GOTU - A Robin Marlette Novel

by Mike McNeff

  “Twenty-Two Ten also,” said Matt.

  “Suspect is now running west,” Oscar said tersely.

  “Six-Five has him in sight. He's coming towards me.”

  “I'm headed your direction, Rick,” said Matt.

  “Hurry up, Matt,” Rick almost whispered. “I'm going to jump this guy.”

  “I'm coming, I'm coming,” Matt breathed heavily.

  Rick Santos crouched behind sage brush as he watched the suspect rush toward him in a desperate attempt to get away from the searchlight. The suspect held his weapon at port arms, exposing his lower abdomen as a target for Rick's shoulder. Rick laid his rifle down, his heart pounding and his senses exquisitely alert. When he saw the man four strides away in the searchlight, Rick lunged like a ground-hugging missile and buried his right shoulder into the suspect's gut.

  “Six-Five has the suspect down and Twenty-Two Ten is with him,” Jack said.

  “Suspect in custody,” Matt breathed into his radio.

  Robin felt the tension leave his body. It was harder for him to listen to his men in action than to be in the middle of it with them. He leaned against the plane and took a deep breath. Looking up, he saw the desert sky shimmering with millions of stars. The night cooled so much, it was almost cold. Robin tasted dust in this mouth. He pulled one of his canteens and took a long drink, soothing his dry throat.

  Robin looked over at Mark, who was maintaining security over the body and the Blazer.

  “That guy giving you any trouble, Mark?”

  “Naw, Rob, but it's for damn sure he ain't a conversationalist.”

  “It looks like we missed the excitement.”

  “That's okay with me. I've been shot at enough for one night.”

  “Can't argue with that,” Robin laughed. He looked at his watch—they had been on the ground for a little over an hour and thirty minutes. Robin figured it would take the brass and the shooting teams another forty-five minutes to get to his location.

  The Blackhawk picked up the tracking team and the captured suspect and landed at the original drop-off point. It kicked up the usual dust storm. Robin cursed as stinging sand engulfed him. He turned his back to the helicopter and hunched his five-foot-ten inch frame down behind the airplane. Robin expected the Blackhawk to shut down; instead, it lifted off again. He watched the chopper's navigation lights head out to the northeast, over the Estrellas.

  The team headed over to him. When they were close, he noticed the suspect bent slightly and limping.

  “What's with the 'Hawk?” he asked Burke.

  “They gotta go pick up the Feds' shooting team.”

  “How many trails did you see out there?”

  “Just dipshit's here,” Burke replied, nodding to the suspect.

  Robin worried about other suspects in the area. The Blackhawk provided their top cover and light, as well as their communications link. The team's portable radios could not hit any repeater towers from Rainbow Valley and therefore couldn't talk to the DPS communications center.

  In his younger years, Burke tracked animals as a hunter and later he tracked men as a Green Beret in Vietnam, so Robin knew if Burke said there were no trails, there were none.

  The suspect Rick caught appeared to be a Hispanic man, about five-foot-eight with a stocky muscular build. He was covered in desert sand and dust. The spine clusters sticking out of his legs were evidence he had tangled with some cholla cactus, a definite hazard when you try to escape in the desert at night. He wore a neatly trimmed full beard surrounding a handsome face. Robin noticed the man watching everything closely, not frightened or nervous. Instead, Robin could sense the suspect making mental notes.

  “Do we know who this guy is?” Robin asked Rick.

  “He has Mexican ID on him that says his name is Manuel Garcia-Galbodon.”

  “You don't sound convinced that's who he is, Rick.”

  “I'm not, Rob. This guy's accent is strange. He hasn't said much except that he doesn't speak English, and he shut right up when he found out I speak Spanish. He said enough, though, to make me think this guy ain't Mexican. I think this asshole is Cuban.”

  “Did you check his hands for Marielito tatts?”

  “Yeah, I did. Negative.”

  “Check his upper arms.”

  Rick rolled up the suspect's right sleeve and looked at his upper arm with his flashlight, revealing a four-point star with lines running out from it.

  “Well, well, well,” said Robin. “It looks like we got ourselves a terrorist.”

