by Aimée Thurlo
The officer in unit fourteen stuck his head out the window and looked back at Lee, who was striding toward him, using the city unit to screen himself from view of the house.
The officer got out of his unit, holding his hand low and gesturing to Lee.
Suddenly a concussion wave struck Lee on the chest, and the right side of the rental house exploded into shattered glass and debris. Lee and the officer flattened.
Lee looked toward the blast just in time to see the garage doors of the rental burst open.
A silver delivery truck roared out of the gravel driveway, bounced onto the street, and slid around the next corner, tires squealing.
The police officer stood, and turned to Lee. “What the . . . ?”
“Those are the cop killers. Get in and follow them,” Lee yelled, sprinting up to the front passenger side before the officer could even open his door.
“Damn, you’re fast. How can you move like that?” The officer stared at Lee, who was knocking at the passenger door loudly. It was locked.
“Talk later. Let me in, then haul ass.” Lee hooked up his seat belt and called for pursuit from the local police dispatcher on his radio.
The officer, named Antonio, according to a name tag on his uniform, burned rubber for fifty feet as he accelerated. The unit slid around the corner, the tires grabbed asphalt again, and they raced down the street. The van was three blocks ahead, heading northwest.
Officer Antonio switched on his emergency lights and siren halfway down the block, taking a hand off the steering wheel only for a second.
“What happened with the old lady, the neighbor? What did she see?” Lee asked the officer.
“She was watching the house for the landlord. It’s furnished, but was supposed to be unoccupied. When she came over to check, she heard the TV on inside, so she called the station, thinking it was squatters, or kids breaking in after ditching school.”
The officer tried to keep pace with the van, which was headed north away from the direction of the Interstate. They were losing ground, which wasn’t unexpected. Lee’s reaction times and driving skills were lightning fast, and those of full vampires were probably better than his. At least, in daylight, Muller and the other two couldn’t leave the van without seeking shelter from the sun.
A ridge ran diagonally from NE to SW at the western edge of Grants, so Lee knew that the fleeing van had to head north on state road 547, or reverse direction soon and head back south. Another ridge prevented an eastern escape.
“What direction can they go to avoid roadblocks?” Lee asked as they made a sharp left turn.
“Nowhere out of Grants. Every way in and out is covered. The Malpais, lava flow, really limits the back roads in this part of New Mexico,” Officer Antonio yelled above the roar of the engine. They were headed southwest now, going twice the speed limit toward the freeway.
Just before reaching a roadblock of two police cars on the upcoming freeway ramp, the silver van made a hard left, bounced across the railroad tracks, and hurtled northwest, parallel to the freeway.
“Hang on. They’re headed for Broadview Acres.”
“What else is in that direction?” Lee tried to remember. He’d seldom gone farther than the eateries close to the freeway in Grants.
“The rodeo grounds, a housing area, and the airstrip. Highway 605, of course, but once past Ambrosia Lake or San Mateo, you reach a dead end.”
The van disappeared from sight for a moment, then Lee saw it ahead, passing the rodeo grounds.
He listened to the radio calls. The McKinley County sheriff’s department had already set up a roadblock by Ambrosia Lake, and was sending one of their units south to establish a barrier at the county line, about ten miles north of their current position.
Lee wished he had his own unit now, they were still losing ground.
“They’ll probably head into the housing development and try to circle around and outflank the roadblock south of Bluewater. But there are units covering the old highway there. They’ll stop them.” Officer Antonio nodded.
“No, they’re turning east, onto the airstrip. See the van?” Lee pointed ahead to his right.
Antonio chuckled. “We’ve got them then. No place to go, unless they plan to sprout wings.”
“One of the fugitives is a pilot. Let’s hope there’s no plane sitting around.’
A half mile away was a gravel road leading to the small airstrip, a lopsided T with the crossbar running roughly north and south.
