff’s department!” he bellowed.

  The young woman turned toward him.

  The woman was out of bullets. Will knew that. The wheel gun she grasped so tightly only carried six rounds. She’d fired all of those into the doorframe. He’d counted out of habit.

  The deputy reacted anyway. He looked young, eager, and afraid, which was always a bad combination.

  “No!” Remy said and reached for the man. Evidently he’d counted the shots as well. “She’s out
of—”

  The young woman fired her weapon. Only the dry snap of the hammer striking the firing pin came out of the room.

  Mesmerized by his own imagined brush with death, the deputy fired at the woman twice before Remy was able to grab his hands and pull the pistol up. The deputy fired two more shots into the ceiling. Remy bodychecked the man and took the weapon away.

  But it was too late. Both bullets had struck the young woman. She stutter-stepped back and whipped around in a quarter turn. Blood poured down her right side.

  “Stand down!” Tarlton roared. “Hold your fire!”

  The biker at the back of the room dropped the Baggie and ran to the woman’s side.

  Tarlton led the way into the room. He held his pistol before him and aimed at the biker. “Down on the floor!”

  “You shot her!” The biker was young, probably in his early twenties. “Man, you didn’t have to shoot her!”

  The biker was high enough that Will had to wonder if he’d even registered the fact that she’d shot at them first.

  “Down!” Tarlton grabbed the man’s jacket collar and dragged him to one side. The police chief held the pistol back so it was out of reach. “Get on your face!”

  “You killed her!” The biker cursed again in a voice loud enough that Will had no doubt the accusation carried around the oval hallway. “She’s dead!”

  Remy dropped into position beside the woman. Blood soaked her side as Remy pulled on a pair of surgical gloves from the medical supplies in his combat harness. He put two fingers against the side of her neck and waited.

  Then he looked up at Will. “I got a pulse.” He reached into other pockets and pulled out compresses.