Sea of Cortez

by Garry Ryan

  Nigel nodded.

  Harper looked at Singh. “Does that work for you?”

  She nodded. “It does. My team will have Lane covered. We could use an extra pair of eyes watching for any other threats.”

  Harper looked at each team member in turn. “Let’s get the job done.”

  The call came a little after seven that night. Lane was leaving the washroom when his phone rang. Nigel stood about nine metres away. He watched and listened as Lane answered. “Lane.”

  “Dispatch here. We have a caller who claims to have information on the Sleeping Dragon shootings. Should I connect your call?”

  “Go ahead.” Lane heard voices echoing in the background before the person spoke.

  “If you want to find out what happened at the Sleeping Dragon, meet me in twenty minutes. I will be under the number 6 North light pole next to the Market Mall recycling depot. It’s at the northeast corner of the mall parking lot.” Frederick pressed end on his burner phone, dropped it in a garbage can and kept walking north past Twisted Goods at the south end of the mall. He hefted a black backpack with the weight of four magazines, a Beretta and the Steyr. He adjusted the right strap of the backpack, feeling for the Kevlar vest under his navy-blue hoodie.

  Arthur watched Lane put on his ceramic body armour and walk across the office followed by Nigel. Arthur got up from behind the desk and walked to Lori’s cubicle. She was watching Lane and Nigel as they stepped up to the door then outside. “Where are they going?” Arthur asked.

  She turned to him. “Where you can’t go.”

  He shook his head. “Watch me.” He turned and walked away.

  Lori ran after him. “You’re going to need this.” Arthur found he couldn’t articulate a reply as she handed him a black walkie-talkie. “It’s set to their frequency.”

  He took the radio, kissed her on the cheek, then walked to the door. Outside, he reached into his pocket, opened the door to their black BMW X3, climbed in and set the radio on the passenger seat.

  Lane took Stoney Trail and drove west toward the mountains. The streetlights attempted to push back the November darkness. The days would continue to get shorter for another few weeks. He passed a semi and the cabin of the Chev filled with the hum of eighteen wheels. He took the exit to Shaganappi Trail and headed south. Traffic was light. He used the flashing blue-and-white lights on the Chev ghost car and made good time. He had five minutes to spare when he crossed overtop Crowchild Trail, turned off the lights and slowed. He turned right at 40th Avenue, looking left at the scattering of parked cars and green recycling bins lined up at the northeastern corner of the parking lot. Evergreens and grey poplars clustered behind the bins. The northernmost store in the mall was about one hundred metres away.

  He turned left into the lot and took his time counting the cars parked in the northeast corner. He saw nine. He drove further south, then turned left and slowed to follow the eastern edge of the lot as he worked his way north again to the last light pole with 6 North painted in white on a yellow background.

  Singh sat in the rear seat of a Ford pickup parked south of Lane’s location. It faced north and east. The Ford had tinted windows at the sides and back. She leaned forward between the Ford’s front seats. She used her Nikon binoculars to sweep the area while Lane’s Chev approached the light pole. She noted the locations of each member of her team.

  Her peripheral vision spotted motion to her left. A white pickup truck was towing a white contractor’s trailer, two and a half metres wide and six metres long. The driver parked near the light pole, got out of the truck and walked toward the mall.

  Singh’s radio received a warning. “Robertson blocked. Shifting position.”

  She looked toward the office building one hundred metres away. She couldn’t see her sharpshooter Robertson on the roof but knew he was there.

  A lone figure walked toward Lane and the parked Chev. The figure wore a black backpack, hoodie, pants and shoes. His hands were tucked in the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie. Singh lifted her radio and said, “Subject approaching from the south. Approximately seventy-five metres from Lane.”

  Lane watched the driver of the white pickup reach around and hitch the back of his jeans. The man walked toward the mall. Then Lane spotted the man in the black hoodie approaching. Lane felt a familiar tickle of anxiety in his belly. He lifted the Glock from its holster. His left hand went for the Chev’s door handle.