“Hey, there’s a news helicopter from Albuquerque. They must have come to Grants to follow the dragnet. I hope they take off before the van gets there.” Antonio’s voice changed tone.
“Can you get them on the radio?” Lee ordered sharply above the sound of the siren. He watched the van racing toward the chopper, which was idling at the apex of the runways. A white van was also moving toward the helicopter, but Muller would get there first.
Officer Antonio was arguing with the dispatcher, trying to get word to the helicopter pilot, who was on a different frequency. Lee knew that the newspeople had no idea what was going on, all they saw was an airmail delivery truck hurrying up. With the sound of their own helicopter’s engine, they probably couldn’t hear the police sirens.
As Officer Antonio finally reached the runway, the van slid to a stop less than fifty feet from the helicopter. Lee knew they were already too late to stop them.
Muller and his companions jumped out of the van, weapons drawn and pointed toward the helicopter. Muller himself was carrying Diane over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She was probably drugged or unconscious.
“Damn.” Lee clinched his fist, watching a cameraman and another person, probably their reporter, being thrown onto the ground. One of Muller’s companions stood by the pilot’s side, pointing a pistol inside.
“They’re hijacking the helicopter! How did they know it was there?” Officer Antonio growled.
“Maybe on TV. The news stations do live reports, especially on manhunts this big.”
Officer Antonio hit the brakes, sliding the last twenty feet, struggling to keep the unit from skidding to left or right and rolling.
Lee didn’t bother getting out. The helicopter was already off the ground, pulling away as it whipped into the air. If Muller found out Lee wasn’t out by Fort Wingate, rushing to unearth the plutonium, Diane was as good as dead. With luck, the vampires wouldn’t be rushing off to where they thought he was.
His cell phone rang fifteen seconds later, and Lee knew who it was even before he answered.
Officer Antonio was arguing with Dispatch and reporting what had happened at the same time, so Lee stepped out of the patrol unit to take the call, hurrying to get far away from background noise that might give him away.
“What the hell are you trying to pull, Indian? You want to see if your partner can fly?” Muller was angry and loud, and Lee could hear the sound of the helicopter in the background.
“Huh? What’s going on, and where are you? A power plant?” Lee pushed it, playing dumb in the hope of avoiding making things worse, if such a thing was possible.
“Some nosy old lady called the cops. But don’t worry, we got away thanks to a very informative television report. Nothing’s changed. You still have to deliver the goods.”
“Where, exactly? I still haven’t been able to dig the thing out, working a few minutes at a time to avoid becoming toast. I buried the box twenty feet inside a cave,” he lied, “then collapsed the entrance. There’s a lot of rock to move. I may even need to get a backhoe out here. It might take all night otherwise.”
“That’s your problem. I’ll call back in an hour for an update. Sunset is coming soon, and you’d better get that box to me tonight or the woman will never see another sunrise.”
“She’s still alive, right? Let me speak to her.”
“Not possible. She’s asleep right now. I had to tap her on the head when the police pulled up outside. She’s alive, but this time you’re going to have t
o take my word for it, Nez.”
“I’ll get you the box, but forget about delivery unless I get a chance to speak with her and make sure she’s still alive.” The connection started to fade, and Lee could barely hear.
“Keep digging. I’ll let you know where to come.”
Then the line went dead.
Lee pocketed the phone, and noticed the reporter, a leggy, bleach-blond, amber-eyed beauty, running up. The cameraman was sitting on the ground, messing with his camera and talking to the man in the rental van that had presumably come to pick them up at the airstrip.
“I’m Christine Sierra from Channel 6 in Albuquerque. Those were the suspects in the killing ot those FBI agents, weren’t they?” She held up a tape recorder while brushing her windblown hair out of her eyes. “How did they end up out here?”
Lee shook his head, and pointed to Officer Antonio. “He knows more about it than I do.” He didn’t want to be identified and was glad for the disguise he was wearing. If Diane’s kidnappers learned he wasn’t out digging for them . . .
