by David Thurlo
“Well, so much for instincts,” Charlie said. “I made the wrong call, so there’s no sense in driving around anymore. Let’s get back to the shop and meet the cops. That envelope should still be there, but I doubt anyone will be able to recover a slug. The only hope is that it struck the empty rental place on the next block. Their end wall is stucco and timber, not brick.”
“There should at least be a chunk or furrow where the bullets struck the brick wall and left metal streaks. I heard the impacts. They looked like clean misses by, what? Three feet?”
“That’s about right,” Charlie said, circling the block and heading in the direction of FOB Pawn. “I should be grateful the shooter couldn’t hit a moving target. Come to think about it, I’d just stopped to look at the car, like an idiot. If that was the same sniper, I should have taken a hit. It was an easy shot.”
“You should be grateful that you were lucky, pal.”
Chapter Four
Less than five minutes later, Charlie turned down the street adjacent to the north end of FOB Pawn and parked at the curb. An APD unit was blocking the alley exit, and he’d already noted another unit at the south end of the block, behind Melissa’s laundry.
“Guess the entire alley on this block is now a crime scene,” Gordon commented as a dark-blue-uniformed officer appeared at the back corner of the shop, looking them over. His hand was resting on the butt of his holstered service weapon. “Ah, an old friend. Officer Roseberg,” Gordon said, recognizing the patrolman as they climbed out of the low-slung Dodge.
“Mr. Henry, Mr. Sweeney,” Roseberg greeted. “Detective Medina is waiting.”
They followed the slender but fit officer down the alley, past another police car with flashing lights that was parked beside the loading dock of the brick office building across the alley from FOB Pawn. The vehicle’s spotlight was directed against the rear wall of their shop. Below was Gordon’s big pickup, which was still in the parking slot.
About halfway down the alley Charlie spotted Nancy walking in their direction, accompanied by a male, uniformed APD officer. “Looks like they found the envelope.” Charlie observed what Nancy was carrying in her gloved, left hand. “I hope it’s not just somebody’s displaced mail.”
“Charlie,” Nancy called out. “Any luck tracking the shooter or getting an ID on his vehicle?”
“No, and I wasn’t even sure the vehicles I was trying to catch up to also included the one with the sniper. The car, and I’m certain it was a lighter-toned sedan of some kind and not an SUV, was parked about where the patrol car is now.” He pointed down toward the laundry.
“There were no headlights on,” Gordon added, “and I saw less than Charlie from where I was, standing in the glare of the loading dock light.”
“We took cover after the shot, and when we looked up the car was already gone. From the direction the vehicle was facing, I think it went west to Fourth Street, then south. When we got to the corner, the only vehicles within range were also heading south,” he added, stopping to face the woman detective. “I ended up following a soccer mom and daughter, not the shooter.”
“Marty, go help Roseberg set up the perimeter,” Nancy instructed another officer.
“Was this what you asked our officers to collect?” She held up a manila nine-by-twelve-inch envelope, the type with fold-over metal flaps. She turned it over, revealing a paper cutout of an ISIS flag glued to the outside.
“I didn’t seen that side, it must have been facing down. But it’s the right size, Nancy,” Gordon said. “Charlie was too busy not running over a woman carrying her laundry to notice what was on the asphalt.”
“I’m going to open this in a while and take a look at what’s inside,” Nancy said. “It feels like a sheet of letter-sized paper, probably with another message. In the meantime, I need you two to reconstruct what exactly went down and where you were positioned at the time.”
“I’m afraid we won’t be able to tell you much more than we’ve already said,” Charlie answered. “The shooter’s vehicle was parked down there, blocking the alley.” He turned and pointed. “The muzzle flash came from the front seat, so the bad guy was probably leaning across, using the passenger-side door as a rest. I can’t swear to those details, of course.”
“So the APD unit is parked in pretty much the same spot?”
“Yeah, but if there are any tire impressions or tread patterns, hopefully they can still be found unless the officer pulls out in that direction and distorts the images,” Charlie said.
“He’s not moving until I give the word,” Nancy answered.
“Is this envelope similar to the one left at the school?” Gordon asked.
“Looks identical to me,” Nancy replied. “But keep that to yourselves, guys, we’re keeping the details from the public to help screen out possible copy-cat attackers or cranks.”
“Any leads on the killer yet?” Charlie asked. “We didn’t hear anything new, not from the local or national news, the internet, or law enforcement.”
She shrugged. “The techs at the crime lab have matched the ejection marks on the .223 shell with a Ruger Range rifle, an older model carbine-sized weapon which originally came with a five-round magazine, though higher-capacity after-market mags are available. That’s all we have on physical evidence. As for the politics, there’s the usual rabble-rousing among the politicians and the wingers. We’re lucky so far that nobody has retaliated against the local Muslim community. There are a couple of mosques in the area and they’ve hired extra security, just in case.”
“What about that teenager this morning in the park?” Gordon asked. “The one who caused the outburst during Mr. Humphrey’s speech. What happened to him?”
