Fatal Strike

by DiAnn Mills

  “Okay.” No need to remind her of the ticking clock.

  He touched End and whipped his truck onto a beach-access road where police officers had instructed residents to shelter in place. He switched off the engine. Grabbing his gear, he bolted down the beach. A Galveston police officer stopped him, and Jon handed him his ID. Seconds later, he moved toward his site. A sultry breeze blew across the water, and he recalculated his shot.

  Crouching low, he moved past police SWAT standing guard. FBI SWAT held the position Riesel was headed for. They were racing against time, a commodity that stopped for nothing or no one. At any moment, one of the armed men could pull the trigger on those inside the Barton home.

  Restraint.

  Control.

  Tense muscles relaxed.

  His heartbeat slowed.

  A clear head laid out the steps before the kill shot.

  No mistakes.

  Precision.

  Accuracy.

  A chance for the women and children to live another day.

  Near a sand dune, he tuned out the occasional seagull and the waves rushing against the shore. After wiping the sweat from his hands on his pants, Jon set up his rifle and scope, activated his radio, and spoke to the SWAT commander and Leah Riesel.

  2

  LEAH HOPED THE ARMED INTRUDERS didn’t lose patience. Fat chance the hostages would be released alive when they wore short-sleeved shirts with identifiable tats. On the western side of the empty house, she assembled her rifle while a member of the FBI SWAT team held an H&K submachine gun and surveyed the area. She pried open a window and climbed through. He handed her the rest of her gear. They worked mechanically, like always.

  She and the SWAT member, a man she respected, moved through the house to an eastern window where she’d have full view of the Barton home. After opening the window, she cradled her rifle and adjusted the scope to line up with the man wielding a gun in one hand and holding a small, screaming boy in front of his face. The little guy squirmed and twisted. What a coward to use a defenseless toddler. The man closest to Jon waved a gun and wrestled with a little girl.

  Leah’s sympathies wrapped around the women and children. If only she could send a message that trained people were in place to help.

  Time ticked.

  Was she doing the right thing? Had the negotiator exhausted all means of talking the two men down? A sniper’s actions were often described as both personal and impersonal. The men inside the Barton home, no matter how savage their behavior, had family and friends who loved them. Perhaps mothers who held them in their hearts and would grieve their deaths. Leah was about to end any thoughts of their rehabilitation.

  She wondered if the same questions darted through Jon’s mind. That’s who they were—intelligent and caring people who chose to stop killers when all negotiations failed. Someone put her out of her misery if she ever became impervious to taking a life, when squeezing the trigger stopped being a regret. These were human beings, not targets. All the training, mastering skill sets, and psychological hints and helps pointed to her making mental adjustments to survive.

  One day, she wanted to be a mother, but she had no idea how she’d explain her FBI roles to loved ones. How did a woman justify such a controversial calling? Her conviction, her life mission to keep people safe, ran through her veins as sure as oxygen.

  Leah drew in a few deep breaths and embraced the familiar control of her body. Shoving aside the pressure to free the hostages, she slowed her heart rate and relaxed her body. Expelled all thoughts from her mind. Lined up the shot. Nothing pressed her but the mission.

  “Agents Riesel and Colbert, take your shot,” the SWAT commander said. This was what she and Jon needed: assurance of their backstop, that no one was behind the targets who might be harmed.

  The man at the other end of her scope turned slightly. Clearly he had no intentions of lining up for the perfect kill shot.

  She spoke into the microphone to Jon and the SWAT commander. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Jon’s voice resonated firm.

  They needed immediate incapacitation. Some claimed a sniper pulled the trigger between heartbeats. Maybe so. She fired when her mind registered the right moment.

  A feeling of now suspended. She gently pulled the trigger back.

  The explosion. Then impact.

  The familiar kickback shook her body.

  The man went down, releasing the small boy.

  Jon’s man also slumped onto the floor, and the little girl he’d been holding broke free. Leah reached for her binoculars. SWAT raced toward the Barton home. She panned her scope to the women, who drew their children close, covering them in tears laced with terror and joy. An intimate moment not meant for Leah’s eyes, but if she were there, she’d hold them tightly. She pulled away from viewing the crime scene.