  The figure in the hoodie pulled his left hand from the pouch. His right came out with a handgun.

  Lane opened the door. His left foot touched the pavement.

  The hatch of a dark-coloured SUV swung open. An officer dressed in a grey–blue tactical team uniform levelled a C8 assault rifle at the hooded figure.

  The lights of Singh’s pickup coned the hooded figure in their glare. She climbed into the front seat, started the engine and shifted into drive. Lane stood, cupped the butt of the Glock in his left hand and aimed at the figure.

  A tactical team pair stepped from the back of a minivan. They aimed their weapons at the figure and walked deliberately toward him.

  Frederick Lee looked away from Lane and at the approaching pair.

  Singh pulled the pickup to within ten metres of Lee. She opened the door. “Down on your knees!”

  Lee hesitated as he looked back at Lane.

  Nigel walked along the edge of the lot to the south of Lane. He spotted a familiar black BMW turning into the lot and reached for his radio.

  Singh’s radio said, “The black BMW is a friendly.” Her eyes were glued to Lee, who had dropped to his knees. “Face down on the pavement!”

  Lane heard the whispering thrum of the incoming HAWCS helicopter.

  Frederick lay face down. The approaching pair of officers stood over him. One kicked the gun away. The other pulled off the backpack.

  Lane stepped out from behind the Chev’s open door. A bullet hit between his shoulder blades. He took a step forward. A second bullet smacked the ribs on his right side. A third hit him just below the ceramic vest. He tried to inhale and discovered he couldn’t. His left hand reached out as he fell forward. The Glock smacked the pavement and broke his right thumb. His mind focused as he struggled to understand what was happening.

  Lane rolled onto his back. He began a mental checklist of his body. He could feel his toes. He rolled his ankles. His left hand moved to the lower right quadrant of his abdomen. He brought the hand close to his nose and could smell blood. He looked up at the four lights atop a pole illuminating this corner of the mall’s parking lot.

  Above that he saw the spotlight slung under the belly of the HAWCS helicopter. Lacey will be here soon.

  There were footsteps and Lane rolled his head to the left. A tactical officer approached from the east. He held a handgun and wore a helmet, yellow glasses and a grey–blue uniform under a Kevlar vest. Why does he have a silencer?

  Lane took a shallow breath. The pain was sharp and immediate.

  The helmeted officer stood a few metres away. He looked down and aimed at Lane’s forehead.

  It’s Pike! Lane tried to lift his Glock but the broken thumb made it impossible.

  Pike exhaled a cloud of breath. Lane saw every detail of his face. The eyes behind the yellow glasses. The round face. Chin cupped by the helmet strap. Lane saw Pike grimace. Right, his shoulder was dislocated by the whale.

  “Stan’s killer got away because of you,” Pike said. “I’m going to kill her next.” He smiled.

  “Stop!” Nigel yelled. There was a gunshot.

  Pike shuddered.

  Another gunshot.

  Lane focused on Pike’s trigger finger. He heard the sound of an engine. Pike looked to his left. He was illuminated by headlights. Lane heard the solid thump of meat hitting metal, followed by a boom of metal, flesh and plastic pounding into one of the recycling bins. A horn blared. An engine raced and died.

  Lane heard running feet on pavement. Time was a rubber band flexing and stretching. Then Nigel w
as there on his knees. “Are you hit?”

  Pain ripped through him. Lane fought to concentrate on breathing. Breathe in as deep as you can. Exhale slowly.

  Singh knelt on the other side of him, her eyes wide and calm. She put her hand on his belly just below the vest. She spoke to someone he could not see. “Lane’s got a gunshot wound to the abdomen. We need to put him on HAWCS now!”

  Arthur handed something to Singh, saying, “I always have a few of these with me.” Lane recognized the object was a diaper. Singh flipped it open with her free hand, then lifted her left hand and pressed down again. She looked over her shoulder. “The suspects are disarmed?”