  “Jesus! This is getting to be one helluva night!” Burke said, shaking his head.

  The symbol for the terrorist organization known as the “Path of the Shining Star” was familiar to Robin and his men from their training in the Special Operations Unit of DPS, the department's SWAT team. Robin's squad comprised Team Six of SOU. In addition, Robin and his men had previous information about a connection between narcotics traffickers and terrorist groups from two informants they worked with south of the border. The team had never caught dope smugglers and terrorists together before. Robin's mind churned questions and theories.

  “What kind of rifle did Manny baby have?” Robin asked.

  “A full blown AK-47,” said Burke. “And Sarge, he had the selector on semi-auto.”

  Certainty formed in Robin's mind. The suspect used tactics of a well-trained and disciplined operator. He also had experience with combat action because he didn't panic and start shooting aimlessly. The suspect kept his weapon on semi-auto for aimed fire and to conserve ammunition. The guy probably knew how to defeat standard U.S. police procedures.

  “Rick, double cuff this asshole and loop a plastic cuff around the handcuffs and his belt and link some a plastic cuffs around his ankles and watch him. He is probably pretty good at hand-to-hand combat.”

  “I'll stay with him, too,” said Burke, “just in case he gets frisky.” Robin smiled at Burke's suggestion—he'd trained primarily in hand-to-hand combat in the Green Berets.

  As Rick and Burke started to lead the prisoner to a clear spot, Robin stopped Burke.

  “Burke, try to get the guy to talk. I'm willing to bet he's the guard for the money, but there is more to this boy than that. I'd like to know just how close he is to ol' Miguel.”

  “I'll try, Sarge, but he looks like a tough nut.”

  Robin looked at the six-two, solidly built officer. “So are you. So get with it.”

  “Okay, okay,” Burke said, grinning as he walked over to Rick and the suspect.

  Robin turned to Mike Collins and Doug Ariel. “One of you guys go relieve Mark. He's been babysittin' that stiff long enough.”

  “Okee dokee, Sarge.” Collins headed off towards the Blazer.

  A few seconds later the Cuban started talking in a raised voice. Burke called Robin over to where he and Rick guarded the prisoner.

  “The boy wants to talk to you, Rob,” Burke told him.

  “What's your problem?” Robin asked the suspect.

  Rick was starting to translate into Spanish when the Cuban spat at Rick's feet and said, “I speak English, Puto!”

  Robin grabbed the Cuban by the shirt and pulled him up so they were face to face. “Don't you insult my men, you dirt bag!”

  “I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war! I am a Colonel in the Army of the Path of the Shining Star!”

  “You may think you're some goddamn shining soldier, but you're just another asshole doper to us so sit down in the dirt where you belong!”

  With that comment, Robin threw the Cuban down on the ground, half kneeling, half sitting on the desert floor. Robin could feel his face flush with anger. Visions of the many lives he witnessed shattered by cocaine and heroin over the last six years flooded his brain. The fact that this man considered himself above a scum drug smuggler enraged Robin. He wanted to kick the prisoner in the teeth, but Burke's strong, gentle hand on his shoulder held him in check.

  “Rob, let it be. He's just another asshole.”
/>   “I'm not a criminal!” yelled the Cuban.

  “The fuck you're not!” Robin yelled back. “You're worse than the rest of them because you hide behind a cause. You still take most of the money for yourself and your little asshole buddies so you can keep your coke whores happy and play the big shot! But you forgot one thing”

  At this, Rick held up his hand to Robin and unbuckled his tactical vest. Slipping it off, he unzipped his flight suit and turned his back to the Cuban. Then, peeling off the top part of the suit, he revealed the back of a dark blue tee shirt. Burke shined his light on Rick's back. The top of the shirt displayed the word POLICE. Underneath, a scene of outer space, complete with planets and a shooting star, sat above the prominently printed words Guardians of the Universe. The words “Special Enforcement Unit” were at the bottom of the scene.

  Rick turned around and spoke to the prisoner in Spanish. “You see this?” He pointed to the left side of his breast. “Don't you ever forget this,” he said with a big grin.