  While relief flowed through her body, there was no celebration for two men’s deaths. A critical situation had been neutralized.

  Scrutinizing the outside area, she spoke into the mic again. “Looks like the hostages are okay. Can you confirm?”

  “Affirmative,” the SWAT commander’s low voice responded. “Riesel, Colbert, SAC Thomas will contact you within fifteen minutes.”

  “Riesel, I’m heading your way,” Jon said.

  After packing her gear, she texted SAC Thomas, her normal protocol upon completing an assignment. She left the house, this time through the front door, noting the airy beach decor. A relaxed atmosphere for those who needed a getaway. Leah walked toward the SWAT team at the Barton home. Her gear weighed her down in the heat, and right now it felt twice as heavy.

  Jon ambled her way. His stride and erect shoulders exuded confidence. Danger drew him like a magnet. She bore the same chemicals in her brain.

  A trait they needed to stay alive.

  Jon’s responsibilities in the FBI organized crime division, specifically gangs, kept him busy when he wasn’t working directly with the SWAT team.

  He filed this morning’s mission into a part of his brain labeled “process later.” There was value in trekking through every moment of a sniper mission. This part of analyzing himself had more to do with ensuring he remained mentally strong than providing an explanation or justification for his actions.

  To the bureau, the mission’s success was critical, and the actions would be reviewed later. To Jon, success meant his ability to emotionally detach and then reel in his human instincts. When the job turned him into a machine—or an animal—he’d resign.

  Leah Riesel approached him. “Can you give me a ride back to Houston? My chopper left me.”

  “Sure. I assume the after-action review will be mid- to late afternoon.”

  They’d both go through the debrief later in Houston. Part of the job. If they’d failed at the Barton home, SWAT would determine what went wrong on-site there and repeat in Houston.

  Ambulances shrieked closer to the crime scene. Galveston police stopped a KHOU TV van before it drove into the Barton driveway. The van backed up and parked on the side of the road. Three newspeople emerged with equipment and broadcast lights, signaling they were going live.

  “Here come the reporters.” Leah’s tone avoided condescension. Simply a fact.

  “At times, I’d like to eliminate the police radios in the newsroom.”

  “And deny media the fun?”

  Jon detected her slight smile. So she did have a sense of humor, contrary to popular reports that her attitude gave stoics a run for their money.

  One of the reporters rushed toward them. “We have what appears to be FBI SWAT. Can we have a word?”

  Jon surveyed the beach and flatland around them. “Not at this time.”

  The man was not deterred. “This must have been quite an ordeal for the hostages. Who’s the other woman with Mrs. Barton? Did you take the kill shots?” The reporter pressed a mic to Jon’s mouth. “When will the FBI make a statement?”

  Leah and Jon ignored the reporter and walked toward Jon’s tru
ck.

  Once there, he started up the engine and waited for the cool blast of AC. Their phones, like appendages, alerted them to a text. They both focused on the message from SAC Thomas.

  Don’t leave Galveston. New case for both of you. Will do action review at 6 p.m. today. Call me.

  Jon set his phone on the dashboard, pressed in SAC Thomas’s number, and tapped Speaker. One mission over and a new one beginning.

  3

  THE AIR-CONDITIONING IN JON’S TRUCK bathed Leah’s face, but the cool air failed to relax her. Had Galveston PD contacted the FBI for an assist in the two recent murders? Why else would SAC Thomas brief her and Jon on a new case on the heels of a sniper mission? A few miles’ run always helped her body and mind calm. Those were the times she imagined Central Park in late April and early May and envisioned white-petaled bloodroot and golden Alexanders, red maple and Virginia bluebells. For now, self-talk would have to do. Guilt scraped her conscience for the momentary reprieve while other law enforcement sweated buckets in the heat.