  A voice spoke from out of Lane’s range of vision. “Both immobilized.” Dust swirled around him. He looked up at the lights, seeing a momentary sundog.

  “Paul?”

  Lane recognized the voice. “Why are you here, Arthur?”

  Singh’s voice was matter of fact. “He and Nigel took care of the second shooter.” Lane felt her hand pressing down on the wound as he was rolled onto his side. Breathe. Just breathe.

  “It’s a through and through. Get the stretcher sling,” Singh said. “Got another diaper?”

  He felt pressure against his back. Someone loosened his belt, pulled it free, then used it to pull the diapers snug against the wounds in his abdomen and back. He swallowed hard to push down the nausea.

  Lane felt himself being rolled from one shoulder to the other. He was lifted in a sling. He counted three officers on his right. Two more plus Singh were on his left. They walked him under the wash of the helicopter’s rotors. As they hefted him up to slide him through the rear door, he got a glimpse of Pike — the helmeted head and arms of a man on the crumpled hood of Arthur’s black BMW. The corpse was pinned between the SUV and a green recycling bin.

  The helicopter door closed. For a moment Lane felt a kind of muted clarity before the helicopter lifted off. He saw a silhouette leaning over him. He saw the glow from the instruments. Then a widening darkness. First his peripheral vision was gone. His focus quickly narrowed to the helmet and pair of yellow lenses in front of him. It feels like being under water. Just swim with the current. He closed his eyes.

  He heard Singh’s voice. “Lane? Lane?”

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26

  chapter 24

  Officer Critical, One Man Dead, One in Custody

  Shooting at Market Mall signals a further escalation in the city’s gang war

  CBC NEWS POSTED NOV. 26, 1:16 P.M. MT

  A Calgary Police officer is in critical condition at the Foothills Medical Centre after a shooting in the parking lot of Market Mall Tuesday night.

  Another man was pronounced dead at the scene and a third is in custody. No names have been released pending notification of next of kin.

  At a news conference Wednesday morning, Calgary Chief of Police Cameron Harper said the officer was a twenty-eight-year veteran. The shooter died at the scene. An armed accomplice arrested Tuesday night was a person of interest in another shooting earlier this month.

  The northeast corner of the Market Mall parking lot remains cordoned off as evidence continues to be gathered.

  This is the latest in a spate of shootings that began in early November. Sources in the Calgary Police Service attribute the violence to escalating tensions between rival gangs.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you, Dr. Husain.

  Again, thanks to Tony Bidulka and the late Wayne Gunn.

  Thank you, Deanne, for the medical advice on gunshot wounds.

  Jeremy, thank you for the Tactical Unit weapon information supplied at MEC.

  Thanks to Richard for the Thursday-morning feedback sessions.

  Thank you, David Sweet, for generously sharing your knowledge and expertise. Ben, thank you for arranging the interview.

  Emir, thank you for sharing the plans for the house at Palmilla.

  To all the people at NeWest Press (including Claire and Matt) who supported the novels over the years, thank you. A big thank-you to Leslie Vermeer, who came to know the characters as well as I do. Thank you, Leslie, for your precise editing. The books are so much better after you work your magic on them. Thank you Natalie of Kisscut Design for the amazing cover and interior designs.

  Karma, thank you for the Spanish translations.

  Thanks to creative writers at Nickle, Bowness, Lord Beaverbrook, Alternative, Forest Lawn and Queen Elizabeth.

  Thank you to Stephen of Sage Innovations (garryryan.ca).

  Thank you to the people who run independent bookstores like Pages Books, Shelf Life Books and Owl’s Nest Books in Calgary.

  Sharon, Karma, Ben, Luke, Indiana and Ella, thank you for your love and support. The novels are about family, and you are the inspiration.

  In 2004, Garry Ryan published his first Detective Lane novel, Queen’s Park. The second, The Lucky Elephant Restaurant, won a 2007 Lambda Literary Award. He has since published eight more titles in the series. In 2009, Ryan was awarded Calgary’s Freedom of Expression Award. He currently lives in Calgary.