“He was a sixteen-year-old kid who’d ditched Cibola High School. He’s an immigrant from Afghanistan and has lived here just a few years. Humphrey’s people roughed him up a little, checked his ID, and then let him go.”
Charlie and Gordon exchanged glances.
“You know who this kid was?” Nancy asked.
“Maybe,” Charlie responded. “Is his last name Koury?”
Nancy nodded. “Caleb Koury. Sounds like you need to tell me something, guys. What’s going on?”
As they walked up the alley toward FOB Pawn, Charlie and Gordon told Nancy about Dawud’s visit to the shop, his fear for his family’s safety, and the items he’d purchased.
Nancy’s eyebrows went up immediately when Gordon mentioned the shotgun. “You know you’re going to take some heat if that weapon is ever used, self-defense or not. People like Ed Humphrey are going to scream that you’re arming terrorists. At least it wasn’t an assault rifle.”
“Jake’s already pointed that out to us,” Charlie admitted. “But we have a history with Dawud, and we trust him to do the right thing.”
“Is this the man who worked with you in Afghanistan? The interpreter?”
“Yeah, and he’s a Christian, which put him in a very dangerous situation in his birth country. He and his family would probably be dead by now if they hadn’t been able to get out when they did,” Gordon reminded.
“But what about the kid, Caleb? Did your friend mention the incident with his son?” Nancy asked.
“No, but we were already considering what might happen if Caleb or Justine, Dawud and Jenna’s daughter, were harassed to the point where they felt the need to take action. Dawud also bought a trigger lock for the weapon and only he and Jenna, supposedly, have a key,” Charlie said.
“I hope he uses the lock,” Nancy replied. “I’m betting that someone’s going to go after Caleb, his family, or their business sooner or later.”
“And once tonight’s ambush hits the news…” Gordon added.
It didn’t take long for the reporters to arrive, but they were kept outside the yellow tape as officers walked the length of the alley, looking for any potential evidence. Nothing was found that could be established as relevant, and no images were captured on the pawnshop alley camera, which only cov
ered the parking area at the rear of the shop. No crime scene van was dispatched—there was no need—and there was only a metal-streaked smear on a small piece of brick that was found to have been dislodged by a bullet impact.
Finally, in the shop office, Nancy slit open the recovered envelope from the bottom using a pocketknife. She gingerly removed a sheet of paper with a printed head shot of Charlie in his Army uniform, the one that had recently appeared in the local newspaper. It had a big red X across his face, and below the image was a typed message in large fonts. “One more godless ‘hero’ dead. Many more face our wrath,” Nancy read aloud. “Praise Allah.”
“This reads like television or a B action flick. Don’t terrorists ever say anything that’s not a cliché?” Gordon said.
“At least this confirms I was the target,” Charlie observed.
“And that it was either the same shooter, or someone working with him,” Nancy replied, sliding the paper back into the envelope, then placing the envelope into a larger, paper evidence bag that had already been labeled with her name and other essential information. She sealed the bag and stood.
“Think the lab techs will get anything from this?” Charlie asked, walking with her to the back door. “Besides alley pavement grit.”
“Probably not, but we have to try, Charlie. Want me to see if I can get a detail assigned to watch your house?” Nancy asked.
Charlie shook his head. “No, I’m good. This shooter appears to be too worried about getting caught to confront me up close. All I have to do is be more careful when I go outside and not present an easy shot. I don’t think the shooter knows where I live either.”
“Even so, stay away from windows,” Gordon added. “You can sleep over at my place if you want to keep the sniper guessing, pal.”
“If it comes to that. Do you think the shooter will make another move at me now that he missed his first try?” Charlie asked.
“I have no idea. This sleezeball isn’t behaving like the typical wild-eyed fanatic. Like you say, the shooter is careful not to get caught or ID’d. He may move onto someone else on his list, then try again with you later. That’ll make any new attack he carries out risky,” Nancy speculated. “I’ll talk this over with DuPree and get his take. We’ll also talk to the Feds.”
“You know I’m not going to hunker down, Nancy. Not for a terrorist, not for anyone.”
“As always. All this does is motivate you to find the bastard and kick ass.”
“Exactly. Looks like it’s time for me to take up the hunt. Any suggestions where to start?”
“We’ve got law enforcement teams looking for self-radicalized nutjobs and potential lone-wolf terrorists all over the state right now and, of course, watching locals who’ve traveled to the Middle East recently. Especially anyone with an arrest record and the typical age group. The usual profiling, legal or not.” Nancy yawned. “Well, I’ve got to finish up outside. Miles to go before I sleep. You guys be careful,” she added, giving Charlie, then Gordon, a hug.
Nancy walked down the short hallway and stepped out into the alley.
“You hungry?” Gordon asked as he stood.
“Yeah. Let’s check out the new Firehouse Subs, the one over by Corrales,” Charlie suggested.
“Okay, but let’s take my pickup and I can drop you off here to pick up your car after dinner. The cops will have cleared out by then,” Gordon said.