  “In the past two days, Galveston has lost two people dedicated to preserving the law—Police Officer Ian Greer and Prosecuting Attorney Marcia Trevelle,” SAC Thomas said. “The police department is working around the clock to find the killers. No arrests or suspects. Yesterday afternoon, Galveston Police Chief Zachary Everson requested the FBI’s assistance in finding whoever is responsible for the death of Officer Greer. Then Attorney Trevelle’s body was found.”

  Leah briefly wondered if the delay in getting FBI agents on the ground might have cost the woman her life.

  SAC Thomas continued. “We suspect the Venenos are behind the murders. And unfortunately it appears they’ve struck again. This morning at 4:30, Judge Nicolás Mendez left his home for a run. When he didn’t return by 6 a.m., his wife assumed he stopped to have breakfast. When he hadn’t returned by 7:30, she called his cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. She contacted his office and learned his staff hadn’t heard from him either. She immediately called Chief Everson. A search ensued. Meanwhile, Father Gabriel of St. Peter’s in Galveston received a call around 8 a.m. from a man who identified himself as a Veneno and took responsibility for the judge’s death.”

  “Oh no,” Leah whispered. What was going on?

  SAC Thomas continued. “The judge’s body was found outside the rear doors of the church. He appears to have received an injection of venom to the heart, an identical execution as the other two victims. And a dead rattler lay over the body.”

  She chilled, thinking about her snake phobia. The Veneno—Venom—gang was demonstrating a pattern.

  “From the cuts and bruises, he was beaten. The medical examiner will disclose the origin of blood, type, and pinpoint what killed him. We assume it was rattlesnake venom.” He took a deep breath. “The governor requested the FBI form a task force with GPD to not only find the killers but also bring down this gang. I let him know we were on it.”

  A task force made incredible sense. Law enforcement in and around Houston had been kept in the loop with the gang’s activities, but Leah wanted the reports now, including evidence. The use of venom as a weapon meant no bullets or guns to trace. When finished, the gang slithered away.

  On remote missions, she controlled her phobia with her mind. In and out, get the job done. She would handle it with this case, too, and no one would learn the truth.

  SAC Thomas gave them additional information while she made mental notes.

  “I want you two to take the lead on investigating the judge’s death. We’ll have other teams assigned to the police officer’s and prosecutor’s cases. Coordinate with Galveston Police Chief Everson. He’s already received a solid lead from a male resident who reported at 6 a.m. that two men left the rear of the church and drove off in a late-model car. I’m sending the lead’s name, number, and a full report of the crime to your phones. GPD has his statement and is securing the crime scene for now. I’m also forwarding contact information for Rachel Mendez and Father Gabriel. She told GPD her husband had so many enemies that she wouldn’t know where to begin. She’s on her way home now to compile a list of potential suspects.”

  “We’ll talk to Mrs. Mendez, then contact the lead.” Jon glanced at Leah and she nodded. Since the witness had already made a statement, talking to him could wait.

  “Good. Make sure you two interview Father Gabriel today,” the SAC said. “Find out what he knows.”

  After reminding them he’d see them both in his office at 6 p.m., the SAC ended the call. Leah looked at Jon, forming where to begin their discussion. Although Leah wasn’t a part of the FBI’s multiagency gang task force like Jon, many times the violent crime division was involved with agents in organized crime, and she was no stranger to the depravity of evil minds.

  “The Veneno gang has a presence in San Antonio, Austin, and Dallas,” Jon said, seeming to read her mind. “In the past year, we’ve seen a handful of murders that sound similar to the ones here in Galveston—but three deaths in three days suggests something big is going on.”

  “Do we have any idea who or what’s behind them?” Leah said.

  “No. TAG suspects drugs and human trafficking. Unconfirmed.” He turned the air-conditioning in the truck lower. “Venenos usually have a rallying cry of reconquista—they want to reclaim Texas as part of Mexico. And they haven’t been shy about targeting anyone who gets in their way.”

  How frustrating to admit few leads and no motive.

  Jon crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d like the security cam footage for Judge Mendez’s home and office.”