“Wait. Was that woman with them a hostage, or part of their gang?”
“Ask Officer Antonio.” Lee shrugged.
Hearing the sound of approaching sirens, Lee turned to watch. The reporter, seeing he wasn’t going to sav anything else, ran toward the police officer.
Lee walked over to the silver van. Maybe something in there would provide some clue to what they were up to. He had to have a run of luck come his way soon, or Diane, if she wasn’t already dead, was going to be gone before morning. Muller was right on the edge, and Lee suspected that the vampire and those with him weren’t going to be taken without a terrible fight.
The house Muller and his people had taken refuge in had pretty much burned to the ground by the time Lee got back to the location. The explosion had been the result of a hand grenade, probably, and although all of their food and water had been left in the van at the airport, that could be replaced.
The blue SUV they’d had when passing through the roadblock with Diane had been in the garage as well, with the courier who drove the silver van tied up inside, still alive. Officers on the scene had managed to push the SUV out of the garage in time.
FBI and county people were examining it now and questioning the delivery-truck driver, who’d been hijacked just before dawn, and forced to radio his dispatcher frequently to cover for his absence. Fingerprints would be found, but that wouldn’t serve any useful purpose. The suspects had already been identified.
He, meanwhile, was already on his way to Albuquerque in his police cruiser. There were two or three agencies in the Grants area trying to find and debrief him, but once he’d learned that the Channel 6 helicopter had been found, abandoned in a park at Westgate Heights on the outskirts of Albuquerque, he knew where he had to be.
Lee went to Diane’s apartment. He’d picked the lock in seconds, and holed up there to recharge the batteries for his cell phone, in case Muller called. The complex had bars on the windows, and Lee knew that no wolves would be crashing through the windows while he was taking a quick shower and putting on the uniform he’d managed to borrow.
An hour later, after finding some leftovers to eat in Diane’s kitchen, including some liver he had to thaw out, he drove to the Albuquerque state police office. If they didn’t hear from him soon, he’d be considered missing, and if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to get on a search list along with Muller and his people, and Diane. Every law-enforcement agency and their auxiliaries were on the lookout for them now. Even members of the German Air Force unit at Holloman had volunteered to help, but been politely turned down, according to newscasters. They’d just add to the confusion, Lee knew.
Christine Sierra of Channel 6 was a news story herself, and appeared on several stations other than her own, who also aired the remote broadcast made just before their helicopter was hijacked. Use of the video probably cost those stations a bit of pride and some cash. Lee knew that the woman was destined for stardom, and maybe an anchor spot on weekdays. If not, she’d have other otters coming in soon enough.
Nobody had apparently realized that the live broadcast made just before the hijacking had informed Muller that a helicopter would soon be at his disposal at the Grants airport.
Fortunately, the most recent story didn’t mention Lee, though there was an audio interview with Grants Police Officer Antonio and some video from a borrowed camera.
But when Lee had seen the newswoman’s image, he’d thought of Diane, hoping that she was still alive and well enough to curse him. She had to know he wouldn’t give up trying to get her back, but she also knew he could never give in to Muller’s demands. The helicopter pilot, now a hostage too, apparently, would make any rescue attempt even more complicated.
Pulling up into the parking lot of the local office, he straightened his uniform, which was a size too large, checked the polish on his hoots, then walked through the doors. He hoped, when he left, he’d still be with the department, though he knew his future as a cop here was nearly at an end no matter what happened in the next twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER 19
Where in the hell have you been, Officer Hawk?” A sergeant Lee recognized as a desk jockey from Santa Fe was behind the counter where a lieutenant would normally be, talking on the phone.
Sergeant Edmonds put the caller on hold. “Half the damn officers in the state are looking for you, including the F’ing Bee Eye.
“Get on this line right now and talk to Lieutenant Richmond, who’s in Grants. Explain it to him, not me.” Edmonds handed him the phone, then sat back in the chair to watch Lee squirm.