Less than an hour later Gordon dropped off Charlie at the FOB’s end of the alley. Except for his Charger and the trash containers behind each of the businesses down the alley, there was no sign of activity, not even a stray cat. A crescent moon was high in the sky, and there were just enough street and building lights to block out the stars. He stood there for a moment, looking at the loading dock, really nothing more than a roofless, raised block of concrete with steps leading to the heavy steel door. Several feet above the door was the hooded light, and, closer to the roof parapet, a surveillance camera that covered the loading dock and four parking slots, defined by white lines painted on the asphalt.
His keys already out, Charlie walked around the rear of the Dodge to the driver’s side, then pressed the key fob and opened the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw sudden movement inside the car. Jumping back, Charlie pulled out his Beretta as someone sat up in the backseat.
“Stand down, Henry. It’s me, Davis,” came a vaguely familiar Southern accent, then the guy leaned forward into the light, showing his face and empty hands, up by his shoulders.
Davis, which was not his real name, was so physically ordinary in appearance that his face was probably placed next to “generic” in the dictionary. His face was flat but not too flat, his eyes and hair brown, his nose just about right, and he was neither handsome nor ugly—a five in every way.
The man was CIA, the contact he and Gordon had worked with in Afghanistan. Davis was smart, well-trained, and extremely dangerous. He was lethal with any weapon, and knew his trade craft so well he was capable of getting lost in a crowd of three.
The night that he and Gordon had shipped out of ’Stan for the last time, Davis had been there at the airstrip. There had been no handshake or good-bye, just a nod. That was the last time they’d seen or heard of the guy, and it had been over three years ago. So what was he doing here tonight?
“Get in and drive, Charlie. We need to talk about your safety, and I want to do that while on the move,” Davis said softly. “Circle the neighborhood. I’ll need about fifteen minutes to read you in.”
“What’s the company doing getting involved in domestic issues, Davis?” Charlie asked, climbing in and starting up the Dodge. “You been tracking the shooter?”
“Wish I could say that, Charlie, but no. The current assignment is insuring your safety, and the safety of those other vets under attack. I’m here to keep you alive, and hopefully at the same time, take out the person or people behind this assault on Americans,” Davis replied, his head swiveling from side to side, watching for a tail as Charlie drove north down Second Street.
“How long have you known about the shootings? It’s only been a little more than twenty-four hours.”
“I caught the next plane after hearing about it last night. You were seated two chairs away from Captain Whitaker. We can’t afford to lose any more people like Whitaker, you, or the civilians who were also hit.”
“I’m a civilian now, and so was the chopper pilot,” Charlie reminded, not wanting to voice the name of the dead aloud—another Navajo taboo. He focused back on his driving, passing an old pickup on the otherwise empty street.
“Okay. But you’ve served your country under special circumstances, and like Whitaker with his work with vets, you’re going above and beyond to help total strangers. You’ve made the national news more than once, and not just in a Fourth of July parade. I’ve been following your activities since you left the Army. I’ve read about your work with local law enforcement, the Bureau, and how you’ve stepped up and saved lives. It’s not just patriotic, it’s who you are, and what you’re doing.”
“The CIA is now saving the heroes? That’s a new spin on the flag, grandma, apple pie, and baseball. You’re not our guardian angels, Davis.”
“Yeah, but there is always a connection, isn’t there? So much of our work has been tainted with political goals, doing things across the board to protect our country from the rest of the world, even when it means coloring outside the lines. You and Sweeney are much more than shop owners. You’ve kept up the fight and become advocates of victims. Proactive advocates, actually. Of course, what I’m here to do is off the books. No one but Sweeney can know who I am or why I’m here. Not the detectives, not the Bureau, not HS, not Jake or Ruth, even. Or her son.”
“I see you’ve been doing your homework.”
“That’s who I am, Charlie. And call me Turner. Russell Turner.”
“That your real name?”
“It’ll do for now.”
“Okay, what’s the plan, Russ?”
“We’ve got some smart cops around here. If you’re not coordinating with them, they might just detect your presence,” Charlie asked.
“I’m not cleared to work with anyone outside the agency, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m pretty good at keeping a low profile.”
“Okay. But the shooter is careful in setting up the attacks. We have no idea at all what he looks like, the vehicle he uses, except for a medium-toned sedan tonight, and so forth. He could be a pro,” Charlie reminded.
“Not likely. He’s careful, and hasn’t made any mistakes yet, but he’s definitely not a pro. You’re still untouched.”
“Good point.”
“Here’s my phone number if you need to reach me. I already have yours, including your cell,” Russ said, reaching through the gap between the bucket seats and laying a card on the empty passenger seat. “And it’s okay to tell Sweeney, but only Sweeney, that I’m here. But you were going to do that anyway.”
“Of course,” Charlie said, circling back toward the street with FOB Pawn. “Now what?”
“Drop me off at Sweeney’s apartment building where I parked my vehicle. I walked the four blocks to your shop.”
“You didn’t damage anything getting into my car, did you, Russ?” Charlie asked, glancing around at the windows.
“Not at all. You clearly like this car. A bit flashy, though.”
“Purple suits me. Back here in the States, I no longer have to blend in,” Charlie said.