  Rick pointed to the star of the Arizona Department of Public Safety. Above the star was the word “Police.” Under the star large letters spelled “GOTU.” To the uninitiated, it meant “Guardians of the Universe.” To the Guardians, Robin's squad, it meant just what it said GOTU. Rick wanted the Cuban to remember.

  The Cuban stared at Rick for a moment and then turned to Robin. His eyes flashed a look of realization and recognition in them. “The Guardians,” the prisoner spat. “You and your men are already marked for death.”

  “Well, you are not in such good shape yourself,” Robin shot back. “You were supposed to guard the money, and we got that. And I imagine Miguel wanted you to take care of his dear little brother, Ramon.”

  “You have captured Ramon?”

  “Oh, don't you wish,” Robin taunted. “No, we didn't capture Ramon. We blew his ass away.”

  The Cuban's back straightened as if someone stuck a knife in it. Robin looked down at him.

  “Yes, sports fan, you heard right. Ramon is dead.”

  The Cuban stared at Robin, his eyes filled with hatred and a hint of fear. Robin seized upon the fear. “Oh, I know. You're hoping Miguel will understand, but I'm telling you he won't. You and I both know Miguel Rodriguez-Lara is nothing but a vicious, low-life doper, and he is going to kill you for this little fuck-up and every relative of yours he can get his hands on.”

  The Cuban said nothing, but Robin could tell he hit a nerve. He also could tell the Cuban wasn't going to talk. “Watch this asshole, guys. He has a lot more to lose than he first thought he did.”

  Robin turned and started walking back to the airplane with Matt Howe leaving Burke and Rick with the suspect. The distant sound of a helicopter filtered across the desert. “Shooting team,” he said to himself. Matt, who joined Customs a little over two years ago, shook his head. “What in the hell have you gotten me into, Marlette?”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of dope, Matt.”

  THREE

  Captain Tom Pearle, commander of the DPS Narcotics Enforcement Division, stared out the window of the helicopter at the pale desert glowing in the light of the half moon. He saw his ghostly reflection in the plexiglass. Pearle's blond hair, unusually tousled this early morning, topped tired blue eyes. He felt the stubble on his square jaw. His thoughts rested on Robin Marlette and his men. Some of the brass thought Marlette was uncontrollable, but the man had turned a bunch of burnt out cops into the best narcotics squad in the state.

  As one supervising agent of the FBI put it, “Marlette's squad is the cutting edge of narcotics enforcement in the state of Arizona.”

  A great asset for Arizona, but a headache for Tom Pearle.

  When Pearle created the Narcotics Special Enforcement Unit, he did it with Robin in mind. Robin reported to Pearle a few weeks later, and Pearle's orders to Robin were simple: Go after the most dangerous narcotics violators in the state. He didn't care what Robin did to nail them, just as long as he kept it legal. Robin was a lawyer, which made Pearle confident there would be no problem in that regard. He smiled as he remembered the grin on Robin's face and the gleam in his eyes.

  Despite the fact that the men assigned to Robin's squad had either been in trouble or were close to it, they kicked ass ever since the SEU started to work. In the first year of operation, they arrested fifty-three suspects, all of whom had been involved in violent acts of some kind. Men who hated their jobs now couldn't stay away from work. Each year their numbers of arrests and seizures grew larger.

  Pearle looked to his right at Lieutenant Les Hammel as his head nodded in sleep. When Pearle formed SEU, he put it in Hammel's district. Pearle also told the lieutenant it would take both of them to keep up with Robin. Hammel emphatically told Pearle he could handle any sergeant, including Marlette. He asked Pearle to let him do his job and not interfere. The captain agreed, but told Hammel he would be back in a while to ask for the “secret” in dealing with Marlette.

  Hammel went for nine months before he walked into Pearle's office one Tuesday afternoon. Hammel told Pearle he thought Robin and his men were out of control. “Why do you think that, Les?” asked Pearle with an almost whimsical smile.

  “I don't know, sir, it's just”

  “Have they screwed up any cases?”

  “No sir. The prosecutors like their cases.”

  “Are they violating any policy?”

  “Not really. Sometimes Marlette stretches policy, but I think a good sergeant has to, occasionally.”