Lee yes-sirred and no-sirred for about five minutes, and once Richmond had gotten it out of his system, they could talk.
“You got some lucky breaks,” Richmond admitted reluctantly. “APD and the country have officers looking over that helicopter now. It touched down just after dark.”
“Any sign of the occupants?” Albuquerque was a big place to hide, and there were a lot of houses and businesses in the fastest-growing part of the city, the west side.
“Not even the pilot. APD has officers knocking on doors. They’ll turn up somewhere. Roadblocks are at every bridge up and down the valley, and they have aircraft and helicopters checking the streets and parks.’ Richmond was calming down now, speaking rationally again.
“Then one more officer out there isn’t going to make much difference, is it? My guess is that they’re holed up inside somebody’s residence, or a business. Maybe the house-to-house will pay off.” Lee knew that he had to use his head and reason this out.
“SAC Logan needs to talk to you,” Richmond ordered. “He wants to know everything about what happened to Agent Lopez.”
“All I know is that Lopez left her apartment to meet with her bosses down at the FBI building after she got a call. We were supposed to meet later, and she never showed up. Next time I heard about her, she was apparently with Muller’s people in Grants. I deduced from a conversation with a local officer that Muller had used her to get them through the roadblocks, posing as fellow agents. Later, I was closing in on them when they escaped from that house in Grants. A neighbor lady got curious and called the cops before I could intervene. It looked to me like they had drugged Lopez. Muller carried her into the helicopter over his shoulder.” Lee left out the details he knew would only get him into trouble.
“I wonder what they’re doing, or trying to do. Terrorists always have an agenda. Is it just to generate fear by killing those people who are supposed to protect the country? Muller and the Plummers are leaving a trail of victims, all law-enforcement personnel,” Richmond said.
“This all started out over something to do with that Navajo group that attacked me, and I still don’t know enough about them to even hazard a guess on their motivation,” Lee lied.
“Has anybody heard of any demands they’re making for Agent Lopez’s release?” Lee added, knowing full well that he couldn’t suggest what they were ac
tually after without ruining his chances of getting Diane back alive. “If it wasn’t for the Navajo connection, my guess would be some kind of assassination. Haven’t the FBI or the CIA been able to get us more on this group?”
“Not according to the local Bureau. Logan says the CIA has been keeping their heads in a dark place, if you know what that means. Whatever it is, Officer Hawk, I want you to get over to the FBI building and spill your guts. Give them everything you’ve given me, and answer their questions. Then give me a call.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant.” Lee hung up, and handed the phone back to Edmonds, who’d been listening to every word, obviously trying to guess what Richmond was saying as well.
“Butt in a sling, right?”
Lee shrugged. “Not really. I just want to catch those guys before anyone else gets hurt. Give me a call on the radio if you get any updates on the hostage or Mullet”.”
“I don’t work for you, Hawk.”
“You don’t work for anything but your career, I know that, Sergeant. But I’m the only one in this room who has a chance of saving Agent Lopez’s life, and the helicopter pilot’s as well. You’d better not keep a word of news from me, understand?”
Lee leaned over the desk until he was right in Edmonds’s face. Edmonds held his ground, but was turning redder by the second. “I’m your superior, Patrolman Hawk. Don’t forget that.”
Lee stood and walked to the door. “You outrank me, Sergeant Edmonds. You’re not, by any stretch of your admittedly limited imagination, my superior.”
It was dark by now. Lee was back in his unit, still trying to put Edmonds out of his mind, when his cell phone rang.
“Who is this? Medicine man John Buck was whispering, but Lee was able to recognize his voice instantly.
“Your late uncles patient. Lee responded, figuring his own voice would convince the hataalii he was speaking to the right person.
“I have some bad news. One of those walkers of the night has returned with a tall, light-haired woman, and there is another person they’re keeping tied up, maybe your partner. I could tell the captive was a woman, and she had dark hair. I saw them drive by in an old van.”