  “I’m sure the SAC will send it to us. Do you know anything about the judge?”

  “My partner’s wife used to work for him, and they have tremendous respect for his personal convictions and integrity. There are two types of judges—those who uphold the law by viewing it as right and just, and those with a more liberal attitude. Judge Mendez advocated the conservative approach.” Jon paused. “No one charged with a crime, especially a violent one, wanted to go before him. He spoke openly about gang activities, and he gave members the maximum sentence.”

  “Someone took vengeance—and not just against him.”

  He tapped his steering wheel. “What are they doing besides murdering those who oppose their reconquista views?”

  “Million-dollar question. What do you think of the reconquista mantra?”

  “My guess is it’s a means to recruit Hispanics.”

  Jon stared out at the ocean, and she did the same. The water glistened in the midmorning sun. In the distance a shrimp boat bobbed on the horizon. Peaceful, unlike the turmoil around them.

  Leah pushed aside thoughts about this morning’s violence. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Like diamonds.”

  “Hope you hadn’t planned on catching up on sleep soon.”

  “Or beach time.” A gust of wind picked up a swirl of sand and playfully danced across the shore.

  “Can we investigate this case without killing each other?” he said. “Haven’t worked an investigation with another sniper.”

  Jon didn’t say a woman. A point for his side. “Me either. We might have similar ways of analyzing evidence.”

  “We can work smart, be aware of the tendency.”

  The Venenos believed they were impregnable, but a cocky attitude would be their downfall.

  4

  WHILE JON DROVE to the Mendez residence on the west side of Galveston Island, Leah read through SAC Thomas’s report and information online.

  “Did you know Rachel Mendez was a former attorney?” she said.

  Jon lifted his chin. “She’s a smart woman and reportedly active in the judge’s affairs.”

  Leah paused to focus on what little she knew of the woman—age forty-two, fourteen years younger than the judge. Questions mounted.

  “Do we know the ages of the children? Hold on, I’ll look.” Leah scrolled through her phone. “Their oldest child is a girl, age five. And a baby boy. Nix the idea of the kids offering a
testimony.”

  Leah spotted the Mendez home—a three-story beach structure painted mint green and erected on stilts disguised with white latticework. A photographer’s dream view of the ocean. The kind of home Pinterest users drool over and pin to a board titled Perfect Vacation Spot. Palm trees swayed and boats dipped in the water like kids bobbing in a pool. This morning’s sunlight held stage over jewel-studded water, peaceful and breathtaking, except for the reason she and Jon were there.

  Jon rang the doorbell, and a police officer opened the door. After Jon and Leah identified themselves and displayed their creds, the officer stepped aside for them to enter a light-filled living area with a rear wall of glass facing the bay. A cream-colored sofa and turquoise-and-cream chairs were positioned with views of the water. Wall hangings and accents picked up the colors and beach theme.

  The police officer disappeared to speak to Mrs. Mendez. Leah would be the primary in the questioning unless the woman preferred talking to Jon.

  Within a few minutes, Rachel Mendez emerged dressed in stylish torn jeans, a white shirt, and gold sandals. Leah recognized her from online pics. She’d been a model before turning lawyer, and it was no surprise Judge Mendez had fallen in love. Her features were airbrush perfect—light-brown, shoulder-length hair and huge blue eyes. She carried a toddler boy, and a little girl held an older woman’s hand. Both children resembled their father’s roots and had their mother’s delicate features.

  Jon introduced himself and Leah, and each presented their card to her.

  “Agents Colbert and Riesel, please sit down.” With red-rimmed eyes, Mrs. Mendez pointed to the seating area. She introduced her mother. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right with you. We just returned from the hospital. My children are clingy, and neither want to stay with their abuela. They’re too young to comprehend what has happened, but they sense something is terribly wrong.”

  The two women disappeared with the children. From another room, the cries of unhappy little ones met her and Jon’s ears. Leah spotted a family portrait on a nearby distressed-wood credenza. Judge Mendez and his family smiled into the camera. Nothing would ever be the same for this family struck by tragedy.