  “So do I, Les. Look, Robin is a unique leader. He took six men who were not producing and turned them into the best narcotics unit in the state. He's doing it his way, that's for sure. As long as he's doing it legally, why should we get in his way? And that, by the way, is the secret to handling Marlette. Don't get in his way.”

  “Well, maybe I'm wrong, but even though Robin and his men are doing a good job, I think they may be hurting themselves. They work ten to sixteen hours a day, six or seven days a week. Two of them are separated from their wives. It seems to me they are living for the job. That's not good.”

  Pearle stared past Hammel at a picture on the wall of himself and Robin when they were partners working narcotics back in the early seventies. Pearle and Robin had done two or three buys or arrests a night and at least two search warrants a week. They worked twelve to sixteen hours a day. As Tom Pearle looked at the picture, he envied Robin. Robin knew after the rank of sergeant, work meant riding a desk. So, he never tested for lieutenant. Tom Pearle did. Now Pearle worked as a deskbound manager while Robin did police work.

  “Let it be, Les,” Pearle told the lieutenant. “They may be a streaking comet, but let them burn bright while they can. They must figure the ride is worth the price.”

  “Yes sir,” sighed the lieutenant.

  As the helicopter began to land, Pearle looked at Les Hammel. “A good man trying to do a good job,” he thought. “I'm glad he's on my team.”

  Robin watched the DPS Bell Jet Long Ranger settle onto the desert in a cloud of dust. The whine of the jet eased as the pilot shut the engine down. The paramedic jumped out and assisted the passengers, who Robin recognized as his captain and lieutenant. Although he didn't ask for Pearle in his shooting notification, he had a feeling the captain would show up. He smiled to himself at the incongruity of Tom Pearle's muscular six-foot frame next to Les Hammel, who stood five foot seven and was more round than muscular. Hammel also wore a mustache that never seemed appropriate for his appearance or demeanor.

  “If you two are the shooting team, they're scraping the bottom of the barrel,” Robin greeted the two men.

  “Rob, your respect for command authority never ceases to amaze me,” Pearle replied. “The shooting team will be coming in on the Blackhawk.”

  “Robin, are you and your men okay?”” asked Hammel.

  “Yes, sir. Rick may have a sore shoulder from playing high school football star, but other than that we're all fine.”

  “I assume it
is a good shooting?” Pearle asked.

  “The shooting is the easy part of the deal. From then on everything gets very serious and very complicated.” Robin went on to relate the details of the jump to the two commanders. The two men grew more serious with every event. It didn't take a mental giant to see the Guardians made a spectacular jump with very dangerous implications.

  “Well, it looks like your squad did it again,” said Hammel.” You guys will be famous once more.”

  “Slow down, Les,” cautioned Pearle. “I've seen that look in Marlette's eyes before.” Pearle gave Robin a hard look. “Okay, hotshot, let's hear what you're thinking.”

  Robin took a deep breath. “I want to deliver the money to Walton.”

  “Goddamn it, Rob! Now you've really gone nuts!” blurted Pearle. “How in the hell do you expect me to convince the chief and the director to let you give away five million forfeitable dollars?!”

  “I don't fucking care how you do it! That's your job”

  “Hold it! Hold it!” yelled Hammel. “Damn! Working in between you two guys is a gigantic pain in the ass!”

  Suddenly Robin began to laugh, a deep, spontaneous belly laugh. Pearle started to laugh the same way. Both men laughed so hard they held each other up. Hammel joined in the laughter. Robin reached over and put his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder.

  “Lieutenant, Tom and I worked for a sergeant back in the seventies who used to tell us the same thing. I guess some things never change.” The three men started to settle down.

  “Look, the captain has a point. It's going to be a real tough idea to sell. On the other hand, Captain, you're the one who told me Marlette does it right and we should let him run with the ball.”

  Pearle looked at Hammel, then at Robin. “Tell me why I should put my neck on the chopping block again.”

  “Walton is getting five million dollars to make payoffs to some very important assholes. If everything goes right, we have an inside man. Once the delivery of the money is made, we can monitor Walton by surveillance, wiretap, and grand jury subpoena. In the end, we may be able to nail some of those important assholes along with Walton.”